Farm Tales

noreply@blogger.com (Catherine) — Tue, 05 Aug 2008 14:54:00 +0000

Testosterone

Not all farm stories have happy endings. A few weekends ago I was visiting my mom in Wisconsin when Melissa called. Duncan, our big, black-faced ram, was dying. Melissa has seen enough dying animals to know when there's the possibility a vet might save the animal, and when there isn't. Remember that sheep hide their illnesses until it's almost too late. It's a hard, hard call, but during our first five years on the farm we spent a great deal of money on vet bills for animals that didn't live.

Duncan is the big ram in the middle (surrounded by some young rams as they all try out their best pick-up lines on the shy girl on the other side of the fence.) Without those eight wires of electricity, I guarantee there would have been some unauthorized sheep sex going on as a result.

Duncan was born on this farm, and has lived the last three years out in the pasture with Erik, our white-faced ram. They spend 11 months together, then for a month they each live with their own harem of ewes. When breedings is over and we put the rams back into the same pen, we must put pallets all over the floor. Pallets prevent them from backing up and getting a good run at each other, since after breeding is over the rams are still feeling protective and in a fighting mood, and will bash heads so violently necks can break. We hear stories all the time about rams killing each other. Like I've said before, "ram" is not just a noun.

After the rams have lived in the pen with the pallets for a day, we pick up the pallets, and the boys are fine.

The best thing for Duncan was to end his suffering, whatever had gone wrong (Melissa suspected a urinary problem, which had killed another of our rams years ago despite the vet's attempts to save him.) So the next day our friend Lloyd came over, killed Duncan swiftly, then he and Melissa did a post-mortem.

Turns out one of Duncan's kidneys was severely damaged...the sort of damage you'd only see from a major blow to the body. There's nothing in that pasture that could damage Duncan... except Erik.

Testosterone. I know we all have it in varying amounts, and that it can do great things, but it also leads rams to---for whatever reason---ram each other.

For a week after Duncan's death, Erik was alone in his pasture, and he didn't like it. Every time Melissa walked by he'd come running, bleating frantically. I don't know if he missed Duncan specifically, or if he just didn't like being alone. Lloyd drove by a few times and saw Erik standing out in the pasture, woefully alone. "It's your own fault, buddy," Lloyd said.

Finally the main flock had rotated through the pastures close enough to the barn that Melissa and I could lure Chachi (our oldest llama) away from the flock and lead him into Erik's pasture so the ram would have some company.

Erik has stopped bleating, and looks calmer. He can't ram Chachi's body because the llama is too tall. Also, if Erik does try to ram him, I'm hoping Chachi will bring a wad of green, smelly, partially chewed cud up his throat, and spit it all over Erik.

Good thing I'm not bitter, eh?

Truth is, I'm really not. Rams bash each other with the intent to harm, but they also love to play, knocking heads and pushing each other around.

I guess sometimes that play---or testosterone---gets carried away.

noreply@blogger.com (Catherine) — Mon, 21 Jul 2008 01:38:00 +0000

Then, and Now

Here's a photo of Chachi then.

Here's a photo of Chachi now!

Yup, it's true. He's naked. In fact, all the llamas are naked.

Annie, who reads this blog and lives nearby AND knows how to shear llamas, introduced herself in an email and volunteered to shear our llamas. We took her up on her generous offer.

It was quite a complicated day involving a neighbor, a radio interview, and two llamas.

Annie, sole caregiver for her mother-- who has Alzheimer's-- drove her mom to our neighbor's house. (Jaycee, a nurse, graciously volunteered to watch Annie's mom for a few hours.)

Annie's mom is quiet, with an occasional delightful twinkle in her eye, and tends to walk around the house picking up things and putting them in her pocket. It's kind of cute, but it does make Annie's life difficult.

Melissa and Annie went up to the barn and began shearing. I drove our car to the end of our driveway so no one could come in and set our three dogs barking because I was going to be interviewed on the radio, and needed the house quiet. The dogs stayed quiet, the interview went well.

In the afternoon I took over watching Annie's mom while Melissa and Annie sheared the second llama. Annie's mom mostly slept, patted our border collie, and didn't put anything in her pockets.

When the day was done, I was amazed at how small our llamas look without all that hair. Annie came back to the house tired, sweaty, and dirty, but grinning. The day had been a welcome break from caring for her mother. I've never been a caregiver, but if a day spent shearing two reluctant, 300-pound llamas is an easy day....Heavens....

A few weeks later Melissa felt confident enough to shear the third llama herself, so two hours later, Chachi was many pounds lighter.

How do you shear a llama? By tying him in this little holding set-up Melissa made years ago. The 2x4s along the side keep the llama from moving too much, but he can still dance from side to side and backwards and forwards. Melissa just danced with him and kept shearing.

Looks like the llama exploded, doesn't it?!

We are so grateful to Annie for coming. She writes a wonderful blog about caring for her mother at maplecorners.blogspot.com. Annie, we thank you. Our llamas thank you!

More Then, and Now....

Those little baby chicks are now half-grown hens. Unfortunately there are only six now, not eight, since two disappeared. A few weeks ago Mother Hen said "I'm done," and started sleeping in the chicken house, leaving the babies on their own in the shed. After a week, they, too, drifted into the barn and began perching on the tool pegs!

More Then, and Now...

Puppy then...

Puppy now.

The interesting thing about a farm is that it's always changing. People often ask me, "Anything new on the farm?" There's always something new, but it's just part of the same cycle...animals being born, and growing...hair growing long, being shorn, then growing long again. Thanks to Annie, we're better able to deal with one part of that cycle.

noreply@blogger.com (Catherine) — Sun, 29 Jun 2008 23:53:00 +0000

Farm Woman Invents New Pie

I've always admired the Farm Woman Icon---a woman able to raise her own vegetables, milk the cow and make her own cheese, and whip up a hearty meal when twenty people suddenly drop by.

