Change--For Better and For Worse

I tend to ignore the conventional side of the farm. On this blog, that is. Truth is, I never wanted to be a conventional farmer. Row crops--corn and soybeans--with their genetic potential and maturity dates, their herbicides and pesticides, their crop insurance and FSA payments, their demand for large and expensive equipment, their moisture levels and storage charges--they're not what's got me whistling while I work on the farm, if you know what I mean.

But I want to be very honest with you all about my relationship with conventional row crops, so that you can be honest with yourselves about yours: the row crops on this farm have been financially propping up the organic acres for 4 long years now and they should receive the credit they deserve. And I think I'm safe in assuming that row crops have probably been financially propping up your ability to buy organic and local as well. In other words, we all need to be better about leaving the judgment behind while we strive to do better.

We made some changes this year regarding our row crops. Changes for better and for worse. You see, last year was one of those years that just about breaks a farm. I have already whined and complained enough about the quadruple whammy of last year's high input costs + lower crop revenue + wet harvest weather + a gazillion dollars worth of drying charges, but the result isn't pretty. The result is a farm walking a fine line between financial solvency and financial ruin. I think the most shocking part of the whole situation is that it only took one year to get to this point! One year! (Ok, so the quadruple whammy also coincided with some needed equipment purchases and the removal of one field from the sugar daddy row crops to that cute new hussy on the block named Organic Transition.)

Anyways, since I've run the farm I had refused to plant GMO anything. Straight conventional all the way, baby. I was filled with self-righteousness and an unending optimism that only new farmers have: if it worked before it'll work again.

Except it didn't work. The weeds on our farm are typical of the weeds on most farms that have been conventionally managed for over 50 years--resistant to many conventional herbicides. Yes, we sprayed. And yes, the weeds thumbed their noses at us and laughed all the way to maturity. (Remember those posts that have Marcel and I wielding machetes and felling giant ragweed?) After 3 years of ineffective herbicide applications, low yields and falling farm revenue, I had to be honest with myself that my system wasn't working.

So we changed our rotation to favor corn in order to level out the farm revenue we could expect year after year. We have 3 fields in row crops, which had meant if this year 2 of them would be planted to corn and 1 to soybeans, the following year 2 of them would be soybeans and 1 corn. Corn makes more money than soybeans--depending on the year it can be substantially more. So the way it was, we would have a decent farm income one year and a bad one the next. On and on and on.

We switched our rotation so that every year we'd have 2 fields in corn, meaning field #1 in 1st year corn (corn after soybeans), field #2 in 2nd year corn (corn after corn), and field #3 in soybeans (soybeans after corn). Revenue should level out so that we know, more or less, how much money is coming in. Better income control means better planning means more stability. Stability means less stress and less risk of financial ruin. Whew.

The bad news: corn on corn requires more nitrogen. (We used the same amount of anhydrous ammonia as last year, but also put on a pelletized, slow release product that will give the corn an extra boost as it grows.)

The good news: I planted non-GMO corn again, because the herbicides you can use on straight conventional corn are still effective and because we feed corn to our chickens and grain-fed beef. Our beef, egg and chicken customers don't want GMO feed, so no GMO corn.

Soybeans are another story. Our soybean fields have been a horrible mess and our yields have been falling. There are fewer conventional herbicides that can be used on soybeans and our weeds are resistant to them. It has gotten to a point where they control large percentages of the field, crowding out the crops and competing for nutrients.

The bad news: we switched back to GMO soybeans. Round-up Ready, to be exact.

The good news: our weeds will be better controlled, our yields should increase substantially, and we'll make a little more money off of the field. (More money = more money for that hussy O.T.)

On the fertilizing front, we made a definite change for the positive. A company based in Wisconsin, Midwestern Bio-Ag, sells fertilizers, soil amendments and forage seeds and work with both conventional and organic farmers. They promote balanced, mineralized soils for improved crops. Blah blah blah, you can read more about them on their website.

We have purchased our organic fertilizers and soil amendments from them for the past few years and have had wonderful results, but had stuck with the local Coop for the conventional land. This year I decided that I needed to move forward, even as I moved backward; I needed to give our conventional land some TLC. I gave it a good, healthy dose of readily-available calcium (calcium increase a plants ability to absorb nutrients) and high quality fertilizers with micronutrients and will continue to do so until we get the soil balanced.

