It is halfway through January and already I can hear the songs of springtime at the farm.  Croaking tree frogs, hungry lambs, finches and robins calling to each other… Our winter was a little disappointing this year and I hope it doesn’t mean we’ll have swarms of bugs this summer.  I just hate bugs. 

My goats are NOT singing yet since they are too fat and lazy to even get up to eat at night.  They are very pregnant.  This month they can lounge and order “stall service”, next month will be a different story.  If I were a betting person I would wager 7 baby goats are on the way.  WAY more than I’d like, but less that are possible.  Poor Blanca is the biggest.  I’m not really sure what is inside that belly of hers.  Last year she had twins, but both died – one still born and Little Joe who was premature, but stuck it out for about a week.  She wasn’t ready to be a mama last year anyway.  But she was an excellent milker all season!  I’m hopeful she will have better luck with her kiddos this year, but they are only a means to an end.  I WANT THAT YUMMY SAANAN MILK!!!

It is the first year kidding for Coco and Crema.  Crema is probably *technically* too young, but I’ve been giving her loads of food to make sure she gains enough weight.  Coco is looking large.  She has always been my most healty doe – and the most beautiful.  Such a beauty.  I can’t wait to see what her kids look like.  The sire is a bit of a scrappy little grunt.  Hopefully her line is stonger.

And Carmen.  What can I say about my sweet Carmen that I haven’t said a hundred times before.  She is such a good girl.  Last season she had some problems with her delivery and raising her kids.  Blanca ended up nursing them for most of the season.  I didn’t intend to breed her this year, but nothing can stop horny goats from getting together… so here we are   I’ll talk to the vet this week about her symptoms and see if there isn’t something we can do to help her out.

Once we have all the funny babies delivered I’ll get some new chicks to play with as well.  I always think I have enough chickens, but I always want more in the spring.  This year I hope to find some interesting banty varieties.  They are little and make little eggs – like a quail egg (for the foodies out there) but a chicken.  The other chicken experiment this year will be to see if I can hatch any eggs myself.  Well not MYself, obviously… I’ve never had a rooster before so this year I should be able to let one of the girls go broody and see what that brings.  We’ll see what the girls think.

With new babies and spring planting come visits to the farm – my favorite   Let me know if you’d like to come meet any of the new additions.  Weekends only, please. 

Sadie

Hi everyone,

My blog has been broken for a little while now and just got around to fixing it this afternoon.  I kind of went backwards when I re-posted them so they are all a little out of order.  But I put some of my favorites at the beginning

Farmer Sadie

My family would never describe itself as white trash. Nor would most white trash people describe them that way, but there are definite – shall we say – habits the Wilsons and Danforths have that put us in a questionable light.

• We eat brie, but we eat it with our hands. In fact most food eating is done with our hands if given the choice. When I was younger I prided myself on being refined and growing beyond this habit, but since moving out to the farm all of the “refined” has fallen to the wayside. I was recently half way through the second course at a very nice restaurant when my sister had to remind me to pick up a fork.
• Pick-ups are for using, not for showing. I don’t think I have voluntarily washed my truck in over four years. At some point the windows get too dirty to see through and the gas station bug-juice wash just doesn’t cut it any more and I have to get real with the hose and sponge. That happens about once a year.
• Laundry and dishes should be cleaned for company, but not for family. Okay, so undies and socks get washed regularly, but things like shirts and jeans can really go for much longer than most people think. The jeans I’m wearing right now, for instance, were washed about a week ago and after I scrubbed the ckicken poop off the right thigh this morning, they were as good as new.

I clean up pretty good, but I have to admit, the moments I enjoy the most are driving in my ‘67 Ford truck down a dirt road while eating Cheetos and smoking a GPC Light, or cracking open a cold beer before (and after) mowing my three-week tall dandilion lawn… barefoot. Hell Yeah!

Originally posted 08/26/05

My new favorite place is the Wilco Feed Store in McMinnville. Besides being ENORMOUS and full of tools I need, the people there make me silly happy. Lately, I’ve been dropping in there a lot. I pull up in my big pick up, park sideways across two spaces (no power steering) and wander in to buy the one part or piece that will help me finish my project.

This weekend I came in wearing my dirty jeans half soaked from the leaky spigot project (turns out that replacing a shut off valve on a pipe while the water is running… not the best idea). The old woman flower-waterer gave me the MOST disapproving look when I walked past her. I actually laughed a little on my way by. All the while I walked to the back of the store for the 1/2 inch – not 3/4 inch – fitting, and all the way back to the register I watched the other shoppers, who were all trying not to look at me.

What I love about the feed store clients is we all have a common look to us. We all come in there between noon and four – when its too hot to do anymore fieldwork – with our clothes and faces covered with dust. Usually you can see streaks on the face where sweat has been wiped off, and handprints on the jeans where the sweaty hands were dried. One guys I saw had so much dust in his hair it stood straight up and looked like a powdered wig. My favorite guy wore his hat in the field, but took it off to come inside. He had a pronounced dirt line halfway up his forehead and spotlessly clean glasses.

