It's Been a While

Hi. It's been a while.  A country mile or a country year since I've been here.  I don't care to blog about death and tragedy on the farm much anymore so there hasn't been much to report.    Farm life denial mentality is stronger than ever.  But, I have been busy.  Busy makin', maskin', and pickin'. 

Covid lockdown forced me to keep my hands extra busy.

I prefer them raw. So. Good!

Grab yer glasses and notice the hand-embroidered horses, done by me of course.  Never mind that, notice the beautiful quilting brought to you by my endlessly talented mom.

It's a lot more twine than it looks.  Miles of it.  Making twine is a great way to combat anxiety. 

The usual anxiety swirled with "The Covid" has made for a doozie of a year for everyone.  I'd bet a whole lotta coping mechanisms were born out of The Rona.  Like all kinds of kinds for all the kinds of people.  Did anyone else overly over plant a garden to prove to the USDA you had fertile land (and a green thumb or hand) in an attempt to qualify for a hoop house program?  Probably not.  Anyway, we grew and picked enough green beans, black-eyed peas, and purple hull peas to start an exclusive bean and pea dispensary.  Everyone else is growing the other hot commodity kind of farm so I figured we should be original and do our own thing.

Backbreaking.  Never underestimate the work of real-deal farmers.  All too often we take for granted where our food comes from.

These little sweeties grew in abundance and were a nice break from pea and bean pickin'.

What's more exciting than a garden?  Big Dog at the mercy of over forty super pee'd off bees.  I was minding my own business on the tractor when I saw Big Dog slowly walk up to the gate.  I was tempted to ignore him because what in the world could he need me for anyway?  I was far too lost in a sermon podcast to stop the tractor, pause the podcast, and holler, "What do you need me for?".  I don't like being interrupted, especially when working the dirt. But something about the way he was standing there made me pause and stare as I thought "What in the hell is wrong with him and why is his head huge?".  So I turned off the tractor, paused the podcast, climbed off the tractor, and walked aaaaalllll the waaaaaay over to where he was.  Y'all,  he was not right.  He was in need of medical attention.  He uttered the very words Big Dog never utters or wants to utter, "Take me to the hospital. Now!". 

What was supposed to look like this for the gram ended up looking more... 

like this!  Just a minor allergic reaction, swelling, pain, and shortness of breath.

Between you and me, I was a smidge annoyed.  I happened to be in the middle of making perfect tractor mowin' lines.  You know, like the perfectly parallel vacuum lines (such a rush, you feel me?).  But I do value his life more so off to the hospital we went. He even told me to speed up as his difficult-to-breathe body language put my foot heavier on the pedal.  Apparently, this was serious.  After checking "difficulty breathing" on the intake form we were rushed to a bed. Quicker than rabbits doin' the diddy the nurse had an IV going.  So I did what concerned wives do and took a  trip to the cafe to get my selfish self a soda.  Shhhh...don't tell him but I popped into the gift shop.  Full disclosure, I'm a gift shop addict and could not refuse the hospital gift shop exploding with everything I didn't need.  Dramatic ER visit behind us, we took in the valuable, near-deadly lesson of the importance of impenetrable bee suits.  Big Dog has since bought new impenetrable bee suites AND gloves without holes. Yep, gloves without holes. 

Another inspiration for Miranda Lambert's Oklahoma Sky

Such incidents seem to drift away as incredible sunsets go down on yet another dramatic day on the farm.  But don't be fooled.  No, no.  Little time spans between peace and "what in the actual...?" moments.  You might want to sit down for this one.  Our not so beloved dog, Shadow, met his maker all too soon yet not soon enough.  I'll spare you the traumatic details of this particular tragedy and just say that a brand-spankin' new driver's permit and old lazy dogs behind the tire do not end well.  Guys, the list of reasons for PTSD just keeps getting longer.  Therapist recommendations welcome.

And you thought you were having a bad hair day.