If you've read any of my books, you know I am none of the above. My Aunt Ilene in North Dakota is. She has two freezers--each about a mile long--- filled to the brim with stuff she's made. If she ever broke her leg and couldn't cook, she and my uncle could live for two years on what's in those two freezers. So this cooking and baking gene is in me somewhere, but I fear it lies dormant.

Until now. I have invented a new sort of pie. The Farmer and I picked strawberries the other day, and they were so beautiful we couldn't stop picking. In 45 minutes we'd picked 18 pounds, and could have kept going. Since I ended up cleaning them, I'm grateful we stopped at 18 pounds.

Then I began making strawberry pies. I don't actually eat strawberry pies, as I dislike cooked fruit of any kind (yes, I know that's weird.) But the Farmer in this house loves strawberry pies, and strawberry-rhubarb pies, so I decided I could be a Real Farm Woman and bake some pies for the girl.

I'd like to say I made the crusts from scratch, but I won't. (Thank you, Pillsbury Dough Boy.)

I took these lovely strawberries....

And made a pie. In the process I invented something new: The Floating Crust Pie. I plan to register this invention with the Patent Office so I'll get all the credit and own the idea.

Basically, you press the bottom crust into the pan. Then you fill the pan with berries and sugar. Then you lay the top crust onto the pie, and here's where my innovation comes in. Instead of moistening the edges of the two crusts so they bond, or folding them over together, or generally pinching them correctly to form a tight seal, you just press the top crust onto the bottom crust and figure that will be good enough.

Then when the pie is in the oven, and the hot fruit begins to boil up, the top crust will lift off the pan and begin floating. It's amazing. This floating top crust then allows the fruit filling, in this case strawberries, to ooze out the edges of the pan and down onto the bottom of your hot oven. It's fun to watch the top crust floating free on an ocean of molted strawberries.

After inhaling the incredible scent of pie burning on the oven bottom, I finally took out the finished pie, a little stunned at the mess I'd created. Only after I'd set out for my walk did I realize I'd cleverly invented a new pie. I planned to photograph my invention, but then I remembered the Farmer was loose in the house so I raced back, relieved there was something left to photograph.

The Floating Crust pie must be tasty, since the Farmer has inhaled the rest of it, and I've since made another one. My mother, grandmothers, and aunts will be so proud when they learn what I've done....Too bad I have no intention of telling them...

noreply@blogger.com (Catherine) — Fri, 06 Jun 2008 14:56:00 +0000

The Feral Chicken

Last fall the residents of a house about 3/4 of a mile away moved out. We didn't realize it at the time, but they just left their small flock of chickens and geese to fend for themselves. (Don't get me started on how cruel people can be when it comes to animals.) While poultry are great at finding food and water, they aren't so skilled at avoiding predators. By the time we learned the birds had been abandoned, weeks had gone by, and we knew it'd be too late to rescue them---they would have either left the property in search of food or been eaten.

But then one evening Melissa saw a chicken in some woods bordering our north pasture, far from where our chickens live, and not that far from the abandoned house. Minnesota isn't known for its feral chickens, but I think this chicken qualified.

Melissa tried trapping her in a cage, but the wily bird didn't fall for it. Melissa grew increasingly worried about the bird surviving predators and the winter, so she started visiting the area at dusk, watching for the hen.

Finally one evening she saw the bird about 30 feet up in a gigantic pine tree. When it gets dark, birds find a place to roost and are easier to catch.

Did I mention the bird was 30 feet up the tree? Apparently, if one easily climbed trees at age five and fifteen, it's nothing to climb 30 feet up a tree at age 50. Lordy, if I'd known what the woman was up to, I'd have thrown a fit.

But instead, Melissa returned to the house on her 4-wheeler, triumphant, with pine bough scratches all over her arms, and holding the feral chicken.

Having been on her own for so long, the chicken had some adjusting to do when put in with the other hens. She was defensive and hard to get along with, but at least she had food, water, and a safe place to roost at night.

Early this spring she began spending a lot of time in the shed. In fact, she hid back among the junk and started spending all her time there. When we'd open the shed in the morning, the hen would dash out and head to the barn for food and water.

Then one day our friend Mary was in the shed and heard peeping. Turns out our feral hen had been sitting on a nest, and hatched out 8 little chicks.

Not surprisingly, she's a ferocious mother, and keeps the cats at bay. Although one day I did see Eddie stalking the little family, so he and I had a serious discussion about this topic. I had to have the same discussion with Maisie the other day. Hopefully they both got the message.

Because the little chicks were sitting in the water bowl, Melissa was worried about drowning (it's happened before) so note the rocks in the red bowl below...ensures the chicks can easily get in and out of the water.

The chicks have wing feathers now, and run around the shed like they own the place, which, I guess, they do... not a bad piece of real estate for a formerly feral chicken.

noreply@blogger.com (Catherine) — Mon, 26 May 2008 22:36:00 +0000

Whew, We Made It Again

In one of our shortest lambing seasons ever, all but five ewes have given birth in just two weeks. So other than these few stragglers, we're done! As usual, I'm delighted, and Melissa's face grows longer and longer as reality sets in. She loves finding new baby lambs on the pasture, and thinks she has the best job on the planet.

Our helpers think it's pretty great as well.

Here I am trying to hold four bottle lambs in stairstep formation, but they're too squirmy for a photo!

Look at the little pipsqueak on the right in the photo below. She was a triplet (as are all the other bottle lambs) but came out 1/3 the size of a regular lamb. Luckily after a few shaky days, she's up and running, hopping around like a piece of popcorn, and has just gone to a new home.

Most ewes make great moms. Here are three wary ewes who don't like that I'm in the pasture. Each is standing guard over at least one lamb. The lambs snuggle down into the grass until you almost can't see them.

This ewe has just given birth to triplets. ChaChi has come over to check out the new ones, and is gently sniffing a lamb at his feet.

There's a whole lot of sleeping going on at this farm. Bottle lambs snooze after a big meal:

The calves are clearly uptight about their lives:

I'll leave you with a few pasture images....

(No, that black sheep above isn't standing on Zipper's back....just a photo issue!)

