Dear Road Construction Victims,
Welcome to my road! I hope you enjoy your new route to the outside world and that it be most temporary. I understand that detours have the ability to adversely affect your life in the form of longer commutes, lack of turn lanes, and low shoulders. Please allow me to give you a short orientation to my road, in the hopes of improving your experience.
1. My road is extremely picturesque, please enjoy the view.
2. On the West side, among others, you will see undulating fields, cattle dotting the hillsides, a few mules (look hard!), a barn with the flag painted on the side, and some quaint, broken down, rusty old farm equipment deposited oh-so-lovingly in someone's field.
3. To the East side, among others, you'll see a round barn, some chickens, a shelter-house, a horse farm or two, as well as the requisite undulating fields and cattle dotting the hillsides.
4. If you happen to have car trouble, don't panic. A friendly farmer will be along shortly to help you.
5. Please don't flip that same farmer off as you pass him/her at 80 mph tomorrow morning when you're late for work.
6. You are lucky to be driving through the rolling hill country of Illinois. A few 20 miles south of here, it's flat for as far as the eyes can see.
7. On that note, I'll make the respectful request that you don't pass me on the uphill when I'm on the way to move cows, driving the farm ATV.
8. Yes, it's legal to drive farm-related ATV's on the road.
9. No, it's not fun to off-road it when you're loaded down with fence posts, electric wire, and a 50-lb. bag of salt/mineral blend.
10. This area of the country is called the Heartland, not the Wasteland. The bread basket of the world, not the waste basket of the world. Get my drift?
11. Ahhh, it's harvest time. What a wonderful time of year. You have the unique opportunity to observe, up-close and personal, how our nation's crops are harvested. Take advantage of it!
12. You also have the unique opportunity to be squashed into an accordion by a random bale-mover crossing the road if you decide you can text and drive on our quiet route.
13. WARNING: There are farm implements, attachments, and trailers sticking out, parked along, and blocking the road entirely at any and all random times and locations throughout harvest season.
14. Rural people are friendly. We're also isolated. I know you had a bad day at work, but put it behind you and wave at us, for Pete's sake.
15. Oh, this one is important! Rural people in cars wave by raising their pointer finger off the steering wheel.
16. Yes, we're raising a finger at you.
17. No, not that one.
18. I know you're frustrated that you can't get to work on the main thoroughfare and I'm so sorry for your inconvenience.
19. Our stop signs are not optional.
20. We love to have people stop by and visit our farm animals.
21. Not all farmers feel the same way. Ask first.
22. Which reminds me: the fences are electrified, the horses and goats can bite, yes, that's a bull in the pasture, you might get some chicken and/or cow poop on the bottom of your shoes, and we have rusty nails galore. Keep your wits about you and don't sue me if you or your kids do something foolish.
23. We try our best to keep the chickens out of the road, we really do. They have wings. Enough said.
24. Please don't go bowling for chickens.
25. The speed limit is 55. Not 65, not 75, and certainly not 85. Please SLOW DOWN.
26. If a farmer is pulling a wagon loaded with grain, s/he absolutely can't pull off to the side to let you pass.
27. We also really don't enjoy holding up that long line of cars behind us.
28. Unless you're one of those who flipped us off while passing us at 80 mph. Then we do.
29. Farmers love to flag down other farmers, idle in our pick up trucks in the middle of the road, ideally at a corner or on a blind hill, block traffic, and chat about the corn yields over coffee in styrofoam cups.
30. You should try it sometime.
31. Finally, farmers know that manure stinks.
32. If you don't slow down, a random farmer might just lay a strip of that stinky manure down the center of the road.
Well! I'm so glad I've had this opportunity to show off my Midwestern hospitable nature. Once again, enjoy the drive and rural scenery. Soon enough you'll be back to your regular route and our quaint little farm road will be but a distant memory. Until then, be well and have a wonderful day!
Most sincerely yours,
The Farmer
Showing posts with label Lil' Bit O' Blarney. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lil' Bit O' Blarney. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Monday, September 13, 2010
Product Endorsement
I hate to make sweeping generalizations here, but farmers don't traditionally have a lot of money. We're what you call asset-rich, cash-poor--all of our money is tied up in land, equipment and livestock and pretty much the only way to access that money is to sell the farm. You can get the money but then you're out of a home and job. (Please remind me once again why I signed up for this?) Of course I use the word 'we' here in the most general sense. Marcel and I are even better off: asset-poor, cash-poor. Please dial back your envy.
