calm, for a moment

It's another one of those days - those days which I'm afraid are all too common for most of us - too much to get done, far too little time, and how is it possibly June 1st already? But for a moment, very early this morning, with the air cool and the bright sun just rising over our pastures, all was calm and still and so beautifully peaceful.

Wishing you a moment's peace today and every day that follows.

new bees

Come for a walk with me, out to see the new bees. First we'll cross the yard, step over the token sheep fence (and break it to Weena and Oona that no, it is not dinnertime), then climb over the big gate. From there, we'll walk along our dirt road just a bit to the main road. Stop, look and listen carefully for the cars that drive far too fast, then dart across the road to the hay field on the other side. Just a quick walk through the rain-soaked grasses and clovers and then listen again, this time for the hum of the bees. The new bees.

The five nucs I reserved in January were finally delivered last Thursday. After giving them a few days to get used to their new surroundings, I put them into their new permanent homes late on Sunday afternoon. (Their homes which are still missing parts and missing paint... I forgot the entrance reducers, the small stones to prop up the covers, the big stones to put on top of the covers, the covers still need to be painted, and I need to put down a base of some sort. Craig is donating some chipped pieces of bluestone - these bees will have a nicer patio than we do!) Anyway, not perfect, but I don't think the bees care much. These nucs were packed to bursting with bees and they will be well chuffed to have plenty of room to spread out.

If you're wondering why the yard looks like such a jumbled mess, it is because the five empty nucs are leaning against the five hives so that the stragglers could find their way into the new homes. I need to get out there today to gather up the nucs and stack them for pick-up. (In the photo below, you can see the five nucs before being transferred to the hives.) I don't get to keep these nuc boxes, but I've been looking up plans for building a few myself. Not only are nuc boxes handy for making splits, but they are also just the ticket for capturing and transporting swarms. I've got my fingers crossed that I'll have the good fortune to find a swarm in the coming weeks.

I've still got a few empty hives ready to go, just in case...

on the mend

On Wednesday evening, we found our sick pullet. On Thursday morning she was still alive, but neither better nor worse. She couldn't stand or move in any direction but backwards, and had little interest in food or water. Thursday afternoon I researched chicken diseases online, and quickly convinced myself that this pullet - along with every chicken on this farm - would be dead from all manner of exotic illnesses within a few days. Later Thursday afternoon I decided this was a load of bunk, and the likely problem with this one pullet is a vitamin deficiency of some sort. So I decided I'd give her something that always helps me perk up, a good glug of kombucha. And you know what? Friday morning, I found her like this:

Somehow, although still unable to stand, she flapped herself all the way up to the edge of the deep cardboard box I've been keeping her in. Progress! I decided she'd like a better view, so I took her out to the garden, where I found a perch ready-made by the long-handled shovels left in the wheelbarrow. Yes, this will do just fine.

And today, well today she's walking! Here she is, just this very afternoon, still a wee bit unsteady but perfectly able to cruise around the yard on this incredibly beautiful late Spring day.

She very much enjoys Henry's doghouse. Henry does not enjoy her enjoying his doghouse. (Henry is not a dog. Henry is a rooster.)

Rocky just can't figure out why there needs to be a chicken in the doghouse at all. (Rocky, on the other hand, is indeed a dog.)

She's finally hungry today. Eating like a little piglet! Apparently, Greta is hungry, too. She shared a dish of food with her new friend.

Meanwhile - a discovery we verified yesterday - a fox is sampling our (currently) free-ranging hens. On one end of the farm, we're celebrating the victory of saving a pullet from the brink of death, while just up the road, a brazen fox is making off with a daily meal (for a family, no doubt) of a full-grown laying hen. Just when you get one situation under control...

one sick chicken

While doing chores yesterday evening, I found one sick pullet. I'm really not sure what is wrong with her, but she was down on the ground, unable to stand, flapping around a bit. Since chickens are not particularly kind to one another, the others were stepping on her and otherwise being completely unsympathetic. I scooped her up to carry her back to the house, but then still needed to feed the horses. What to do? Greta let me know exactly what to do. I'll hold her, Mama! And hold her she did. So sweetly, gently. It was beautiful.