Our reward for the hard work of the last two weeks are all little strong, healthy, and robust babies running around on the pasture. One of these days I'll figure out the whole video thing and show you what I mean.

noreply@blogger.com (Catherine) — Mon, 19 May 2008 15:28:00 +0000

A Farm Play in One Act

Setting: Small barn on Rising Moon Farm
Characters: Lamb, Calf

Lamb: "What are you in for?"

Calf: "I think it's for being too cute. I keep hearing them say, "You are just too cute."

Lamb: "Bummer. So, how do we get outta this joint?"

Calf: "We have to stop being so cute."

Lamb: "Yeah, like that's ever going to happen."

THE END

noreply@blogger.com (Catherine) — Sun, 11 May 2008 16:56:00 +0000

What?

This morning after we finished feeding the calves, I went inside to start cleaning the house, and Melissa did a few more chores. Thirty minutes later she came inside, beaming. "Guess what?" she asked.

"No! It's too early! I haven't cleaned the house or bought groceries or anything." And we hadn't moved the sheep from the barn out onto the pasture, where they'd start lambing. We had a few more days until the lambs started coming.

Why do I think I have any control over these events?

Melissa had looked up toward the barn to see a ewe glancing furtively over her shoulder toward the barn, as if she was hiding something she didn't want Melissa to see. That's a clear sign that the ewe IS hiding something she doesn't want Melissa to see.

Melissa tramped up there, and found three sets of twins that had been born either last night or early this morning. It was barely 40 degrees this morning, but the three ewes had gone into the barn to give birth...not the most sanitary of places, but the warmest.

So, it's begun, again, and with a bang.

First set of twins:

Second set of twins:

Third set of twins:

Meanwhile, this ewe is still pregnant:

And this one is still pregnant:

And this ewe is still very, very pregnant (as are all the rest of the ladies):

It's fitting that the ewes started giving birth today, of all days:

Happy Mother's Day!

noreply@blogger.com (Catherine) — Thu, 08 May 2008 21:55:00 +0000

Cavorting Calves

We've had the calves about 2 1/2 weeks now. Each has gotten sick, and Melissa has nursed each one back to health. We've trained three of the four to drink from a bucket.

This involves letting the calf suck on your fingers, then immersing your hand in the milk and trying to keep the calf's head in the bucket long enough he sucks milk up between your fingers. You feel as if your entire arm is being sucked into the calf's mouth. Oh, and they now have lower teeth---massive white "Chiclet" teeth, only sharp. You repeat this process twice a day for about 3 days and they finally get it. Number 1, the youngest, is still on a bottle, but I'm gonna tackle that problem this weekend. My hand just hurts thinking about it.

Today it's 65 degrees and sunny, so it's time to get them out of their pens and used to being outside the barn. So I opened up the pens and got out of the way.

What we've been told: Jersey calves are skinny, so we're not to be alarmed. About 4 farmers have warned us not to overfeed Jersey calves because they can get really sick. So the three brown guys in these photos look leaner than I'd like, but what do I know about cattle? Not much yet.

They're a bit unsteady on their legs still, especially on uneven ground. They take a tumble, then leap right up and go again.

I'm just guessing, but I think these four calves are going to like it here. Once they're weaned off milk and have learned to eat grass, they'll have 53 acres to explore over the next 2 years. That experience will be good for them, good for the land, good for us, and good for our customers.

After an hour of running around, the calves all wandered back into the pens for naps, which made my job of re-penning them ridiculously easy. Of course No. 4 was in No. 2's pen, and No. 1 was in No. 3's pen, but I got everything sorted out. The best way to lead a calf from the wrong pen to the right one?

Let it suck on your fingers, of course.

noreply@blogger.com (Catherine) — Thu, 01 May 2008 13:55:00 +0000

Welcome to a Party!

Last night (April 30) Common Good Books of St. Paul (MN) hosted the book release party for my latest book (The Compassionate Carnivore, Or How to Keep Animals Happy, Save Old MacDonald's Farm, Reduce Your Hoofprint and Still Eat Meat.) It was scary and fun at the same time.

The party was held in the Virginia Street Swedenborgian Church, a small, charming church in an old St. Paul neighborhood.

Eric, the church's minister, introduced us. He and I are both shepherds, but I think my flock is easier to lead than his.

The event was hosted by the proprietor of Common Good Books, Mr. Garrison Keillor (aka Guy Noir for those of you who listen to A Prairie Home Companion every Saturday night.) Here's Garrison laughing.

Here's Garrison not laughing.

Here's me talking with my hands.

Here's the crowd dispersing after the talk and questions. I'd share what we talked about, but I can't remember. It took so much concentration to keep up with Garrison that I had to shut down the memory chips and was unable to record the conversation.

Every party needs cake.

Signing books....

And this is Melissa and our dear friend Willard, the guy who taught Melissa so much about farming. He loves to look at me with a twinkle in his eye and say he doesn't know if he should take the credit...or the blame... (I tell him he can take both.)

Thanks to Common Good Books, Garrison Keillor, my parents, family and friends, and some total strangers who came to celebrate with me.

What you can't see in this last photo is that the photographer managed to snap this shot just before exploding with pride. Dads are like that.

noreply@blogger.com (Catherine) — Tue, 22 Apr 2008 14:00:00 +0000

There Be Calves Here

The dairy farmer finally called. He had four male calves we could buy, between the ages of one day old to seven days old. These guys are babies. The farmer suggested we keep them in individual pens for while. This wasn't what I had in mind. I pictured the little guys romping through the pasture, chasing each other in the sunshine, not locked in individual pens in the barn.

The farmer explained that the sucking instinct in calves is strong, VERY strong, and since they only get fed a bottle 2-3 times a day, they will look for something else to suck, and this, unfortunately, ends up to be each other.

They suck each other? I didn't get it. Their ears? Their tails? Their.... oh...got it.

We spent yesterday afternoon building individual pens.

Then we put lime on the ground, then pitched straw for bedding.

We put the panels on the pickup truck and Melissa drove 10 miles to pick them up. Each little guy was carried into his own personal pen.