What I must do:

1) Get the weeds under control.
2) Balance the soil.
3) Force the hussy O.T. to support herself.
4) Give some loving to the conventional land.
5) Transition the land to organic as soon as financially able.
6) Keep the Repo man far, far away from the farm.

What you should do:

1) Support organics.
2) Support farmers in transition to organic.
3) Support medium-sized family farms, conventional or organic. (These are the ones suffering the most, and the truth of the matter is that conventional farms are better for the environment than housing subdivisions.)
4) Stuff the judgment to the very back of your junk drawer.

Change. It can be good or bad. For better or for worse. But it is what's called for in these tough times.

"The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results". -Albert Einstein

Of Life and Death

The last time I wrote about learning opportunities I was scoffing at a silly mistake I made that could have broken a part on our tractor. In all honesty I was making a joke to deflect my embarrassment at being a dope. A dope that forgot to unplug the tractor before she drove it.

What I've come to realize, however, is that being a dope and breaking a tractor part or two is the least of my worries when it comes to the farm. The farm is about more than that. It's about more than a simple tractor part, and it's definitely about more than my silly vanity and pride.

The farm is about life and death. Life and death. It's as simple and basic as that.

The lessons I need to learn and the opportunities that have arisen to provide me with those very lessons have been numerous and varied this spring, as are the emotions that come with the living and dying on this farm. These circumstances have come at a time when I have been feeling impatient with the farm's progress, with the organic conversion, and with the cows who hadn't calved and who also hadn't been very cooperative in my new grazing systems. "I've been at this three years," I kept muttering. "It shouldn't still be this difficult."

Yet three years didn't prepare me for this:

This is our bull and a pregnant cow lying dead in our pasture. They were struck by lightning during a thunderstorm.

Two good cows gone. All of a sudden my grazing difficulties don't seem all that important. Instead, my impatience was transformed into dismay and concern. Our bull was so gentle and easy-going. How could we replace him? And this mother cow was one of our lead cows, not to mention that she was due to calve any day now. Death on the farm. It happens, but who expects to find this scene after a routine thunderstorm?

The cows were extremely distressed, so we moved them to another pasture so we could remove the carcasses. In fact, I think it was stress that put one heifer into labor. Our very first calf of the season was born that night. Ironically, the bull's first offspring was born the day he died:

We named her Storm. And she is a beautiful, spunky little Murray Grey.

Life and death at the hands of a lightning bolt.

The shock wore off after a few days as I busied myself with smaller farmer duties--you know, the ones I like to do because I can manage them. The ones that rookies can't screw up. (And if we do, we can write funny little stories about them.)

But then my favorite heifer was in labor, number 11, and she was in trouble. She had progressed to the point where the calf's hooves were coming out and then stalled. We let her work for 2 hours wondering if we should pull the calf or let her alone. A cow will suspend her labor if stressed, so if you bother her too soon you'll cause problems. And yet if you let her go too long, both she and her calf could die.

As a rookie, I have no experience in making these calls. And the literature says you just have to have a "feel" for it. Great. That's helpful.

Finally we decided to pull it. We corralled her into the chute and called Farmer Scott from down the road. He's a dairy farmer and is absolutely not a rookie. He showed us how to hook the chains around the calf's second foot joint and then how to pull it down and away from her backbone. He and Marcel strained, and I mean strained, for about 10 minutes. They got the calf out and he lived, but barely. And number 11 was OK. Ahhh, life. Sweet, sweet life.

Disaster was averted and a lesson was learned.

Or so I thought. Because today we lost one. A nice large heifer calf died because we didn't pull her soon enough. We acted quicker than last time, but the placental bag hadn't broken. Farmer Scott came to help once more and told us that if the bag isn't broken in time, the mother can't get enough traction to push the calf out and the calf suffocates.

I had seen the intact bag and thought it had meant there was time. Precious time, ticking away for that poor little heifer calf. "It's hard to say," said Farmer Scott. "Sometimes an intact bag means you should leave the mother alone a little longer. You just have to get a feel for it."