Y'all groom your fancy dogs, I bathe my chickens.  Well, when they have pasty butt anyway.

What would a post be without the mention of a new animal undertaking?  Big Dog thought it would be fun to have alpacas.  Duh, who wouldn't want an alpaca or two?  So in true Big Dog fashion, he rolls up one day hauling two brothers.  Two ugly brothers.  You think the chicken above got a raw deal just take a look at this hair-do...

Worst. Shave. Job. Ever. Literally, ew.

Appropriately named Tito's and Templeton (if you know, you know), these brothers were done dirty at the barbershop.  The growing back season is long.  Too long.  For too long you could see whatever they swallowed travel down their necks. With each witnessed swallow my goose-bumped arms grew inches of arm hair. Nonetheless, upward and onward people.  Wait, did we get the alpacas to protect the 999th attempt at having goats?

Too sad to caption this.

Bahahahahah.  Alpacas apparently do NOT protect livestock, at least not brother alpacas.  Like anyone else, they run from vicious stray dogs. RIP goats.  Fun fact: Alpacas pee and poop butt to butt in the same spot every time.  You can imagine how tight I close my eyes when mowing over the mountain of brother made you know what. I may not be able to keep poop particles off my hair and body but I do my darndest to keep it from getting in my eyes.  We do not have an eye washing station. 

Sis had dreams of being a goat tyin' queen.  Sorry, sis. 

On a good note, we had Ranch Camp out here and it was just about the best week of my life.  Five sunshine days filled with cute buck-a-roos and animal crazed children was just what the vet ordered. From riding to crafting to visiting farmers to ranch work demonstrations, joy and cheer spread from here to the Canadian river.  Seeing the wonder of farm life through their eyes watered my soul and my heart for the farm began to grow again.  

Since we can't seem to keep goats here, Steele Family Farm was so kind to bring their goat farm to us!

We gathered eggs and I did an impromptu lesson on how chickens have eggs without a rooster. Bless me.  We also witnessed chicken to chicken brutality but I prefer not to go there. 

Me: Kids, what was your least favorite part of Ranch Camp?
Unanimously them: Crafts. 
Me: OUCH. 

Despite all the usual hiccups and challenges of the pandemic, we managed to host the sixth year of Farm Girl Fair.  It was as magical as ever.  Purpose and reason aligned yet again and it was glorious...until the freezing front from Moscow blew in and we all suffered frostbite and premature freezing weather-related arthritic pain.  Seriously, Oklahoma.  Just stop.

The peaceful calm before the bitter butt kickin' cold front.

 Holidays on the Farm in December was unusually sunny and warm. Go figure. 

That's a snippet of a wrap for 2020.  My memory bank is depleted.  I spend more and more time and money on covering my relentless gray hairs.  I feel wretched and withered most days but the Holy Spirit hasn't left me yet.  I continue to seek His word and welcome as much grace as he is willing to pour out.  And at the end of each day, I am assured that His love for me and mine is far more forever than this dang farm.  

Oh, Big Dog.

 

Weeeeee! In Memory of Tom

If you know me you know I fantasize and even threaten to sell this farm on a daily basis.  If you really know me then you know that Tom, our ranch hand, is the reason I don't.  Tom is the reason I'm still here forcing myself to make this work.  This hardship, this pain in my rear, this more bad than good, this "I can't take another season" came to ease when Tom came into our lives.

No comment.

Most couples fight about money.  My husband and I fight about this blasted farm.  We were even found bickering about it at a Fourth of July party over two years ago when a friend said, "I have just the guy that will solve all of this".  And voila, Tom started that next week.  Tom desperately needed work and I desperately needed Tom. He was about to lose everything and I was on the brink of proposing an irrational ultimatum that consisted of selling the place.  Tom changed all of that.  Working for us gave him purpose and he gave me a happier marriage. 

"Boss, you saved my life!"