I was sure this little hen wouldn't make it through the night, but she did. Not better or worse, but alive. She's got spirit, this chicken. Let's hope she pulls through.

this mother's day

Sunday was my kind of day. Time to eat, play, observe, capture. Time outdoors, working and enjoying.

Time to hang this swing, crafted by my brother-in-law in a matter of minutes after I admired one he recently made for Evie.

Time to work with Craig building these four raised beds. We bought the lumber last year. It needed to season, we joked. I am now faced with the unplanned-for dilemma of how to keep my children out of the beds. My naked, covered-in-dirt children. How I didn't anticipate this development is beyond me.

And time to spend with my mother, too. She was asleep when I arrived to visit, but her eyes lit beautifully when I touched her shoulder and said, "Mom, I brought dinner for you". After more than a month of a restricted diet of hospital and nursing home meals, she was beyond delighted to taste fresh foods. Yes, I think I'll be bringing her meals more often. In a funny way, I was reminded of visiting a Zambian hospital with a friend who spent several years there in the Peace Corps. There, when a family member is ill, several family members camp in the hospital courtyard, preparing all of the meals for their loved one. OK, so I won't be pitching a tent outside the nursing home any day soon, but I can certainly bring food. Food and love, and hopes for healing. 

It is a lovely day, this one set aside to honor mothers.

the one that got away, and the one that didn't

This is a terrible photo, but when the lens on the camera is the 50mm, and the only method of zooming is to physically move the camera closer, and the subject is a good 20 feet up a tree, well, this is what you get. There is,  smack in the middle of this photo, tangled up in the topmost branches of a rather large pine tree, a swarm of honeybees. A beekeeping friend of mine once wisely told me that when approaching a beeyard, especially in these warm May days, look up first. A swarm is just a hive waiting for a home, and bees don't come cheap any other way (unless you catch a swarm before it swarms, which obviously I didn't). So up I was looking, but I'm not sure why I bothered. With Greta in the stroller and Thatcher by my side, I couldn't have captured a swarm in that moment even if it had been hanging there at shoulder height just begging for me to reach out and grab it. If, if, if. If I had been by myself. If I had been armed with a very tall ladder and a chainsaw. If I had the time. If only, but I didn't. So this swarm stayed where it was, until it flew off to newly-scouted digs (unfortunately NOT one of the empty hives waiting expectantly right at the base  of this tree). Adieu, sweet bees. Maybe next time.

But, but, but. It got me thinking. There was a day (okay, a day back in May of 2009) when I was able to catch a swarm. And Craig was there to take pictures. And Thatcher (just seven months old, way back then) slept soundly in the car below the entire time. And I did have the time, and the ladder... It was a classic swarm, hanging neatly on a branch.

Best of all, when I climbed all the way up to the tippy top of the ladder, and stretched up far as I could, I was able to reach it. With my bee brush, I gently nudged the body of the swarm off the branch and into my nuc box.

Swarming bees are wonderfully gentle (well, totally preoccupied, more like). The thing I was most afraid of was falling off the ladder. I could have done this without the bee suit, but I really like my bee suit.

I wanted to get as many of these bees as I could, and - most importantly - I needed to get the queen. If she was left behind on the branch, all of my little worker bees would be right back up there with her quick as a wink.

Loaded up, on the way down. Balance, balance!!

Few things are so rewarding.

Into the hive, a new home.

Every last one,

including the queen.

lifeflight

Sometime at the very tail end of March, my mom (otherwise known as Granny Moo) was here helping with Thatcher and Greta, giving me a few hours of her free time before heading off to her full-time job. While Greta amused herself nearby, my mom and Thatcher snuggled into the couch for story time. My mom's made-up stories for Thatcher generally involve some sort of semi-dangerous outdoor adventure - often in the mountains - from which the hero invariably needs rescuing by helicopter. On that particular day, my mom interrupted her story to explain to Thatcher that what she has wanted her whole life is a ride in a real helicopter. Someday, she told him, someday I will fly in a helicopter.