Anyways, the point of this post is thriftiness. Thrift-i-ness. Farmers have to be thrifty because we don't have alot of cash on hand. I know most of you are used to the common definition of the word thrifty--showing thrift; economical or frugal, but did you know that thrifty also means thriving or prospering?
That makes sense, doesn't it? If you're thrifty you'll become thrifty and probably stay thrifty, unless of course you start being unthrifty.
Wait, what?
In the spirit of thriftiness, I'd like to now endorse a product that has enhanced my life dramatically in the past few months. It is Pampered Chef's Quick-Stir Pitcher.
I purchased this pitcher from my lovely cousin who used to be a Pampered Chef saleswoman. I unwittingly attended someone's Pampered Chef party, enjoyed the company, admired the hostess' ability to unabashedly sell her wares to friends and family, and then promptly gagged on the free veggie pizza slices as I saw how much everything costs. High quality? Check. High class? Check. High falutin' tootin'? Check. Affordable for poor ole little ole thrifty me? Nope.
So I did what I always do at these types of events, I frantically flipped pages and searched through the catalog until I found something that met my criteria: 1) useful, 2) not a million dollars. I found it in the Quick-Stir.
To be honest, the Quick-Stir Pitcher pushed my sensibilities a bit. I mean, how hard is it to stir up a chunk of frozen cran-lemon-raspberry-tea with my trusty wooden spoon? Not very! And yet, the next affordable, halfway useful item was the cheese knife, for which a butter knife had always done the trick. The Quick-Stir won out, if only for the fun name. Quick-Stir, Quick-Stir. I could say that all day.
I used it. I did. It came in handy a few times here and there, even though it wasn't as pretty as my cobalt-blue pitcher I had bought in college. (I have no idea why a college student need a cobalt blue pitcher, but I've been glad many times over for that unthrifty purchase.)
Fast forward approximately 9 years and 3 months, give or take a few years, and the darn Quick-Stir is my best friend. Best friend, I tell ya! Ever since Honeysuckle, our bottle calf, was born we've had to make up first 4, then 6, and now sometimes 7 or 8 bottles of dry milk replacer per day. I'd start out by adding the dry powder to the bottle itself, slopping it on the sides of the bottle and the porch floor, all the while making a sticky, fly-attracting mess. Then I'd add the warm water and shake, shake, shake, shake, shake. Shake until my back hurt, shake until my brain hurt, shake until I could shake no more. The milk would mix, but inevitably there'd be big chucks of powder floating around in it, stopping up the nipples and frustrating the calf.
And then I remembered the Quick-Stir. I got it out, added the milk powder and warm water, and plunged. Plunged, plunged, plunged, plunged plunged. No mess on the bottles, no mess on the floor, and I'm pretty good at plunging now, just in case the toilet ever gets plugged or some sort of nonsense. I plunged that nifty little plunger up and down until the liquid was a perfectly smooth milky mixture. Remove plunger, pour it into the bottles, and Viola! Breakfast is served.
$16.50. That's it. That's the cost of my nifty, thrifty Pampered Chef Quick-Stir Pitcher, the one that makes my porch cleaner, Honeysuckle's milk smoother, and my life easier. I gotta say, the next time you have a bottle calf on your hands, you just gotta get yourself one of these! Maybe I'll pitch (ha ha, sorry) a new name to the company while I'm thinking of it--The Pampered Farmer has a ring to it, don't you think?
Thriftily yours,
Farmer Jackie
Anyways, the point of this post is thriftiness. Thrift-i-ness. Farmers have to be thrifty because we don't have alot of cash on hand. I know most of you are used to the common definition of the word thrifty--showing thrift; economical or frugal, but did you know that thrifty also means thriving or prospering?
That makes sense, doesn't it? If you're thrifty you'll become thrifty and probably stay thrifty, unless of course you start being unthrifty.
Wait, what?
