Archive for January, 2013

A Feminist Rally

The farmer misses our rooster.  He was the chosen one of four.  Last week she discovered a growth on his chest and he had to be put down. He was a handsome boy but he knew his place.

A Facebook post from this past August:

There seems to have been a feminist rally in the hen house earlier today. Upon entering the coop the farmer spies, a hen, the oldest most eggsperienced one, was seen pacing back and forth on the nest perch. The underlings were gathered below listening in awe to her squawks and cackles. She had them enraptured, captivated by her eggsuberant speech. “Today we rally! We will longer be held down by the other sex! We will no longer answer to their every peck and call. Hear me ladies, we are eggstraordinary, we are not yolking anymore, we are hens hear us…cackle!”
The four roosters were standing outside in the rain and not one was cocking his doodle. True story.


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My Biggest Fan

Today started out like crap.  The farmer woke up on the wrong side of the bed, no probably the wrong side of the universe and things only got worse from there.  Not sure why but FH and sons seem to think it is fun to poke skunks and will go out of their way to irritate the farmer.  Nothing was going right, things were misplaced, everyone needed the bathroom at the same time and stuff was not getting done.  One thing on the massive to do list was a feed run.  FH and farmer arrived at the feed store to find the parking lot full.  The place was bustling.  The owner, while taking the farmer’s feed needs order mentioned that the farmer’s “Biggest fan had just left.”   Hell, does everyone poke skunks?  “What do you mean?”  He went on to explain that a customer had just left after purchasing a bar of Butting Heads Farm soap.  She was raving about it and how she was “my biggest fan”.  The farmer left the feed store with a slight smile on her face.  Shortly after arriving home the farmer’s phone rings and a very enthusiastic voice states, “I am your biggest fan.  I just love your soap.  I just wanted to let you know how much I love it.  I heard you on the radio earlier and just wanted to call!!”   Wow, the soap is great stuff and a compliment, especially on a day like today is always appreciated….but the farmer has never been on the radio, but for the one time she won WWF tickets by being the correct caller 11 years ago.  Hmmmm, the farmer is wondering where the skunk is….

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Fairy Tales on the Farm

Another of the older posts:

We all know the fairy tale of the fair young maiden who sees her white knight on a steed appearing through the mist to make all her dreams come true….

My version:
The fairly overweight matron was shuffling to the barn to be with her beloved animals, who were awaiting her lilting voice to calm them from the morning’s anticipation of grain. “Come and get it!!” the matron croaked out, in her barely awakened voice.
The babes greeted and left their mark of protection on her; wee poop covered hoof prints on the back of her flowing nightgown.
Miss Olive, the maker of the magical white liquid, was relieved of her bounty. Straw was spun into the feeders and pats and love was given to all.
As the fairly overweight matron made her way from the enchanted barn she glanced back and forth before crossing the tarred path for fear of being seen by anyone in a horseless carriage in her flowing nightgown with protective marks and hair that had not been anywhere near the mirror, mirror on the wall. She sees a shape; a white shape on hooves calling her name, “maaaa… maaa… maaa…”

Yeah, James had escaped his fence and was walking up the road to meet me bright and early this morning.

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This afternoon was spent at the orthodontist and then running errands for soap making supplies.  The farmer is making soap this evening.  Goat milk and beer soap.  The fats are melted, the beer is flat and the supper dishes are cleared.  Time for some serious suds, soap of course. Oh wait, the FH needs a tool and goodness knows the youngest son cannot allow him to go alone. YS,  “Mom, can you babysit for me?”  Farmer, “Can’t you take Finnigan?”  “No, he is sleeping.”  “But I was making soap….”  “I’ll vacuum for you.”   Farmer, “You’ll vacuum? Of course, I can babysit.”  It is a relief for the farmer to know that she can make soap and if the baby falls out of its basket onto the floor the YS will vacuum up the remains of the 10# bag of flour science project baby.

        Baby Finnigan









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This is another older post from Facebook but the farmer thought all would enjoy the chuckle….