There it is again. That "feel" thing. The way I see it, the "feel for it" is a farmer's way of saying you need to be experienced enough to know. And as easy as it may be to learn to drive a tractor or make good hay, this calving thing is throwing me for a loop. A very precarious loop. After two difficult births, it's hard to say if I'm really getting a "feel" for calving or not. The first time we waited longer and had a live calf. The second time we acted and it wasn't soon enough.

I am, however, getting a "feel" for the ups and downs of farming. The joys and sorrows. The celebrations, the frustrations...the life and death of it. I'm just not sure I have enough experience to know how to deal with it.

Thirsty Birdies

I have a part-time job where I work at an environmental center. One of the classes we teach is called Outdoor Living Skills. We use something we call "the Rule of 3's" to teach kids how to prioritize their survival needs in an emergency. Everyone needs food, water, air and shelter in order to survive.

Let's put those in order of importance:

You can survive 3 minutes without air. (Better get out of the water!)

You can survive 3 hours without shelter. (Weather dependent)

You can survive 3 days without water.

You can survive 3 weeks without food.

So assuming your lost and also assuming you're not submerged in water, you'd better start looking for some shelter ASAP. Once you can protect yourself from the elements, then you worry about water.

Should you worry about food? Well, maybe. But most likely you'll be found long before you'd starve to death.

So what does this have to do with farming?

Well, when you're a livestock farmer, you've gotta be prepared. The animals depend on us to provide them with food, water and shelter. I don't know if the Rule of 3's is exactly the same for animals--the time ratios likely change. But it does help me prioritize what needs to be done first.

Shelter in the winter is of utmost importance. Animals have no electric blankets, no heated barns, no tea kettles on the burner. We must provide them with a place to hide from the wind and snow, and a nice straw bed in which they can hunker down and keep warm.

But water is a close second. The animals rely on their metabolism to keep themselves warm. They ramp it up in the cold weather, and it won't "fire up" without lots of fresh water.

So when I walked into the chicken barn the other day, I immediately knew something was wrong.

First off, the chickens ran towards me, not away. Hmmn. The chickens and I have a pretty cool relationship. They don't fear me, yet I'm not their favorite person either. When things are running smoothly, they could take me or leave me.

But not today. Today these birdies were all over me.

In fact, they were fighting over the snow on my boots.

Next I saw this:

That's the heat lamp that keeps their water thawed out in the winter. You see, we have automatic waterers for the chickens. And we worked very hard developing our system. (I use the term we very loosely here.)

We have a heat lamp on the spigot where the pipe comes up from the well. We tied insulation around the pipe to keep it nice and warm. We connected a garden hose to this pipe, around which we have wound electric tape, around which we have added another layer of foam insulation.

(You might do well to substitute he for we in that whole paragraph, if you know what I'm saying.)

The insulated hose runs through a window into the interior of the barn here.....

...and to a water trough equipped with a float:

It works pretty similar to your toilet. When the water levels drop, the float opens a valve to let more water in.

We farmers are an ingenious lot. Cough.

You did notice the cat in the picture, right?

In Irish Grove, we believe in inter-specie-al harmony.

Anyways, someone put a chink in our system by knocking the light bulb out of the lamp. And the float froze to the trough.

Our chickens were so thirsty, that one of them had stuck her head out a little hole in the barn door to eat snow.....and got stuck. I didn't get a picture of her because I was so distressed.

Her head and one wing were outside in the elements, and the rest of her body was inside, smushed under the barn door. Poor birdy. If I hadn't checked on the chickens that morning, she would've died for sure. I gently slid open the barn door, trying not to break her wing, and set her free. She was OK. Whew!

I knew the birds were thirsty because they all ran outside into the snow and started to eat it.


Chickens normally don't like snow.

Then I spent the next 3 hours running back and forth from the house to the barn. I was boiling water on the stove to pour into the water trough. I was trying to melt the ice-jammed float.

Finally the ice melted, the water started flowing, and the birds got a drink of fresh water.


Disaster averted. Barely.

When you're a livestock farmer, you can never relax. If you do, you threaten the very lives of your animals. That's why I developed the Farmer's Rule of 3's:

Check your animals, 3 times a day.

Pink Eye

Around the time we had our chicken harvest, our baby calves came down with Pink Eye. We noticed it first in the second youngest calf...the one that was too lazy to search out his mom, if you so recall.