Just a few days later, on April 3rd, I took that photo above. Can you see it? Can you see that helicopter, taking off into a beautiful Spring sky? My mom was onboard, along with a flight crew of paramedics, flying from our tiny rural hospital to the nearest Big City Hospital with a highly-trained vascular surgeon on staff, a surgeon who saved my mother's life. Not the flight she was dreaming of, but one she'll certainly never forget.

Now, my mother is busy with the hard work of healing, but we are as yet unsure of just how much recovering she'll be able to manage. The past month has been tough, to say the least, for all of us. Part of me wants to explain just how tough. Part of me - the prevailing part - feels like this isn't something to share here, here in this place where it is my pleasure to share the joys I find in my life. 

Even though this past month has been hard, there has been happiness, too. Greta has started to walk, infrequently, tentatively. A mama sow had a litter of fourteen piglets. Seeds have been sown, and have sprouted. Leaves have unfurled in the rains that finally arrived at the end of a long, dry April. Just yesterday, one of my best friends delivered a beautiful baby boy. Birth and growth. The gifts of Nature are all around, and they offer much in the way of gentle solace.

So, there you have it. This is where I am right now. This is a place that reminds me, more than ever before, just how incredibly grateful I am for health and happiness. Precious things, indeed.

still playing my little ponies

(It is a more than a little unfair to do Fritz the double injustice of being forced to parade around the pasture dolled up like a show pony AND being compared to a garishly-colored florescent-locked plastic toy, but he bears it well. So long as I feed him first. Thanks, dear sweet and PATIENT Fritz. This was just what I needed.)

boosting immunity, one lick at a time

Greta likes to carry things with her wherever she goes. These days, she wants to carry an egg with her every time we do chores. And this is what happens when I say, over my shoulder to the bundle on my back, "Greta, you better not be licking that egg!"

Exactly. The Joy of Disobedience.

life forces in farming and food

I know a family who are very much devoted to the study - and practice - of the teachings of Rudolf Steiner. I worked for a time with a son of this family on his small farm. One day, in the family's kitchen, I was eating a meal largely composed of vegetables we'd picked from out back, just moments earlier. My friend's mother beamed at me, saying, "Can't you just feel the life force in that food?"

Now, my friends, I am (though not politically) a rather conservative sort of a person. I don't consider myself to be crunchy or hippy or any other -y for that matter. Before meeting my friend and his family (this is now going back a ways), I'd never heard of Rudolf Steiner. Not being raised amidst his teachings, certain ideas still, to this day, sound odd to me. Astral bodies? Eurythmy? And life forces? In food? 

So on that day, in that kitchen, I think I nodded Yes, and smiled back at her, not wanting to disappoint her, definitely not sold on the idea she was presenting to me. But I have never forgotten that moment. In fact, I think of it often. In fact, that moment has helped drive me to where I am today, has helped me figure out why I care about what I do, and why I care about what I eat.

Now, that being said, I'm not a purist. I don't eat solely of foods raised with love here on my farm. I'd like to eat more foods that I raise and grow myself, and I'm getting there. In the meantime, I eat plenty of anonymously produced foods (and some of what I consider non-foods, and even some complete crap). But you know what? Whether made of plant or animal, they're dead foods. Like really dead. Like the kind of dead that never had a moment of joy or beauty. The kind of dead that is totally lacking in life force.

I know this, and yet, I still eat these things. But, when I eat the foods that Craig and I raise right here on our farm, I know their stories. I know where our meats came from, as I knew the animals themselves, where they were born and raised, how they were treated while they were alive. I know that Craig loves to lie down in the straw with the piglets and that they clamber over him like puppies. I know that our pigs are born and raised right here, outdoors and in fresh air, treated gently and with love. I know that I talk to my hens when I gather their eggs, and catch myself apologizing to them when I have to shoo them out of a nest box. I know that I sit quietly by my beehives when I can, just watching them fly in and out. I know that Craig drives out into the pastures just to make sure the cows are content, and that he has a huge soft spot for Old 100, our own grandmama cow.

And yes, this is food that is filled with life forces. Forces of soil and grasses and wind and rain and sun and stars. Forces even I can feel.