In the spirit of thriftiness, I'd like to now endorse a product that has enhanced my life dramatically in the past few months. It is Pampered Chef's Quick-Stir Pitcher.
So I did what I always do at these types of events, I frantically flipped pages and searched through the catalog until I found something that met my criteria: 1) useful, 2) not a million dollars. I found it in the Quick-Stir.
To be honest, the Quick-Stir Pitcher pushed my sensibilities a bit. I mean, how hard is it to stir up a chunk of frozen cran-lemon-raspberry-tea with my trusty wooden spoon? Not very! And yet, the next affordable, halfway useful item was the cheese knife, for which a butter knife had always done the trick. The Quick-Stir won out, if only for the fun name. Quick-Stir, Quick-Stir. I could say that all day.
I used it. I did. It came in handy a few times here and there, even though it wasn't as pretty as my cobalt-blue pitcher I had bought in college. (I have no idea why a college student need a cobalt blue pitcher, but I've been glad many times over for that unthrifty purchase.)
Fast forward approximately 9 years and 3 months, give or take a few years, and the darn Quick-Stir is my best friend. Best friend, I tell ya! Ever since Honeysuckle, our bottle calf, was born we've had to make up first 4, then 6, and now sometimes 7 or 8 bottles of dry milk replacer per day. I'd start out by adding the dry powder to the bottle itself, slopping it on the sides of the bottle and the porch floor, all the while making a sticky, fly-attracting mess. Then I'd add the warm water and shake, shake, shake, shake, shake. Shake until my back hurt, shake until my brain hurt, shake until I could shake no more. The milk would mix, but inevitably there'd be big chucks of powder floating around in it, stopping up the nipples and frustrating the calf.
And then I remembered the Quick-Stir. I got it out, added the milk powder and warm water, and plunged. Plunged, plunged, plunged, plunged plunged. No mess on the bottles, no mess on the floor, and I'm pretty good at plunging now, just in case the toilet ever gets plugged or some sort of nonsense. I plunged that nifty little plunger up and down until the liquid was a perfectly smooth milky mixture. Remove plunger, pour it into the bottles, and Viola! Breakfast is served.
$16.50. That's it. That's the cost of my nifty, thrifty Pampered Chef Quick-Stir Pitcher, the one that makes my porch cleaner, Honeysuckle's milk smoother, and my life easier. I gotta say, the next time you have a bottle calf on your hands, you just gotta get yourself one of these! Maybe I'll pitch (ha ha, sorry) a new name to the company while I'm thinking of it--The Pampered Farmer has a ring to it, don't you think?
Thriftily yours,
Farmer Jackie
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Blog Catchup #2: Going Retail
Yes, you read that right. Irish Grove has gone retail.
Anyone who knows me personally knows that I don't move too quickly. I decide to do something and then I have to think about it for awhile. Some people may call that procrastination. But for me, it's my own way of time-testing my ideas to make sure my decisions are sound. My nature is to be impulsive and I've found out the hard way that impulsiveness is a terrible trait to have, usually by making a bloody fool of myself.
So, yes, I finally applied for my egg broker's license after deciding to do so about a year and a half ago. Which means this decision must be really sound. And I'm taking about 15 to 20 dozen eggs per week in to Choices Natural Market, where they are being sold next to some "Big Organic" eggs. Time will tell how they fare, but for now it's pretty exciting to see our products in a store.
If you're in Rockford and want to see for yourself, look for our label:
Try a dozen and let me know what you think. I'm pretty sure you won't be disappointed!
Anyone who knows me personally knows that I don't move too quickly. I decide to do something and then I have to think about it for awhile. Some people may call that procrastination. But for me, it's my own way of time-testing my ideas to make sure my decisions are sound. My nature is to be impulsive and I've found out the hard way that impulsiveness is a terrible trait to have, usually by making a bloody fool of myself.
So, yes, I finally applied for my egg broker's license after deciding to do so about a year and a half ago. Which means this decision must be really sound. And I'm taking about 15 to 20 dozen eggs per week in to Choices Natural Market, where they are being sold next to some "Big Organic" eggs. Time will tell how they fare, but for now it's pretty exciting to see our products in a store.