"Tom, you saved my marriage so we're square!"

My morning routine changed immediately after Tom started.  I would wake up, make coffee and settle in on the couch and read my "Tom emails".  Tom would enthusiastically email me everything he researched pertaining to the project at hand. Using the highlight, bold and larger font tools, Tom would undoubtedly get his message across.  A thoughtful and conservative list of supplies along with his expert opinion on how to best execute his plan would fill my inbox.  Up before the roosters, His emails would be sent to me every morning by 2 or 3am.  Tom would promptly arrive by 6am and get to work.  My needy assurance that he was here was fulfilled with the sound of the squeaky faucet that waters the chickens.  I hated that squeak, but I loved what it meant more. I also knew he was here by the sound of the horses stampeding to the front fence line as his truck pulled up to feed. A thunderous and beautiful sound.

Diamond, one of Tom's favorites.  Who am I kidding? Every animal was Tom's favorite.

"Tom will take care of it" quickly became the anecdote to my anxiety.  Ah, Anxiety.  We had that in common.  You see, Tom was extremely thorough.  The kind of thoroughness that was fueled by anxiety.  I mentioned I had a blog about this dang farm and he went home and read it.  Every word.  He read about our life, our children, our story, our losses, our gains and, that like him, I suffered from anxiety and depression topped off with a daunting dose of perfectionism.  Over time, Tom would open up and share what he was dealing with and say with tears in his eyes, "You see boss, you're like me.  You understand me".  I would listen and tell him it's okay and that he's not alone.  I would desperately try to assure him that we were here for him and alongside him. My heart grew and broke at the same time.  I so badly wanted him to be okay.  I could feel the toll of his affliction.  I wanted to fix him.  I wanted to save him. I wanted to do everything I could for him.  Heck, I wanted to build a tiny home in the back just for Tom and his dog.

Tom thought Wilbur had tumor on his tail and assumed the worst.  A vet  determined otherwise.  Wilbur had a  "poop ball" forming on his tail.  According to the vet, it was his most exciting call to date. 

Tom pressed on and continued to come to work as long as there wasn't a percentage of rain in the forecast.  According to Tom, if there's to be rain he could save me a penny or two by not coming in. *Sigh, laugh. Oh, that Tom* When working on a farm, there's the John Deere way, the Farmer's Almanac way, and the Tom way.  I always, without hesitation, went with the Tom way.  No matter how many pipes and hoses, otherwise dangerous strengths of fertilizer, trips to Atwoods, impossible to get fencing materials, or unnecessary tractor tune-ups, if it's Tom's way then it's my way.  My husband would often come home and see something Tom had done and before he could ask I'd say, "I don't want to hear it.  Don't even question it.  That's Tom's work, his way so it's my way and that's that".  My husband would smile knowing that a happy wife is a happy life.  Smart, smart man that husband of mine.

Tom has reminded me to pause and see beauty in life on the farm and appreciate all that we have.

Tom always asked for permission.  No matter how many times I told him to do as he saw fit, he asked.  One day he asked if he could use the EZ-GO to haul loads to and from the barn.  As soon as I said yes, Tom took off towards the barn like a horse to a bucket of sweet feed. I'd never seen him run.  He had a steel rod in his back for crying out loud.  Seconds later I heard the most cheerful and joyful sound.  

"Weeeeeeeeeee!"

Tom whizzed by like a child on brand new four wheeler with his hair blowing in the wind and a smile from ear to ear as he zipped across the pasture.  It was pleasantly warm that day.  Tom was happy. He felt good. I can still hear my kids giggle as we watched him zoom off back towards the barn. That moment will forever be a treasure that tugs a smile from my heart.  Weeeeeeee!

Blu and Buddy had fun with the EZ-GO too!