I am approximately 40 years younger than these guys and a woman, but those are pretty much the only differences between me and the other customers. The expression on all our faces is a cross between exhaustion, pain and sleeplessness. We nod in a neighborly fashion as we pass in the aisles. Periodically we engage each other idle conversation or exchange ideas for irrigation or tool selection. When I tell them how my pants got wet they laugh a little and shake their heads. Like zombies we stand in line and sound like dumb hicks at the checkstand asking about the price of chicken feed and t-posts. My people.

Originally posted 09/06/05

The farm has taught me that no matter how much I want to do or get something, there is a 90% chance I won’t get it. For instance, a few sunny days in a row would be wonderful so I can mow the lawn and dry out the basement. Every morning I wake up, check the weather, cross my fingers, do a sun dance, say outloud three times “I AM SOLAR POWERED” and still… rain.

This is a good lesson for anyone; the art of rolling with the punches. It brings creative thinking, patience and a kind of zen few people have. In the past two months I have had a leaky roof, flooded basement, wormy cats, a dead goat, broken cars, over-budget projects, weeks of overtime at work and countless other small disapointments. Solutions to all problems were found, alternate plans have been made. But it does wear on the soul a little tiny bit.

The hardest part for me is when something looks like it will be what you want, but turns out to be something entirely different. Whether it be a job, a lover or a bright ray of sunshine peeking out from behind a gray rain cloud. That ride of indifference to hope to disappointment is the most challenging part in this place so far. A few people I know have decided to cut the “hope” part out so they never feel the “disappointment” part. It makes much more sense to me now than it ever did. But how does one keep from being stuck in the numbness of indifference for too long?

So.. about coyotes. When I moved out here I assumed there would be many wild and dangerous creatures around. Up until a couple of weeks ago, I hadn’t seen anything but a rather large White Owl and a few Red-Tailed Hawks. My neighbors Ahti and Lena told me there were a pack of coyotes (pronounced KY-otes) in their back yard all the time. That isn’t especially surprising since they live on 300 acres of un-fenced flat land just at the base of some of some large, treed hills. Since I hadn’t truthfully heard an alive coyote in my life I asked if the dog noises I somtimes hear might be coyotes. They laughed and said, “Dont worry, you’ll know them when you hear them.”

The very next evening the fire alarm in town went of around 3am (its the kind of town where a siren goes off at the station, the volunteer firefighters drive into town, then go to the fire). Apparently, the coyotes took the sound of the siren as an invitation to sing-along. There were at least 10 of them and it sounded like they were right outside my open bedroom window. They howled, yipped, barked and growled at each other for about 2 minutes. In that short timeframe here’s what I did:

• awoke and bolted up in bed so fast I got a little dizzy
• thought, “where are my cats? did I lock the chicken’s door? do coyotes eat goats?”
• realized the side gate was WIDE open from mowing the lawn that day
• criticised myself for not having bought a shotgun yet
• pondered how well that one yelping sound can freak the crap out of a sleeping person
• committed to improving my animal security (and buying that shotgun)

I sat there half-asleep in bed for 5 minutes or so before I heard the new kittens under my window make a kind of growling noise. It was their first night out after having been locked in the basement for a week (post-spaying) and I still sleepy and had decided they were being eaten by the noisy predators. So I jumped out of bed like it was covered in thorns and ventured outside with the conviction of a woman who just spent $150 on vet bills.

If there were any coyotes out there, I’m sure they were struck dumb by the sight of this crazy woman in her tank top (no undies) wandering around in the middle of the night with a flickering flashlight in one hand and baseball bat in the other muttering, “I hope I don’t get eaten by wild dogs, I hope I don’t get eaten by wild dogs…” The gate closed with much difficulty, and the kittens scurried back to the basement with some encouragement. Needless to say, I didn’t get much more sleep that evening.

I haven’t heard them since, but I find it a little un-nerving knowing they are out there. At the same time, it is humbling knowing there is a creature so closely among us who, when given the chance, could take me down without even breaking a sweat. So the cats begrudgingly sleep inside now and the goats and chickens are penned up nightly. Art Farmer – 1; Pack of Wild Dogs – 0

Originally posted 09/15/05

Peel the husks back away from the ear a section at a time. If you leave some of them attached at the bottom, you can grab them and the stem like a handle and break it off clean to the bottom of the ear. If that doesn’t work, carefully cut off the stem.

After boiling – this is an important step – drain off the hot water and submerge the ears in COLD water for 5 minutes. This cools down the ear so you don’t burn your mouth and it keeps the kernels from shriveling up while you eat your first three ears. Warning: if you leave it in the cold water too long THE BUTTER WILL NOT MELT!!! Unthinkable.

They aren’t what you’d expect. I mean, I love my big-boy tractor and the power tools, but my absolutely favorite farm tools are:

A 12-foot length of chain with hooks on either end.
This is a marvelous little goodie I found half buried in a burn pile. When attached to either the bucket or the tow hitch is great for pulling things. It has recently pulled several hundred feet of rusty old fencing out of the bushes, a couple dozen metal T-posts out for repositioning, an old truck canopy from the field to the dumpster and a wood table from the other field to the back yard. Very handy!