If you're in Rockford and want to see for yourself, look for our label:
Try a dozen and let me know what you think. I'm pretty sure you won't be disappointed!
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Get Comfortable....
because this Christmas letter is long. (Why aren't you surprised at that?)
So go grab yourself a cup of tea, sit back and enjoy...and have a happy New Year!!
As I sit down to write this, there’s a sign for our egg customers on the barn door that reads, “Skunk Attack! Eggs are in the House.”
A week ago, I tried to unhook the snow blade from the back of the tractor but had the support stand in the wrong place. The blade fell forward, got stuck on the tractor hitch and Mark Highland had to rescue me.
A few months ago, our grain-fed steers got loose and wandered over to a farm about a mile away. We’d never met these people before, but proceeded to spend 4 long days there trying to get the cows out of their soybean and corn fields.
Farming is an excellent lesson in humility!
We’ve made progress, that’s for sure, but our successes have occurred only after many spectacular failures, embarrassments or desperate pleas for help. If it weren’t for my inborn Irish stubbornness and my superbly capable husband, I would have thrown in the towel long ago. We have learned a lot in the past few years, though, and we’ve come a long way since that fateful spring when we found ourselves with a farm to run and no idea how to run it.
For instance, we have a solid base of egg customers and a long list of people waiting to buy our grass-fed beef. Selling directly to consumers keeps us from feeling too isolated out here in the sticks, gives us better price control for our products, and can also be pretty hilarious. Recently a woman called to say she was coming for 3 dozen eggs the next day. When I told her I didn’t have any saved and that the hens are only laying a dozen and a half per day, she replied, “Well, I’d like 3 dozen. I’ll be there in the morning.” I wondered if she thought I had a hotline to the barn, “Ladies, ramp it up in there. We’ve got a big order to fill!”
People’s desire to be more closely connected to their food source is real, though. We try to honor that desire by answering questions, welcoming people to the farm, and doing our best to ensure a high quality product. There is no doubt that we’ve benefited immensely from the renewed interest in local foods and we feel very fortunate that these people have decided to support us.
2009 was a good grazing year. The cattle herd was finally big enough to utilize our pasture and moving temporary fences every few days presented a good occasion to walk amongst the cows, check on pasture conditions, and test the strength of the electric charge (ouch!). Calving was challenging, to say the least. Of 17 pregnant cows, we had 10 first-time mothers, 4 of whom ended up needing birthing assistance. Scott Swanson was gracious enough to be “on call” for us, and Laura and Rob even got the opportunity to pull one (with Scott’s help) while we were in Eagle River for our annual Peace Corps reunion. By the 4th calf, though, Marcel and I felt confident enough to try it on our own. We were thrilled when we successfully pulled the calf and he survived.
Like most farms, we had a tough year for crops. High input costs, a cool, wet summer, and a very wet fall made for the perfect storm: lower yields, lower test weights, high moisture counts and a difficult harvest. I think the wet harvest hit the guys the hardest, though--Marcel, Rob and Matt were all disappointed that they didn’t get to load the grain bin this year. The harvest wasn’t the same without the hustle and bustle of moving wagons.
Finally, 2009 brought one more addition to the farm--Mom’s new husband Gordy. We understand why Gordy fell in love with Mom (she is wonderful after all), but we do wonder if he had his head on straight when he agreed to move out to the farm. In the past year he has been roped into more cattle round-ups, fence moves, childcare ventures and boring farm discussions than he probably ever thought possible. And being the Flynn’s that we are, we aren’t prone to pass up the opportunity to put an able-bodied individual to work! So we welcome him to the fold and apologize in advance.
We know there will be more farm adventures in the New Year, surely more mistakes and hopefully more successes as well. We thank you for your love, support, and especially if you’re a local farmer, patience over the past year.
All of us at Irish Grove Farms wish you and yours a very Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!
Jackie & Marcel, Laura & Rob, Matt, Marcia & Gordy,
the kids, dogs, cats, horses, goats, chickens, and cows. (Phew!)
So go grab yourself a cup of tea, sit back and enjoy...and have a happy New Year!!
As I sit down to write this, there’s a sign for our egg customers on the barn door that reads, “Skunk Attack! Eggs are in the House.”