We check on our cattle every day, often times more than once. But, as you well know, cows run in herds. And when you see the herd mullin' around, nicely chewin' their cud and swattin' at flies with their tails, well.....well, they check out just fine.

Mother cows keepin' up their conditioning? Check.
Grass supply sufficient? Check.
Babes nursing? Check.
Water tank in workin' order? Check.
General all-around happiness? Check.

I guess what I'm saying is that we don't literally look them all in the eye, every day of the week. And especially not in each eye, as was needed in this particular case.

When I checked on little lazy calf, he looked just fine. Perfectly fine. Until he turned his head the other way, which provoked me to loudly exclaim, "WOA....What is THAT?"

*Insert violin soundtrack here*

Oh no! His eye! His poor, poor eye. It was all squinty, and runny, and sportin' a nice crop of flies, those despicable creatures. The worst part was that his eyeball was snow-white. White as could be. The kind of white that you know means one, and only one thing: Blindness.

My heart sunk. My (s)mothering instinct kicked into full gear. And my thoughts started racing: Could he have impaled himself on a piece of wire? Did he get kicked by another? Was there a possible predator attack?

But then I knew. I just knew. I knew the truth when he walked out of the shed for a moment, only to immediately turn around and high-tail it back in.

Oh no.

No.

No, no, no.

Not Pink Eye. Anything but Pink Eye.

But Pink Eye it was. I started looking, really looking this time at each and every calf. In each and every eye. And in all of the calves but one, I saw it. I saw the signs of that blasted disease, and in the blink of an eye (sorry) I knew our lives had become much more complicated.

I called the vet and arranged to pick up an antibiotic spray that would need to be sprayed in the affected eyes, once a day. The exact indications read: 2 squirts directly on the eyeball, every day until the infection clears up.

Did I mention that it could take over a month for the infection to clear up? And that we had to spray the antibiotic directly on the eyeball?!?!? It was going to be one long month. Sigh.

All but one calf had Pink Eye, so we decided to treat them all. The flies were carrying the infection from one calf to another anyway, so it was only a matter of time before the last one would contract it as well.

And hence began the rodeo at Irish Grove. 'Cause for the next week, once a day, we had to corral the little buggers into a corner pen in the bullshed, handling them one by one, until we had sprayed their infected eyes with the antibiotic.

Marcel came to the scene armed with a lasso, I came with the spray. Marcel would gently slip the lasso over the head of one calf, and then quickly pull it tight. At this point the calf would go nuts, bawlin' and kickin' and jumpin' all over the place. Marcel would hold on tight until the calf was close to a corner of the pen, at which point Marcel'd shove his butt into the corner, and I'd shove his head and neck against the wall.

We'd have about 3 seconds before the calf figured out that if he jumped forward, he could get out of this hold. Umm, 3 seconds is not a lot of time. Especially when you've gotta ply open an eyelid and spray 2 squirts of antibiotic onto their bare eyeball. I'm sure you can imagine that the calves just somehow weren't quite goin' for the whole scene.

I'd usually get one squirt in before the kickin' and jumpin' and bawlin' started up again. Oh, and did I mention that we're in a pen with all 8 calves, not just one? Yeah, so while we're trying to wrestle one calf into a corner, we're also tripping over and generally trying to avoid gettin' kicked by the other 7. But it's easier to control an animal when he's with his buddies then when he's alone, so believe it or not, this was the better option.

After a few days of corraling calves, squirting 'em in the eyes, and leaving the barn covered from head to toe in manure, we noticed the calves weren't getting any better. The spray wasn't working.

We didn't want to, but we had to call the vet and have her come out. The vet came the very next day, and we repeated the rodeo scene for the last time. But instead of spraying them in the eyes, she gave them a shot of antibiotics in the neck, and then a shot into the tear duct!

*Cringe. Wince. Shudder.*

The shot into the tear duct bathes the eye with antibiotic every time they blink, as the intra-muscular shot works its way throught the blood stream to the infection. As horrible as it was, I was relieved that it was finally going to help the poor calves.

I have to brag and say that the vet was very impressed with our setup, and especially with how smoothly it went. It's always nice to be complimented, but especially by the veterinarian!

Pink Eye is a horrible disease to suffer through, and a horrible one to treat. But I've gotta be straight with y'all: I enjoyed every last minute of it. Handling those calves was exhilarating!