We've been feeding bottle lambs for years; the process is the same for calves, it's just the scale that's different. A newborn lamb might eat most of a bottle in one day; A newborn calf is going to eat three of the gigantic bottles (with gigantic nipples) on the left.

Not only do the large bottles, which hold half a gallon, take both hands, but you need both hands to hang on. There is some serious draw on that bottle.

Meet the boys:

"Hi, I'm Number1. I know I look innocent, but believe you me, I wasn't born yesterday.... Oh, wait, yes I was. I was born yesterday!"

"I'm Number 2. I'm a few days old, and like to hop a great deal. They tell me we'll be out of these pens in a few days for some serious hopping."

"I'm Number 3. I like long walks, listening to music, and sucking. I really like sucking."

"I'm Number 4, and unlike those other three, who look like deer because they're Jerseys, I'm a Jersey/Holstein cross. I'm 7 days old, and butt against the bottle for all I'm worth. Sometimes the women holding the bottle curse and moan about how much it hurts to have the bottle butted into their stomachs. Tough cookies."

And finally, back at the house is a 5-month old puppy, who thinks she's old news now because of the calves.

She's not.

noreply@blogger.com (Catherine) — Wed, 16 Apr 2008 15:02:00 +0000

But What About Us?

We are in our spring waiting season...waiting for the weather to warm up, for the grass to start growing again, and for the lambs to be born in three weeks. (Yikes.)

So while I'm waiting, I tend to get excited about things. A few days ago on NPR an economist from Stanford was interviewed on the impact meat production has on the environment. Not surprisingly, it's not good. She listed all the bad things---fuel consumption, chemical use, high transportation costs, etc. The negative impacts of industrial agriculture form quite an impressive list. (And that's not even getting into animal welfare, which an economist isn't likely to address because you can't measure it and assign it a cost.)

All through the interview I kept waiting for the economist to point out that small, sustainable farming doesn't harm the environment nearly as much as industrial agriculture. I waited and I waited. Finally, at the end of the interview she said a few sentences about buying locally.

That was it. Nothing about supporting small farms. Nothing about raising animals on pasture, letting them spread their own manure, letting them harvest the sun's crop (grass) without using a tractor or any fossil fuel.

So there I was, jumping up and down in front of the radio, crying, "What about us? Are we so invisible that economists think it's a waste of time to point people in our direction?"

I hope not. We're out here, but many of us are going under because we don't have the resources to promote our product, or the time, or the skills. We love animals, so we raise them. We'd love to raise more and sell them to people to eat.

So we're here, waiting. We're doing what we can to let people know we're here, but we'd love it if consumers started bypassing the meat counter in the grocery store, bought themselves a small freezer, and came directly to us. Good for the environment. Good for the animals. Good for the farmer. Good for you.

noreply@blogger.com (Catherine) — Sun, 30 Mar 2008 15:56:00 +0000

Shearing, Yet Again

My favorite part of farming are the cycles---the same thing happens every year, but each time, it happens a little differently. If you've read my entire blog (only recommended for extremely bored masochists), you'll notice shearing happens at the end of March...every year.

This year snow was expected two days before shearing---serious snow, like 6-8 inches. Even if we put our our sheep in the three-sided barn before a snowstorm, the snow blows in, which equals wet sheep, which equals postponed shearing. Can't shear wet sheep.

So this year, while I was out of town at a library conference, Melissa put up tarps all along the front of the barn. It was an incredible amount of work, and a great idea.

The snow never arrived.

Shearing day was sunny, windy, and about 35-40 degrees. We had 15 people to help, and it went so smoothly, and our help was enthusiastic and experienced. At one point Melissa and I found ourselves both back at the house on errands, and we realized shearing was going on just fine without us. Next year we're going to take in a movie, perhaps do some shopping.

Here are some sheep waiting to be shorn:

Here's Bonnie 'skirting' a fleece, which means she's picking out dried poop from the fleece. Few people would have the courage for this job, but she teaches high school, so very little frightens her.

Here's the black underside of that beautiful brown fleece. (Sorry, spinners, I'm keeping this fleece for myself!)

The fleece came from that now-naked black sheep.

Here's Drew (the shearer) taking a break, and Alex (the girl) keeping the next contestant (the sheep) steady until Drew's ready.

There isn't a bathroom in the barn, hence the foot traffic between barn and house.

Here's the puppy back at the house, stunned she wasn't the center of attention that day. She said, "I could help, really."

Then she said, "Am I not cuter than sheep? Forget those smelly things and focus on me. Look deep into my eyes. You are growing sleepy..."

The funniest part of the day happened when I didn't have my camera, but it involves this hay bale.

You'll need to use your imagination. About 10 sheep were left in this part of the barn, and someone went over to them, hoping to drive them into the shearing pen. When the sheep became alarmed and began running around the hay bale, the person backed off.

But the sheep kept running around the bale. Then, no longer afraid, they switched from running to walking around and around the bale. It looked like a sheep merry-go-round. Shearing action stopped as we all watched the sheep calmly going around and around the bale, not because they were afraid, but because they were having fun.

Well, okay, perhaps I'm anthropomorphizing here. Really, the funny show happened because each ewe was following the ewe in front of her, who was following the ewe in front of her, who was following the ewe in front of her... They are, after all, sheep....perhaps that's why I love them---not because they act like cows or dogs or cats or horses, but because they act very much like themselves: sheep.

noreply@blogger.com (Catherine) — Mon, 17 Mar 2008 19:25:00 +0000

Order Early, Order Often!

I know that's supposed to refer to voting, but I've stolen it for my own nefarious purposes.

Somehow, between chores and speaking engagements and eating and sleeping, I've managed to write another book. It was a difficult birth, but she's almost ready to face the world. I can't seem to make the above cover any larger, so here's the complete title: The Compassionate Carnivore: Or, How to Keep Animals Happy, Save Old MacDonald's Farm, Reduce Your Hoofprint, and Still Eat Meat.