In the process of trying new things for the family to keep the ingestion of chemicals and unwanted other additives to a minimum, tooth powder was made. Tooth powder is an interesting concoction of baking soda, bentonite clay, and essential oils. Toothpaste is a horrible concoction of stuff; one of them being the same ingredient that makes shampoo suds…seriously people, we have been trained to believe that something is cleaning only when it bubbles/foams. FH and sons were not overly keen on trying something that came from a jar versus a tube and it was not the gooey stuff that they were used to and the taste was a bit like mint that had been salted. However, they WERE using it; using it to the point that another batch was needed.
The farmer had run out of the clay necessary and had purchased new at the local health food store and had forgotten it was sitting on the front seat of the car. The youngest son went to clean the car and brought it into the house not knowing what it was. Oh, was it mentioned he is the one who was the least keen on toothpowder? He used it but he hated it. For him the best thing about visits to the orthodontist was the mini tube of toothpaste they sporadically hand out.
So the clay came into the house along with the question, “What’s this stuff?” as he handed it over. “Clay for toothpowder.” He proceeded to throw up a little in his mouth and then asked why we had to use toothpowder and there was a lengthy blah blah about chemicals and shampoo ingredients. He proclaimed he didn’t care and promptly went into the bathroom to prove it. Yes, the 14 year old dumped shampoo onto his toothbrush and brushed.
Needless to say,  another batch was made, this time with clove and cinnamon and a little stevia so it was sweeter. Did the guys like the new flavor? Well, the guys snuck out and bought a tube of Colgate.

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People often ask, “How long does it take you to do chores?”, “Is it hard?”, and the famous “Don’t you hate doing chores?”.  Answers to the first two are what this post is about, the third one well, hello if the farmer hated it she wouldn’t be doing it.

This afternoon the farmer took pictures to document chore time.  Mind you, she has her hands full and photography is not her strong suit annnddd the pigs were done and all water was already hauled, thanks to the FH and sons.


Teat wipes


Teat dip


Milk Pail


Egg Basket


Bogg Boots (It’s Maine and it is snowy and cold)


Hat and gloves (sharpied with Mom so the Farmer can claim them when borrowed by others)

Trek across the road is complete:


Hay and grain for the bucks, Skippy Jon and JamesImage.

Drizzy and Anna happy as two pigs in…well, in snow, with full bellies.


Gather eggs, feed and water chickens.


Grain and hay for Olive, Junie B., Amelia, Fern, Willy, and Lilly


A very close picture of cleaning a teat before milking.




A bad picture of teat dipping, a bad picture because Miss Olive abhors having her teats dipped even though the Farmer spoils her and keeps the dip in the warm house.


Animal crackers, treats, oh, beloved treats.


The fruits of afternoon chores.


Miss Olive is all done and so is the Farmer.

Chores a tutorial in pictures.  Brought to you today in 15 degree weather, light snow and bright sunshine. When the stars are all in alignment and the water is not frozen and everybody decides to stay in their designated areas chores take about a half of an hour.  That is with one milking doe.  Chores are not difficult.  There is water to be carried 15 gallons morning and afternoon,  the hardest part may be climbing out of a very warm bed and heading out of doors in the winter.  Though winter chores have their advantages, there are no flies, the farmer hates flies more than Miss Olive hates teat dipping.

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Recently one morning around 2 a.m. the farmer’s husband woke the farmer; “Did you hear that?” Farmer, “Yeah, no I was sleeping.” FH, “Shhh, listen.” Farmer, “Damn!”
Somebody in the goat yard was yelling. Now mind you if that someone in the goat yard was yelling loud enough for the FH to hear it over the Farmer’s snoring, it was serious business.
The farmer lept out of bed and headed down the stairs, through the house, grabbed a flashlight that was miraculously where it was supposed to be, threw on boots and was headed out the door when behind her she heard, “Wait, what do you think you are doing going out there alone?” Farmer, “Ummm, something is wrong.” FH, “Do you remember that Don (neighbor) saw bear sh#@ on his lawn last week?” Farmer hesitated for only a heartbeat and headed out the door with FH following a few minutes later.
There was nothing to see, just the boys with their heads poking out their pasture door bleating. Surely, something woke/alerted them and they were warning the farmer. But seriously, a bear? The farmer in her heart of hearts believes that any bear, werewolf, Bigfoot, Loch Ness monster, or such would run with their tails between their legs when encountering the pink pajamed, hair on end, rubber boot wearing farmer, it is a scary sight.

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