A little extra swagger in my step? Check.

Learning Opportunities

In Irish Grove we don't make mistakes, we have "learning opportunities".

A learning opportunity is good. Positive. Desirable. A mistake is bad: a reminder that you're a big fat failure, a screw-up, a nobody. Yesterday I was presented with a learning opportunity, and I'm nice enough to share it with you.

Our cows needed hay. The poor pregnant mama's and the young heifers were slowly walking circles around our snow-covered pasture all morning, trying to find a bit of grass to eat. They weren't starving, by any means, since Mom had thrown them a few small squares of good, green hay in the morning. But our cows are a lot like me: they're not happy unless they're chompin' and chewin' and chawin' all day long. (Hey, a girl's gotta eat.)

So late in the afternoon, I finally get around to grabbing the tractor so I could haul a few round bales up to the ladies. When I was finished, I was all like "I'm the real deal, man. I just can't get enough of myself. I'm a rockin' farmer, that's me allright."

I mean, I had dropped off the loader bucket and hooked up the bale-spear, I had plowed a path through our newest 6 inches of snow to the hay bales, I had loaded up the hay and driven it up the road without causing an accident, I had gotten the frozen gate open, and I had lifted those hay bales way up high, up and over the fence and dropped them squarely into the bale cages. It was the work of a professional...beautifully executed, if I do say so myself. And so I slept soundly last night, all warm with my feelings of self-congratulation and adoration.

But winter is bitter cold, and so is the feeling that washed over me when Marcel peeked his head inside before leaving for work this morning to say, "Hey, who drove the tractor yesterday?" (Conversations that begin by asking "who did that?" usually never end well.)

"Umm, I did. Why?"

Now Marcel has been stung by his wife's "how dare you accuse me" wrath before, so he's too wise to just come out and accuse me of something. "No. I mean who took the tractor out (meaning out of the shed)?"

"Yeah, I know. I did."

"But didn't Rob use the tractor to plow yesterday?"

Uh-oh. If he's looking to scapegoat Rob in order to escape my reaction, it must be really bad.

"Yes, he did. But I had already taken it out and gotten it ready for him. Why?"

Note to self: never ask why.

"Umm, well someone forgot to unplug the tractor before they drove it and reeked havoc with just about everything. Are you sure someone didn't drive it before you?" (Boy, this Marcel is good.)

And it is about now that that bitter cold feeling I mentioned earlier started to overtake me. "And by everything, you mean what? What did I do?"

Please note how I immediately took responsibility for my actions.

"Well...insert hesitation here...you drove the tractor with the extension cord still connected between it and the electric box (which, if you don't know, keeps the diesel fuel warm in the winter, since diesel fuel can freeze at cold temperatures, unlike gasoline). The electric box was ripped off the wall, the cord is split and ruined, and you bent the h*ll out of the plug on the tractor."

To which I adeptly responded, "Oops." Then I crossed my fingers, hoped to die, and stuck a needle in my eye (not really) as I quietly asked, "Can it be fixed?"


My husband sighed a heavy sigh--like he needs more to do!--and said, "Well, I'll see what I can do." This, when uttered by my superbly-talented mechanically-gifted husband, usually means yes.

Whew! Thank God it will get fixed. And especially thank God we don't make mistakes in Irish Grove. We just create new learning opportunities. And I'm saying 'we' in a very general sense, if you know what I mean.

So, what did I learn? I learned that when you're gonna drive this:


you first have to disconnect this:


or else you're going to ruin this:


And you don't wanna do that.

Glad I could share this learning opportunity with you, everybody. I'm nice like that, no matter what my husband might fear, err think.


P.S. I'm soo glad Farmer Bill is on vacation.

Conversations I Never Thought I'd Have...Part II

When we decided to take a shot at running the family farm, I didn't know diddly squat. Luckily, Farmer Mark was going to do the planting and harvesting of the grain crops, so the hardest part was taken care of.

But I swear the hay started growing the day after Dad's accident (okay, not really), and with it grew my anxieties about what to do about it. I mean, we didn't even have haying equipment. I had no clue when to cut the hay, how to cut it, or what to do with it after it's cut...let alone who was going to bale it, where we were going to store it, or even who's animals were going to eat it.