The official release date is April 21, or May 1---I've seen both---but I think you could order your copy now, which would be HUGELY helpful to a writer such as myself. The bookstore owners/managers will say, "Wow, what's this book everyone is preordering? Mayhaps I should buy more copies for the store!" (I realize few bookstore owners/managers will say 'mayhaps,' but I'm currently writing a pirate novel and they talk weird.)

Where to order the book? Any brick and mortar bookstore would be great because it would get the book in a bookseller's hands, if only for a moment. But if you don't have one available, online is just as good. Advance sales send a strong message to my publisher as well, and he might be more likely to say, "Hmmm, mayhaps I should buy another manuscript from this Catherine Friend..."

So what's the book about? Here's what Marion Nestle, author of What To Eat, said: "At last, the perfect book for people who would like to eat meat but have moral, ethical, or health concerns about doing so. Catherine Friend loves animals but eats meat and gives a thoughtful, personal, clear-eyed perspective on how to do both, humanely and sustainably.”

Here's what Joan Gussow, author of This Organic Life, said: "A rich and enjoyable read...You have a great voice, and your repeated acknowledgment of the difficulty of changing the meat one eats in this insane food system--and your candor about your own inability to do so consistently--is great."

A reviewer contacted me directly, and said, "I am impressed at your extensive research, the catchy subtitles, the layman's terms for explaining intricate processes without sounding condescending, and how enjoyable this informative book is to read...You are so funny--I could listen to you talk all day." (Unfortunately, since I asked her to say that last line, we should probably take it with a grain of salt.)

I'm not anti-meat, anti-veggie, anti-farmer...I'm just pro-"paying more attention to the lives of meat animals." Hopefully the book will help people take small steps toward doing that, without going crazy. (Of course, if you're already crazy, please don't hold me responsible.)

More on book as the time nears...am thinking about starting a blog where compassionate carnivores can chat and exchange info, but Melissa looks at me as if I've grown a third head: "Two blogs?"

We'll see... The book has its own website: www.compassionatecarnivore.com

noreply@blogger.com (Catherine) — Mon, 03 Mar 2008 00:59:00 +0000

What's Cooking?

Our trip to Palm Springs was, of course, great. My subsequent writing retreat, also great.

Now I'm home again, and happy to be here. However, I've been gone for several weeks, which is long enough to lull me into thinking I lead a normal life just like all the other kids. But then the evidence begins to pile up around me. Despite my occasional whinings in this blog, I'm really not into self-pity, but...

Melissa ordered something through the mail and she'd opened the box and left the item on the counter. The tag read "Care of your Wetscraper/flesher."

Well, that's not something you read every day. Turns out it's a piece of metal sharpened along the long edge, used to scrape the bits of flesh off of a hide before one cures it.

Then I sit down on our living room couch for some quiet time, and the magazine on the top of the pile is open to an article about ram epididymitis ---"primarily a genital disease of rams"-- complete with a helpful photo of a ram's swollen testicles.

Then I realize that whatever Melissa was cooking in the oven that evening was still cooking, and in fact, she'd been cooking whatever it was for a few hours. I should say at this point that we believe it's good to use as much of an animal butchered as possible. Processing plants have figured this out, and sell every bit they can. We recently purchased at the pet store some 'bully' sticks for our puppy, the clever name disguising the fact that the stick is dried bull penis.

So when Melissa told me the item in the oven would be drying for the rest of the evening, my normally trusting nature turned into raving paranoia. "Please don't tell me you're drying out a ram penis in my oven."

"Okay," she said, and she walked away.

I closed my eyes, and allowed myself a flash of self-pity. One does not lead a normal life when there is a ram penis drying on a tray in one's oven.

The puppy, however, is in for a tasty treat.

noreply@blogger.com (Catherine) — Mon, 11 Feb 2008 19:50:00 +0000

Unbelievable Event!

This blogger, who only posts every 10 days or so (let's face it, not everything that happens on a farm is all that interesting), is taking six days off for a rare event: a vacation. (True, it's a working vacation, but still...)

Even more unbelievably, Farmer Melissa will be coming along, head cold and all.

How will we survive the shock of going from -20 to 80 degrees? Will we listlessly roam the streets of Palm Springs, CA in search of a flock of sheep and a few llamas to feed?

Or will we spend all six days sitting around the pool below?

Stay tuned.

noreply@blogger.com (Catherine) — Thu, 07 Feb 2008 14:41:00 +0000

Hay Circles

So, here's a typical winter morning out on Rising Moon Farm.

See that small hay circle at the feet of the ewe in the center? The first winter we had sheep, one snowy morning I walked out and found hay circles. It was puzzling.

Here they are again,

and again.

Do the sheep pull hay out of the feeders and make little nests for themselves? A sweet thought, but no.

Here's what happens. As they eat hay from the feeders, they pull it out and drop it. They walk around with it in their mouths and drop it. Soon there's an island of hay in the snow. (The hay's totally wasted, I might add, since now that they've walked and peed on it, they don't want to eat it. Go figure.) Then it snows on top of the hay. Then more hay goes down. Then more snow.

Some people think that sheep need access to a barn all year long, that it's cruel to keep them outside.

Please.

These girls are carrying their own barns on their backs, about five inches of wool. They are wrapped in about eight pounds of the stuff. And when they lay down at night to sleep, they are so warm that the heat from their body melts through the snow, revealing hay from the layer below.

Voila! Hay circles.

The sheep do go into the barn during ice storms, since these can be nasty. And after they've been sheared the end of March, they need shelter because they no longer carry their own with them. But otherwise, our girls are content to hang out in the snow.

Now if we could just get them to stop wasting all that hay by spreading it around.

"Fat chance," says #101. "Back off."