Tape roller/Cat hair remover
I could never have really anticipated the amount of hair/fur I routinely encounter at the farm. It…is… EVERYWHERE. With 5 cats and three goats all shedding at the same time, a poor simple human just can’t keep up by herself. The lint roller is critical. Chairs, coats, pants (especially pants), sweaters and pillows – all kept tidy with the tape roller.

Rusty Cro-Bar
Is that how you spell cro-bar?? You know what I mean, right? The 18-inch round metal thingy with a socket on one end and a chisel on the other. AKA: tire iron. Found a couple in the barn and I use them anything I can’t lift and deal with at the same time. The tractor attachments, hanging plywood siding, riping off old plywood siding. Whatever needs a little lifting or leverage.

Bag-O-Rags
There are many things that happen on the farm that you just really don’t want to touch or ever have in your washing machine. Cat pee, goat barf, moldyness, placenta, any/all variety of poo and – of course – the unidentifiable. For real, you don’t want to touch the unidentifiable. And if you use paper towels, you run the risk of touching whatever IT is. Enter… Bag-O-Rags!!!! They are literally, a bag full of cotton (usually red) 12×12 rags. And they are only about 10 cents each, so you can pickup/wipe up whatever IT is and just throw everything in the trash. Ahh…

Originally posted 04/04/07

“Sisu is a Finnish term that could be roughly translated into English as strength of will, determination, perseverance, and acting rationally in the face of adversity. The equivalent in English is ‘to have guts’, and indeed, the word derives from sisus, which means something inner or interior. However, sisu has a long-term element in it; it is not momentary courage, but the ability to sustain the same.” –Wikipedia

Both my great grandparents were 100% Finnish. A lot of their culture is still present in my mom’s family. None of us can stand to be bored so we’re always working on something. We all have a deep appreciation for the landscape in which we live. Most of us can make 30+ meals with potatoes, cheese and milk alone. And there is a lot of SISU.

I’ve always understood the term to mean a blend of courage, stubborness, fortitude, pride and passion. When my great-grandmother Bessie immigrated to the US from Finland at 14 years old, she started to show some sisu. When she moved to the Yukon Territory and then to Alaska where she ran a bakery for prospectors with her (also un-married) sister, that showed even more sisu. And when she married my great-granfather Ed and settled in Beaverton Oregon to raise their son and make a house and farm from nothing but a 40-acre flat piece of land, that was probably the greatest demonstration of her sisu.

Its hard to explain, but that blend is something to strive for in our family. Not everyone has it – or wants it, for that matter – but it is in our blood. It gets us in trouble sometimes, but it also allows us to achieve seemingly unsurmountable goals. Failure is not an acceptable option when you have sisu to draw from. The past two years on this farm have given me a window of insight to the true expression of sisu. I can only hope that, like an old friend, it will continue to let me turn to it when the need arises.

Look, I don’t mean to complain… but I’m turning 30 in a few weeks and I still haven’t met my cowboy. I’ve never been more baffled by something in my entire life. How do people do it? How do they find their soul-mate amidst all the frogs and freaks out there?

I have dated my fair share of men. They have been fun and interesting, all of them. A few I thought may have even been more than fun. But nothing has even come close to materializing. When people meet me now, they assume I am married and are shocked as hell when they find out I’m not. Its a compliment, I suppose, that they wouldn’t think one person can do what I’ve done (and plan to do), but every time I have that conversation, I cringe.

THEM: So what does your husband do?
ME: I’m not married.
THEM: You’re not married?!
ME: Nope.
THEM: That really surprises me! You’re so nice and you have this great farm. Don’t you want kids? Have you been divorced? Are you covered in scales?
ME: It just hasn’t worked out that way. Would you like to go out and collect some eggs?
THEM: So you do all this by yourself.
ME: Yep. Let’s talk about something else.
THEM: You know, I have this friend who knows this lady who works at the bank who might be able to set you up with her brother-in-law’s cousin. He just got out of jail, and I think he may have a drug problem, but he’s the only single guy your age I know of. Interested?
ME: [pause] Sure. Can he drive a tractor? 

Maybe a slight exaggeration, but it is starting to look a little bleak. Fewer prospects out here in the country. Not that thousands of guys were beating down my door to begin with. And the guys I do meet aren’t exactly Art Farm material, you know? Between the potheads, the rednecks, the man-whores and the truly desperate I remain nonplused.

The beauty of turning 30 is the inner-peace that comes with some of this life-lesson crap. I used to get pretty freaked out about the being single thang. But now I figure its been this long on my own, I may as well hold out for someone who is really right. Someone who can get excited about rebuilding the barn, or heading into town for the annual pancake feed. Maybe someone who would actually adore me for all the hard work I do, instead feel threatened by it. This man, my cowboy, will come someday. And I’ll know him when I see him. Until then, I guess I’ll just get better at changing the subject!

Originally posted 09/01/05