Fast forward two months, some hay equipment purchases, a recommendation to sell our hay to Farmer Ben (a local hay broker), and we were ready. I had talked to Farmer Ben on the phone numerous times, apologizing for my many questions and concerns, and he very patiently explained the hay-makin' process in great detail. "You cut the hay after it has budded, but before the flowers open." "You let the hay dry." "You rake the hay when the top has dried and is all crispy." "Make sure you call me before you cut the hay, to make sure we can fit your hay into our schedule." Got it. Got it. Got it.

The cutting went relatively smoothly, even if we did shave it off a little too close to the ground. And there it sat for 2 days, dryin' away just as planned. Towards the end of that second day, I knelt down in the field and felt the top of the windrow (that's a fancy name for a row of cut hay, lying on the ground). Oooh, feels crispy!! It's rakin' time!! By now I was feeling like the newest expert on the block. This hay business is a piece of cake.

After about an hour or two of raking hay, I noticed two pick-up trucks parked alongside each other at the corner, farmer-style. I got a little nervous when I realized it was Farmer Ben (the hay guy) chattin' with Farmer Bill (our #1 support person and #1 critic). What could they be talking about?

Farmer Ben drove onto the field a few minutes later. I got out to talk to him, and noticed he seemed both nervous and perturbed. He wanted to know why I was raking the hay already. Umm, it was crispy on top?? Ben was trying real hard to be nice, and I could tell he was beginning to regret his decision to buy hay from us. He grabbed a tuft of hay here and there, and tried to help me save some face by saying things like "well, it is a bit drier over here" and nice things like that. At about this point I felt that distinctive sinking feeling in my stomach. I had already raked about 1/3 of the field!

Ultimately Ben had to stop being nice and told me to please stop raking the hay and wait a few days longer. Plus, it was supposed to rain the next day, and you never ever, ever rake the hay if it's going to rain. Sorry Ben. So sorry. Really, I'm really so very sorry.

I parked the tractor, and retreated to the comfort of Mom. She made me a glass of lemonade, and told me that I couldn't have known any better, and that I was doing a good job, and that if Ben didn't want the hay anymore, we'd just keep it. I was just beginning to feel a little better about the whole mix up when Farmer Bill walked in and started yelling.

"Jacquelyn!! What in the h*ll are you doing? Who told you to rake the hay?? It not near ready, and it's supposed to rain tomorrow!!"

I immediately tried to defend myself: "Well, it had been windy and sunny for the past two days, and it was crispy on top, and Ben told me to rake the hay when it was crispy on top..." Not only did I feel like an idiot and a failure, I had to fight real hard to keep the tears at bay. (I am a girl, ya know.)

After a few more tongue lashes, I folded. "Okay. Sorry. I didn't know." And with that, Bill huffed off, shakin' his head and mumblin' to himself as only a Flynn can.

Now I admit, I may have been overeager about the hay. But I also didn't like getting yelled at.

That night, with my ego still stingin' from the terrible mistake I had made, I wondered what to do about Bill. I mean, I truly needed his help, his advice, and his expertise and I also really appreciated everything he had done to help us. But it was our farm, and we had to do things our way. Plus, I was bound to screw up many more times before this farm experiment was all said and done. I had to demand respect, whether I deserved it or not.

The very next morning, Bill showed up at my house. As he walked down the sidewalk and towards the back door, I knew I had to set a new tone. I stuck my head out the door and said, "If you're going to yell at me, I'm NOT letting you in."

That took him by surprise. "I didn't yell at you!" "Yes, Bill, you did. And if you're going to yell at me again, I don't want to talk to you."

"I'm not going to yell at you, Jacquelyn. Do you want to learn how to make hay or not?" When I said I did, he told me to jump into his pick-up. He drove us out to the hay field, got out and very nicely showed me how to know when the hay's ready, how it should feel, reminded me that I have to keep the humidity levels in mind, etc. etc. When I told him thank you, I really meant it.

You see, Farmer Bill has one of the biggest hearts around. You just gotta coax it out from under all that crust. And when he yells at me, it's not because he's angry but because he sincerely wants me to succeed.

I owe a lot to Bill, as he has proven to be our biggest help on the farm. But I'm even more indebted to him for helping me find my backbone.