Backing off now...

noreply@blogger.com (Catherine) — Mon, 21 Jan 2008 03:11:00 +0000

Of Dogs, Llamas, and Electric Fences

Llamas make great guard animals, protecting our sheep against coyotes. They 'adopt' the flock as their own, and because they despise canines, will scare off any coyotes or stray dogs tempted to stop by for a visit. So when our vigilante llama Zipper (Exhibit A)

EXHIBIT A:

first laid eyes on our new puppy last week (Exhibit B)

EXHIBIT B:

he let out a hair-raising cry of alarm. It's very hard to describe this sound. It's both a constant hooting of a deep-throated owl, and the sound your car makes when the battery's almost dead and the engine barely turns over. It's an animal sound with a harsh metallic edge to it. Very weird.

I was terrified the puppy would be attracted by this call and run to investigate. Luckily, she didn't, but if she had, she would have encountered the electric fence. Every other wire is hot, and the electricity pulses on and off, so my hope is that the first time she touches the fence, she touches the hot wire while the electricity is on.

I know that sounds sadistic, but it's best if a farm dog learns right away not to touch the fence (just as young boys growing up on farms learn not to pee on the fence.) It won't kill or harm the puppy, but she will turn tail and run screaming for the house. I've seen it before when our border collie Robin (Exhibit C)

EXHIBIT C:

was a puppy.

Over the years Robin developed a healthy respect for the fence, and when jumping over the lower ones, always made sure he cleared them by at least a foot. It was an impressive sight.

One winter day Robin accompanied me on chores (This was before Zipper decided to start playing Stomp the Border Collie.) I asked Robin to jump the 3-foot electric fence he'd jumped dozens of times before. Unfortunately the ice or snow affected his launch, and as he headed over the fence, it became clear he wasn't going to make it all the way over. I knew it. He knew it.

That's why he started screaming in mid-air, knowing his tender belly (or his even more tender private boy parts) were about to land on a pulsing 4,000 volt fence. His front feet landed on the ground, and sure enough, his hips hung up on the top wire of the electric fence. The poor guy was really screaming now.

I just stood there, waiting.

I knew something he didn't know. The electricity wasn't actually on.

In a few seconds he figured it out and stopped screaming. He gave a few kicks to get off the wire, then walked over to a pile of snow and peed in a manly way.

We haven't spoken of the incident since.

He's a real trooper. Here he is wishing the little thing playing with his tail would just go away.

Robin is about to turn twelve. He no longer likes to jump high. He doesn't hear very well. But he still loves to run, and he sits on the stairs waiting for his hug every day. I think he's enjoying his retirement. He's certainly earned it.

noreply@blogger.com (Catherine) — Tue, 15 Jan 2008 14:06:00 +0000

A Farmer's Hobbies

I'm not sure farmers have hobbies. My Uncle Kenny up in North Dakota pretty much works all the time. When he needs a break from feeding cattle, he drives a tractor for 8 hours. When he needs a break from driving tractor, he heads for the machine shed and fixes something. If my uncle has a hobby, something he enjoys doing when not working, it's sleeping.

We have some farming friends whose 'hobby' is to spend a week on the beach in Mexico every January. They don't do exotic things like para-sailing or snorkeling, but just lay on the beach, eyes closed, grateful they are not moving.

Melissa and I used to go camping, and had all the latest gear. But once we started farming and spent so much time outside, camping lost its appeal. Almost all outdoor activities did. Even now, when there's fresh snow and our snowshoes are calling our names from the shed, we look at each other and shrug. "Go outside again? We were just out there doing chores."

Melissa does have a hobby of sorts. She and her brother Mark go grouse hunting every fall. Basically this amounts to walking for miles and miles through beautiful woods, perhaps seeing four grouse, and missing all four. When one of them does manage to get off a shot and hit something, the other must act as the hunting dog, crashing through the brush looking for the downed bird. It's hard work, and both Melissa and Mark have this standard refrain: "We need a hunting dog!"

Melissa's birthday is coming up (it's a big one, and it's not 40!) and I was desperately trying to come up with a really great present since she gave me something small and sparkly for my 50th last year.

Then it came to me: a hunting dog.

I casually mentioned this, and within hours she had the breed picked out, and had contacted six breeders. Lordy, what had I done?

Long story short, meet Molly. She's a wirehaired pointing griffon, and we picked her up when she was seven weeks old. She's now eight weeks old.

Yes, she's just as adorable as she looks. She's also feisty, sweet, easily entertained, and has tiny sharp teeth.

The last thing we need out here on this farm is another animal, but it's weird. Once you get used to taking care of so many animals, one more doesn't seem that big of a deal. Of course this one still pees in the house, but she's getting the hang of it.

The puppy has totally interrupted my writing time, but unlike when we started the farm and it took me years to figure out the farm had affected my ability to write, this time I know! New schedule out here on Rising Moon Farm: I help with the puppy in the morning (feed, take outside, play, etc), then in the afternoon I head for the nearest coffeehouse, buy myself a warm drink, and write. It's amazing how much I can get done without a puppy chewing on my ankle.

noreply@blogger.com (Catherine) — Sat, 29 Dec 2007 17:53:00 +0000

Cat House

Most barn cats are somewhere between feral and friendly. Ours, because they are friendly, qualify as pets. This means visits to the vet and medications and surgeries. As a result, somehow all three barn cats have worked their way into the house for a night or two. (If we weren't allergic to cats, they'd be inside full time.)

Last month Eddie had what we called his 'man-surgery.' (He requested that I do not take photos of his missing testicles. ) Because it was so darned cold outside, the vet suggested he spend the night in the house while he was recovering. So Eddie sat in our entry way, watching us for hours through the glass door. I felt like I was an exhibit in a zoo.

Then little Maisie had her surgery as well. (She also requested no photos, since she's a bit sensitive about her naked, shaved belly.) Because this was more extensive surgery, Maisie spent two nights in the entry way, watching us for hours through the glass door. Back in the zoo again.

Then Pumpkin showed up with a 1/4 inch hole in his arm. Melissa was concerned, but the hole looked clean and manageable. (Did you know that a cat, by licking a 1/4 inch hole in his arm, can turn it into a 1 1/2 inch by 1 inch hole? Yowza.) When she realized the hole was bigger, Melissa brought Pumpkin into the entry way for some care. I never took a class in How to Restrain a Cat, so it was a bit nerve-wracking to hold him while Melissa bandaged the arm. At the vet's suggestion, Melissa put a plastic container over his head so he couldn't pull the bandage off.

