Wordless Wednesday: blushing


Wonder and Wander at Moss Mountain Farm

A few weeks ago when we were sure that the animals would be lining up two by two, I was invited to tour P. Allen Smith’s Moss Mountain Farm. I donned my boots and my favorite sun hat which I figured could double nicely as an umbrella when the moment came.

Even though the yard was crawling with bloggers and those of the social media bent the land and home gave off quite a calm serene feel. As if you could just start walking without a care and let the mind wander…. and wonder. 
Meandering the garden paths in the mist and thunder.

Wishing you could waste the day on the sleeping porch as the clouds rolled over the river.

Pondering the vegetable patch.

And traipsing through wet fields and muddy roads to visit chickens.

I was especially captivated by an original painting of Allen’s hanging in the front parlor. A larger landscape of rolling hills and pasture land.

This was his family’s farm in Tennessee. If you stared long enough you could see the trees and grass almost sway with wind. And imagine the work happening on the homestead. I love pieces of art that hold personal history. 

The house is full of windows big and small that open up to a view that seemed to never end.

They all invited you to lounge on a cushion or rest your shoulder into a windowsill and just take in the drizzle and fog of the Arkansas River Valley.

By the time we were leaving I was damp and muddy and all my curls had sprung despite my big hat. But it was a wonderful, wanderful day.

“I like this place and willingly could waste my time in it.”  -William Shakespeare, As You Like It


I’ve never wanted pets because they were to easy to become attached to. And it’s hard when they go. 
I’ve always said our goats walked a fine line between pets and livestock but for me Holly crossed over the line right into my heart.
She was my bottle baby since her mom didn’t want her. I took her to work with me for about a month or more. Everyone was just in love with her. And how could you not be. She loved to jump and dance  like all baby goats. And cried when she couldn’t find me. 
Working her back into the herd was hard. They never really accepted her but she was getting too big to carry to work everyday and too active to sit complacently in your lap. She wanted to run and jump and explore. A church office wasn’t the best place for that. So we had to get her used to living with her goat family. That was hard. For me and for her I’m sure. She would cry and call for me. Making me feel like I’d abandoned her. But she started to learn her way. 
We had to put her down this weekend. Thursday she just wasn’t acting right.  She seemed sad and depressed. She wasn’t her usual talkative self.  Friday her head was drawing back to one side and she was walking in circles. I brought her to the office with me. Her ears felt hot and she would stand with her head pressed into something so that it didn’t lead her in circles. She tried to fight it but eventually she couldn’t. I sat on the floor and held her head into my chest until Ben could come at noon to take her to the vet. 
She stayed over night getting medicine and other treatments but nothing was helping. She had tested positive for worms and another parasite but had showed no signs that we were familiar with to indicate that was what was wrong. Even the vet said she looked fine. But we had been down this road with other goats before. And when she wasn’t responding to the treatments we decided we didn’t want her to have to suffer anymore. 
Saturday was tough.  I think that eventually we may get rid of all the goats.  For awhile.  I love raising them but I think we need to do a lot of updating to the pens.  But things we just aren’t able to do right now.
Holly, I’ll miss your sweet sweet face.

Bring your kid to work day

So it’s like having a baby and a puppy. At the same time.  With you at work.
Somewhere in this past week and a half I have a acquired a 4th child.  Kid, actually and literally.  For all practical purposes I am mom to little Blessyou Holly.  At least in her mind
The name is a compromise like all things.  I was always saying bless you because she sneezed a lot and Ben wanted to call her Holly. So either or both work.  It’s not like they ever come when we call them.
She’s wondering why she can’t have a #nipplebucket like the baby goats at the Beekman Farm.
I’m sure I’m doing this whole bottle feeding thing all wrong.  We are both way too attached.  But I only know one way to take care of a baby.  Feed it.  Clean it.  Love it.
She’s the biggest star of the church office and I’m so thankful that I work in a goat-friendly environment.  
I’m sure I may be the only person in the world to text their boss asking if it was okay to bring a goat to work for the next few weeks. 
Blessyou Holly has stolen all their hearts.  Parishioners actually stop by just to see her or are surprised by her appearance and say that she has just brightened their day.  Did I mention she’s spoiled rotten.
But after a week of juggling my work schedule and Blessyou Holly’s feeding, pooping, and social schedule, I was perfectly happy to leave her in the custody of the Spring Breakers at my house.  It’s good for her to not be dependent ONLY on me.  Because eventually she will go back into the pen with the others.  I can’t have a full size goat roaming my house.  The end tables would never survive.
She and her brother/cousin (same daddy different moms who are half sisters– see farm yard novellas!) get along so at least she’ll have a friend to pal around with.  She just needs to get a little bigger so she wont get run over so much.  And she needs to learn how to be a real goat.  But hopefully I’ll always be momma.

All kidding aside

I’ve started to tell this story so many times only to have what I thought was an ending change and change and change.

Our livestock charges have been on the calm side as of late.  We have secured most of the old fencing so as long as the gate is closed we have very little escape goat acts anymore.  And our prison fence high chicken run has helped to do away with the untimely ends of our feathered friends.

But baby goat season is never with out it’s share of farm drama.  This year was more of a rollercoaster than any of the daytime soaps of my youth, or my daughter’s ABCFamily favorites or even the last two seasons of Downton Abbey.

Late Thursday afternoon Pickles went into labor.As the sun set and the chill set in Ben and I stood vigil with head lamps strapped to our foreheads waiting. 

Baby boy #1 was born just fine.  He was all white just like his mom except for little black and brown spot on his forehead and ears.  Momma started to lick him clean as baby #2 was making its way.

This is where I start to look back and kick myself for my ignorance.  Where I wonder what are we doing even thinking we can raise livestock.  We really suck at this whole farming gig.

Baby girl #2 was breach.  And try as we could we couldn’t get the fluid out of her little lungs.  Her heart pumped and pumped until it didn’t anymore.  I tried to comfort Luke as he looked on in tears.  They love to see the babies being born.  But sometimes the harsh reality of it all is too much for him.  For all the kids.  For all of us.

We once again worried about a repeat of last year.  Was there still another?  We checked more thoroughly this time but still couldn’t tell.  And Pickles seemed to be done with birthing babies.  We staggered in to wash ourselves of the mud, blood & poop. But somehow couldn’t wash away the sadness.  I started to bed with notion that these things happen sometimes only to let the guilt of our ignorance overwhelm me as Ben read about “throwing a goat” or something when their lungs were full of fluid.  I really wished he hadn’t shared it.  Keep it for next year.

But then the impossible happened.  Ben came home during the day on Friday to get something and 18 hours after the first baby was born Pickles had given birth to another goat!  There were 3 after all!  A little girl, finally.  Unfortunately Pickle didn’t want her.  It was so heart breaking to see her push the baby away.  I’ve had so many people express their surprise and disbelief that a mother would do that.  This is where I have to remind them we are dealing with animals and try as we want to give them names and act like their instincts are ours at the end of the day they are still animals.

Pickles was still having a lot of after birth problems.  So much so that by the time I am writing this she is baby-less.  We have decided not to breed her again.  Its just not good for her or the babies.

By Saturday it was clear that we would need to start bottle feeding her if she were to stand a chance.  So in the middle of history day presentations and family reunion 50th wedding anniversaries I was trying to figure out how to to get the poor little orphaned goat to take a bottle.

Like goat milk formula (yes, they do have such a thing) through the baby bottle, so are the Days of Our Farm Lives.