I'd need it when I had to take on the local grain elevator a few short months later. That conversation, however, will have to wait another day.

Bringin' the Cows Home

Irish Grove has a few new additions. Seven adorable Murray Grey calves that are so cute you just want to squeeze 'em. We bought them from a nice man in Platteville, Wisconsin, and had a fun day of loadin' and unloadin'.

Here I am, trying to let one calf at a time out of the trailer. My brave husband is inside(!) the trailer with the calves, piercing their ears. Who'd have thought we were so beauty-conscious on the farm?

The one to set free is the calf that Marcel has just pierced.

So far, so good.

Darlin', you look mah-velous.

A few calves later, I was still doin' okay.

This one pierced her right ear. Umm, wait a second. Does that mean...? No, it couldn't. Could it?

Okay, only two more to go, and one brings her own tag with her. We can let her out, and then quickly tag the last one. Piece of cake for a seasoned cowgirl like myself, right?

Wrong.

Do you see an oh-so-stylish yellow dangly earring on her? Me neither.

Uh oh, Marcel looks a little peeved.

I mean, he's inside the trailer with those unhappy babies, trying his best to pierce their ears without getting kicked, or butted, or smushed against the side of the trailer. All I have to do, for Lord' sake, is slide the gate open and shut!

Might as well just let the last one out, since she brought her own earring with her. She's a trend-setter, that one. Go on and join your siblings, little lady.

And now it looks like we're going to have an impromptu rodeo.

Lucky for me, Marcel loves playin' cowboy. Look how happy he is!

Aww, anything for you, sweetie. Aren't I just the best?

Marcel may be happy, but this little heifer doesn't want any part of it. She prefers the natural look.


Who knew we'd be into forced piercings? (I'd better remember this day when my kids come home with a nose ring and a pierced tongue.)

Ahh, the beauty of new beginnings:




In the meantime, can you tell which one of my kids is the cowpoke in the making?

Armando?


Ana?


or Madelina?

Conversations I Never Thought I'd Have......Part I

One nice summer afternoon, we decided to take an easy stroll through a nearby forest preserve. Besides the pesky flies dive-bombing our heads, hence the head slapping above, it was a fine time. Armando got to ride on his papa's shoulders, the girls got to pick wild berries along the path, Marcel got to take a break from projects and more projects, and I got to enjoy a nice walk in a natural setting, which was a common practice of mine before I went out and multiplied.

Well, the hike didn't last long because someone was thirsty, and another one was tired, and Marcel's shoulders were starting to slump under Armando's weight, so we took the quickest way back, which ended up being along the road. It wasn't long before a neighbor farmer drove up, rolled down the window, and started chatting.

I love this about farmers. Farmers are always leaning out their window, talking to someone, usually smack dab in the middle of the road, without a second thought to any possible danger involved. This time was no exception. We were on 'big hill', the extremely inventive name that locals use to identify a particularly steep and curving hill on our road, and our neighbor had parked on the wrong side of the road to faciliate our little chat. It was very nice of him to accommodate us like that, and I don't understand why we kept getting dirty looks from the others passing by.

Soon enough the conversation turned to our four new Murray Grey's, and how we were going to breed them. Up until now, I had always wondered why some of the local farmers seemed to be uncomfortable dealing with me in my new farmer role. I mean, what's the big deal? Women do all sorts of jobs that used to fall squarely in the "man's work" category. But once the conversation turned to breeding, I saw the issue in a new light.

We need to artificially inseminate our Murray Grey cows, because we don't have enough to justify the cost of a bull. And our neighbor is being extremely generous in offering to take time out of his hectic schedule to help us. So all of a sudden I'm having a full blown conversation with my neighbor, who happens to be male, with whom I went to high school, and with whom I've never spent much time, about semen. Semen!

The conversation quickly deteriorates from how to order the semen, to how to know if the cow is ready. He started to explain that the vulva will be so, and you can palpate her this way, and stick your fingers in here, and deposit the semen in this manner, etc. etc. By the time he started to tell us that the heifers will be especially tight, I could feel a blush slowly creeping up my face. The horror.

So, I will kindly take back my ranting comments about how silly it is for farmers to be uncomfortable dealing with a woman. I get it, I really do.