Tom took care of everything.  Tom took care of the things I did not particularly enjoy, so that would be just about everything.  But when it came to death on the farm it was hard. It wasn't just another chore or impending inconvenience - it was loss of life and Tom felt it to his core.  The all too common loss of a chicken would leave Tom in tears, unable to come in to work the next day.  We tragically lost our two beloved Pyrenees.  Too devastated to handle it myself, Tom bravely took care of our protectors of the farm only to internalize the loss to a depth that pained him more than one can know.  Soon after, our three-legged cat had to be put down.  Tom barely recovered. He deeply grieved each and every loss, no matter how small. 

Our protectors of the farm, Pippa and Rosie.  Rosie fancied Tom most.

Life.  Tom brought our farm to life in more ways than I thought possible.  He turned weed filled pastures into dreamy green meadows.  He built fences that would have Texas ranchers jealous.  Tom prepared gardens that boasted delicious vegetables.  He impeccably kept and organized our barn to a picture perfect standard that allowed me to be in there without having a nervous breakdown.  Tom adored and cared for our chickens like a shepherd to his sheep.  He looked after our horses as if they were priceless derby contenders.  Our pigs won Tom's affection and trained him to bring them treats.  Tom watered my dreams for Farm Girl Fair and helped grow a magical day that was brought to life because of his innate dedication to doing only the very best on top of above and beyond.  Every blade trimmed and limb pruned, Tom made everything better, more beautiful.  Through sweet tears, Tom thanked me often for his job on the farm.  He did everything with pride, honesty, integrity, and genuine gratitude.  And for a cherished time our farm brought life to Tom.

Tom always made sure Lottie had plenty of straw to burrow in.

Loss.  Loss is something you never really get over, you can only get through.  The more precious the life the more painful the loss.  We lost our Tom on January 2, 2020.  We lost the heartbeat of our farm that day.  We lost a dear soul that helped save mine.  Our Tom took his life to end a suffering so unimaginable, no one can truly understand. Tom battled a raging war that left him in such deep despair that no earthly remedy could treat or cure.  Like loss, mental illness is often something someone suffering can not get over, but only try to get through.  Because of Tom I am determined to get through.  I am encouraged to fight and live a life that has me gleefully saying, "Weeeeeee!" despite the weight of affliction he fought and I carry.  

Tom at Farm Girl Fair.  I remember him telling me, "Never be too old to ride a bull."

Tom, thank you for the selfless gift you gave despite your pain.  Thank you for helping me love the farm you so dearly cared for.  Because of you our land is a special and thriving place forever touched. Signs of "Tom's way" are scattered everywhere. 

Fondly,

Boss

We can't have a farm without a Tom.  Tom is our new keeper of the farm.  This pup has helped dry our tears and console our hearts.

Oliver, the "feelings cat", purrs and comforts me as I type this post.

The Day I Became a Farm Seal

Rule number one when moving out to a farm: Don't move to a farm.  If you obey that rule then there is no need for anymore rules.  I know it's trendy to live on a farm, grow your own food and raise your own animals. But so is living in the city, drinking lattes and going to yoga.  You know what else is trendy?  Sleeping on a super expensive mattress and learning how to live the Blue Zone life.

Thank you Emoji World for finally releasing an emoji that represents me living my best life.

People, if you ever find yourself thinking, "Man, I wished we lived on land", "I wish we could have animals and gardens", stop right there and grab a latte, go to Yoga and buy a mattress.  The Blue Zone is way better than the Manure Zone. TRUST ME! Why?  I'll tell you why!  Because have you ever held a goat, ripped open on one side, scream at you for an hour? Have you seen the unfathomable scattered in a pasture while praying you don't get struck by lightening? I didn't think so.

Lies.  All lies.  Joy. Of. Simple. Living.
Lies you guys! Just lies. 