I am a cat whisperer. I can look into a cat's eyes and tell you what he or she is thinking. Take Pumpkin, for instance. At the very moment the photo below was taken, Pumpkin was thinking something like this:

"When I get this g**d*** cottage cheese container off my head, I will kill you."

Pumpkin, too, spent a night in the entry way, watching us through the glass door.

All the cats were very happy to be released from their heated prison, but this winter when the temperature drops WAY below zero, as it always does in Minnesota, what will I do if all three kitties show up at the front door, asking to spend another night in the Cat House Hotel?

I suspect that I, The Spineless Wonder, will take some Benadryl for my allergies, and let them in.

noreply@blogger.com (Catherine) — Wed, 05 Dec 2007 02:51:00 +0000

Changing Buckets

This is a biannual event, and one that goes MUCH smoother than it used to. During the spring, summer and fall, the tractor's hydraulic loader carries a 4-foot bucket for moving dirt, etc. But in the winter, it's time for the big boy, an 8-foot bucket capable of scooping up LOTS of snow. We should have changed buckets several days ago, when we knew snow was predicted, but I managed to be too busy to help, and since this is a 2-person job, Melissa had to wait for me.

I finally found the time to help put the snow bucket on today during the actual snowstorm. Great. And some people think procrastination isn't a good idea.

Here's Melissa driving the tractor with the 4-foot bucket, lowering it to the ground.

Here's the 8-foot bucket.

Here's Melissa taking out the four massive bolts connecting the smaller bucket to the tractor.

Here's the tractor with the empty hydraulic arms, just waiting to hook up to the big boy.

Here's the 8-foot bucket. See those little holes, about 1 inch in diameter? Melissa has to drive the tractor forward and line up matching holes on the hydraulic loader, and I'm standing there ready to jam the bolts through the holes when they line up.

The first year, I yelled loudly over the tractor, "Forward an inch. No, back an inch. Now raise it two inches. Down an inch!" I grew increasingly frustrated when Melissa didn't do as I asked. She finally climbed down off the tractor and stood close enough I could hear her. "This is a tractor," she said tersely. "It doesn't just move an inch."

Oh.

The second year, when Melissa was bent over the bucket tightening the bolts, I stepped back and slipped on a 2x4 hidden under the snow. I went down and ended up on my back, head down on a slope, bundled up in heavy overalls, coat, boots, mittens, etc. I couldn't get up. I flailed about, looking very much like the Michelin Man trying to make a snow angel. The more I moved, the more snow leaked down the neck of my jacket, and the deeper the hole I made for myself. I literally could not sit up or roll over or anything.

I yelled for Melissa, only 8 feet away, but she had on ear protectors, and did I mention the tractor is loud? By the time she looked up, I'd totally given up and was just laying there, almost totally covered by the falling snow. She wondered why I'd stopped to take a nap. Luckily the steam coming out of my ears tipped her off I was not napping, and she came to my rescue. Damn, but that was humiliating.

Each year we get better. We've been switching buckets twice a year for twelve years. Now Melissa drives those waiting arms right up to and nearly into the correct spot. We've removed all 2x4s that might be waiting to bring me down. I've stopped yelling, and instead use hand signals to indicate up, down, etc. I push and wiggle and finesse those loader arms, and when I've successfully driven the bolt through the hole, I raise my arms for a touchdown to let her know we did it.

There are no photos of the 8- footer successfully connected. One, because my hands were busy with bolts and nuts and wrenches. Two, because the camera battery died.

But connect it we did, and even though it was now dark, Melissa turned on her headlights and drove happily out into the snowstorm to plow our driveway. I went inside, poured myself a big glass of Rosemount Estates Traminer Reisling, and curled up by the wood stove.

The amazing thing is that we were both doing what we love to do.

noreply@blogger.com (Catherine) — Sun, 18 Nov 2007 01:31:00 +0000

Idea Girl and Action Girl

One of the joys of my partnership with Melissa is when we work as a team and make things happen. Building the farm was a series of small moments in which we made things happen.

I love to come up with ideas. I like to sit in the warm house on a comfortable sofa and think. Or I like to walk in the sun and think, or sit in the sun and think. I am Idea Girl.

Melissa likes to build things and fix things and make things. She is Action Girl.

She installed an auger that would bring corn from the grain bin into our feed room. Once in the feed room, the corn could drop from the auger into a pail. But when she finished installing the auger, the end of the tube delivering the corn was five feet off the ground. Corn spitting out from this tube would scatter all over the room instead of down into the bucket.

We stood there contemplating the problem, and I said, "Wouldn't that be great if we had a pair of old jeans? We could cut the legs off and make a chute."

The next day she dragged me up to the barn and showed me two jean legs that she had duct-taped together and used to extend the chute straight into the bucket on the floor. Turns out she had kept a pair of my old jeans, which were perfectly fine except that the inside thighs had worn themselves to threads. (I know...how that could happen is a mystery to me as well....)

Here's our new friend Tanya from Canada filling the bucket with corn. Notice the jeans legs as chute extender!

We have a water hydrant on the east side of the barn, and use it to fill the 50 gallon water trough for the sheep. After a few years we ended up with more pens, and eventually needed another waterer on the west side of the barn. But the only way to get water to that trough was to lug full, heavy buckets of sloshing water, not very much fun in the middle of winter---think cold wind, heavy snow, and slippery ice.

So one fall Melissa and I stood at the orange water hydrant, contemplating the problem. Finally I said, "Wouldn't that be great if we had a hose that ran from the east hydrant high up into the barn rafters, then came down next to the west water trough? We could hook the hose up to the hydrant, water would run into the west trough, and as long as we let the water completely drain from the hose when we're done, it won't freeze up."

The next day Melissa dragged me up to the barn and showed me she'd done that very thing.

Here's the orange hydrant, and you can see the hose heading up into the rafters:

Here's the hose coming down into the west water trough.