The perfect storm rolled in one Saturday morning.  Big Dog was out of town but that goes without saying.  I went out to do my glorious farm chores.  First I checked on Baby Blu, our adopted and bottle fed goat.  She's PRESH and OMG I could go on and on about her.  She sucked her bottle, peed for an hour and hopped around.  On to the horses... flakes of hay and feed.  Done.  Then to the goat pasture.  Aaaaaand that's when the record skipped and the music stopped.  I saw one goat, not four.  Clearly they got out.  So I hopped on the EZ GO and went a searchin' and a Baaaa'n my head off out the window.  No luck.  I drove another fence line in my car and there it was.  I don't have a word for "it" because "it" was so horrific Webster hasn't come up with a word for "it".  So we will start with carnage.  Carnage spread all over the pasture.  Rated R carnage.  Then wind, then rain.  And me poorly dressed.  I got out of the car and ran to the one living goat.  I had to get him to safety so he wouldn't become carnage come night fall.  I knelt down, rain pelting my face like huge gauge needles, and he turned.  He turned and revealed is own carnage.  His side was ripped open.

And this is where I threw my hands in the air and channeled my best Scarlett O'Hara.  I called Big Dog.  I screamed, shouted and through my chattering teeth stated strong and colorful words.  He couldn't understand me.  I threw my phone down in the mud and screamed some more.  I was shivering because I was cold and shaking because I was mad.  Really, really mad. BUT there was a goat to save.  AND that's when I entered Farm Seal Training.  No goat left behind.  The Rocky soundtrack cranked up.  The wind all but knocked me over as I chased the injured goat.  My $.99 poncho blew off.  I miraculously caught him.  I lifted him up and he screamed so loud my ears are still ringing.  He tried to bite me.  I held on knowing his gaping wound was rubbing my shirt.  I headed towards the barn.  Dagger rain and 310mph wind zeroed in on the cinematic shot.  Where were my comrades?  I'll tell you where they were.  They were inside playing video games with headphones on.  I clenched my fists under the goat.  I was living my own Fortnite and no one was there to parachute in and help.  Not wanting to give up and ring the bell, I fought the storm and two steps later found myself on the ground sinking in mud.  I had a death grip on the goat.  My muscles stiffened and my body shivered more.  I got up and fell again.  Mud. The storm was defeating me.  But I still had this goat.  I got up once more and reached the gate.  I finally made it to the stall and put the goat down.  I don't remember much after that.  I was freezing.  Apparently, I called people.  Anyone that might be able to help.  A warrior named Kevin showed up.  He was calm and looked completely ready to do his job.  He works in GR.  AKA: Goat Remains.  He drove out and around the pasture and picked up "it", the carnage.  I hunkered down with the wounded goat and sent out more SOS calls.  A goat vet responded and headed my way.

Y'all.  What am I doing?  What am I doing out here?  Someone please tell me.  

Anyway, the goat vet showed up but wasn't equipped with necessary supplies.  He told me to hold the goat down and "together" and he would be back.  Stop.  Go back and read aloud, "together".  

K. No problem.  Or something like that.  Really?  Right back huh.  Yeah, no big.  I got it. 

Again.  What am I doing?  

The vet returned an eternity later.  It took both of us to hold that goat, administer injections, clean the wound, staple the wound and call it good.  I am since 45% deaf and 110% traumatized.  

Buddy after his pain medication sedation.  Standing firm, staples and all. 

Fast forward a few weeks and Buddy the goat is doing just fine.  In fact, Buddy has a new home.  He lives on a SAFE/DANGER FREE goat farm over yonder.  He will join a herd and frolic in the fields.  As for me, I am proud to be a Farm Seal.  A traumatized and deaf Farm Seal. 

This picture is not here by mistake.  You see, I have been taking testosterone.  I'll leave the reason why to your imagination.  Anyway, I was so stressed out after the Farm Seal combat situation that I applied my testosterone cream as if it were my deodorant during my post-shower routine.  Yes, I'm trying to whiten my smile and yes, that is my bottle of Prozac behind my Motrin.  #HOTMESS