Melissa is perfectly capable of coming up with ideas, and I've been known to get off my butt and do something physical, so it's not as if we can't function without each other. But I, for one, am incredibly grateful that Melissa is willing to listen to and consider my ideas, and I believe she's grateful when I provide a fresh perspective on a difficult problem.

Idea Girl and Action Girl action figures will soon appear on the market. Action Girl will be wiry and full of energy, while Idea Girl will be basking in the sun with a book in her hands, waiting for her next idea.

It's a difficult job, but someone's gotta do it.

noreply@blogger.com (Catherine) — Thu, 08 Nov 2007 02:40:00 +0000

Smashing Pumpkins (no, not the band)

For most people, Halloween means carving pumpkins. For us, it means smashing pumpkins. A local farmer raises pumpkins for the season, but what does he do, post-Halloween, with the ones that don't sell or the ones that are blemished or oddly-shaped? We back our pickup into his pumpkin patch, and fill it full of pumpkins. (Lots of shepherds have pumpkin suppliers, but most of us guard the information jealously to ensure we continue to get our pumpkin fix.)

Why is a shepherd interested in pumpkins?

Sheep love pumpkins. No, that's not quite right, so let me restate that: Sheep LOVE pumpkins.

They don't have the dental skills to gnaw through the tough rind, so we help out by smashing the pumpkins for them. How's that for spoiled sheep?

Two of our tame ewes request that I smash a pumpkin for them.

I comply.

Yummy...

Other ewes catch on, and just as I'm prepared for a forceful smash, three ewes crowd around me for a pumpkin treat, and there's no room for smashing!

Sheep aren't known for sharing, but it happens now and then.

That's it. I'm done smashing for the day. Gotta get on with things.

So next year, gather up your neighborhood's pumpkins, drive out to the country, find some sheep, ask the shepherd's permission, then smash those pumpkins. It's very satisfying. Melissa and I love smashing the pumpkins almost as much as our sheep love eating them.

noreply@blogger.com (Catherine) — Thu, 25 Oct 2007 00:27:00 +0000

In Memory of Oliver

Tame barn cats are independent souls who love to hunt and explore, yet will curl themselves around your legs for a scratch or allow themselves to be carried around like a baby.

It's been four months, so I think I can write about it now. Our beloved barn cat Oliver, the inspiration for my children's picture book, The Perfect Nest, died in the middle of June. He had a sudden heart 'event' (saddle thrombosis), was paralyzed, frightened, and in great pain, so once we got him to the emergency vet and learned the prognosis, we had no choice. The only good thing is that the whole thing happened in our yard, in front of us. I shudder to think how he'd have suffered had this happened out in the pasture or woods, where we may have never found him.

Melissa and I were inconsolable for days. Pumpkin, the other barn cat, suddenly became needy and clingy. Fall loomed, with winter close on its heels. What would Pumpkin do for companionship and warmth now? (We're allergic to cats, so no cats in the house, I'm afraid.)

After a few months, we realized we needed to find someone for Pumpkin, so Melissa started calling around. We didn't want wild barn cats. We wanted tame ones. She found two kittens, raised by a woman who tames most of her 15-20 barn cats.

Meet Eddie...

Meet Maisie...

The first six weeks were rough, since Pumpkin wanted nothing to do with these little pip squeaks. Luckily he's come around, and now Uncle Pumpkin has even been seen playing with them. (He'll deny it, however, so please don't mention it to him.)

Eddie and Maisie are adorable, of course, and Eddie is proving to be the hunter that Oliver was. We've made a cozy 'fort' of hay bales in the hay loft where the three of them will keep each other toasty warm all winter.

Losing a cat is small potatoes compared to losing a spouse or close friend or sibling or child, yet the loss of an animal still becomes part of a person's history of grief. As painful as it is to lose a pet, most of us get another one.

I guess the joy of having them in our lives must outweigh the pain of losing them.

noreply@blogger.com (Catherine) — Tue, 09 Oct 2007 15:11:00 +0000

Lamb Tram

(or Donkey on the Lam? Lambs on the Donkey?)

CUTENESS ALERT!! If you can't take 'cute' today, cover your eyes. Shut off your screen. Run from your computer.

If you're strong enough, here's what the Italians (and apparently some shepherds in northern Colorado as well) do to ensure that when the flock is moved, the smallest lambs aren't left behind:

All together now: "Awwwwww!" Too cute, eh?

noreply@blogger.com (Catherine) — Fri, 28 Sep 2007 19:11:00 +0000

Going up?

The end of summer means many things on a farm, but to us it includes buying hay for the winter. We usually buy at least 200 small square bales for the little barn, but since we're still goatless in Goodhue County, we only need 50 or so to have on hand for an emergency. The sheep will be eating off the big round bales so won't need the little ones.

So how does a farmer get a 30 pound bale of hay up into the hay mow, which is on the second floor of a barn? The first year our friend Paul grabbed each one with a pitchfork and tossed it up. Holy buckets. We didn't ask him to do THAT again. Instead, the next year we acquired a very old, very used model of one of the most ingenious and simple bits of technology ever invented: the hay elevator.

This is basically a conveyor belt with a big tooth every three feet. Put the bale on the bottom of the elevator, wait for one of those teeth to come around and snag the bale, then the elevator takes it up into the hay mow.

Once at the top, it falls off the conveyor belt and Melissa adds it to the stack. She's learned there are right and wrong ways to stack hay---stack it the wrong way and it'll come tumbling down and you have to stack the bales all over again.

I'm usually outside unloading the hay wagon and yelling at the kittens (whom you'll meet in an later post) to stay away from the rattling, dangerous elevator.

There's something very comforting about filling the hay mow with hay. It smells good, gives the cats a warm place to sleep during the winter, and prepares us for winter. Let the snow come. Let the ice fall. Let the blizzards blow. We're ready!

(Well, not really. I'd rather wait a few more months, so let's hold off on the snow and ice bit. I was just kidding...)

And here's something unrelated---an evening sky to the west of our farm...