A week ago, I tried to unhook the snow blade from the back of the tractor but had the support stand in the wrong place. The blade fell forward, got stuck on the tractor hitch and Mark Highland had to rescue me.
A few months ago, our grain-fed steers got loose and wandered over to a farm about a mile away. We’d never met these people before, but proceeded to spend 4 long days there trying to get the cows out of their soybean and corn fields.
Farming is an excellent lesson in humility!
We’ve made progress, that’s for sure, but our successes have occurred only after many spectacular failures, embarrassments or desperate pleas for help. If it weren’t for my inborn Irish stubbornness and my superbly capable husband, I would have thrown in the towel long ago. We have learned a lot in the past few years, though, and we’ve come a long way since that fateful spring when we found ourselves with a farm to run and no idea how to run it.
For instance, we have a solid base of egg customers and a long list of people waiting to buy our grass-fed beef. Selling directly to consumers keeps us from feeling too isolated out here in the sticks, gives us better price control for our products, and can also be pretty hilarious. Recently a woman called to say she was coming for 3 dozen eggs the next day. When I told her I didn’t have any saved and that the hens are only laying a dozen and a half per day, she replied, “Well, I’d like 3 dozen. I’ll be there in the morning.” I wondered if she thought I had a hotline to the barn, “Ladies, ramp it up in there. We’ve got a big order to fill!”
People’s desire to be more closely connected to their food source is real, though. We try to honor that desire by answering questions, welcoming people to the farm, and doing our best to ensure a high quality product. There is no doubt that we’ve benefited immensely from the renewed interest in local foods and we feel very fortunate that these people have decided to support us.
2009 was a good grazing year. The cattle herd was finally big enough to utilize our pasture and moving temporary fences every few days presented a good occasion to walk amongst the cows, check on pasture conditions, and test the strength of the electric charge (ouch!). Calving was challenging, to say the least. Of 17 pregnant cows, we had 10 first-time mothers, 4 of whom ended up needing birthing assistance. Scott Swanson was gracious enough to be “on call” for us, and Laura and Rob even got the opportunity to pull one (with Scott’s help) while we were in Eagle River for our annual Peace Corps reunion. By the 4th calf, though, Marcel and I felt confident enough to try it on our own. We were thrilled when we successfully pulled the calf and he survived.
Like most farms, we had a tough year for crops. High input costs, a cool, wet summer, and a very wet fall made for the perfect storm: lower yields, lower test weights, high moisture counts and a difficult harvest. I think the wet harvest hit the guys the hardest, though--Marcel, Rob and Matt were all disappointed that they didn’t get to load the grain bin this year. The harvest wasn’t the same without the hustle and bustle of moving wagons.
Finally, 2009 brought one more addition to the farm--Mom’s new husband Gordy. We understand why Gordy fell in love with Mom (she is wonderful after all), but we do wonder if he had his head on straight when he agreed to move out to the farm. In the past year he has been roped into more cattle round-ups, fence moves, childcare ventures and boring farm discussions than he probably ever thought possible. And being the Flynn’s that we are, we aren’t prone to pass up the opportunity to put an able-bodied individual to work! So we welcome him to the fold and apologize in advance.
We know there will be more farm adventures in the New Year, surely more mistakes and hopefully more successes as well. We thank you for your love, support, and especially if you’re a local farmer, patience over the past year.
All of us at Irish Grove Farms wish you and yours a very Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!
Jackie & Marcel, Laura & Rob, Matt, Marcia & Gordy,
the kids, dogs, cats, horses, goats, chickens, and cows. (Phew!)
Monday, August 3, 2009
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Lining Up to Vote
Well, Election Day has finally arrived! What a relief!!
No more campaigning, no more lies, no more sleeze and smear, no more pandering, and no more 'gotcha' journalism. ('Course, in my opinion, if you get 'got' by the journalists who are clearly playing the game you signed up for, then who's fault is it?)
Election day on the farm is like election day everywhere else. It starts out pretty normal, with a morning stretch, a little breakfast, and a few laps around the barnyard. But then the last minute preparation begins. Time to get in line, go to the polls, and cast our vote.
You may recall that here in Irish Grove we've got some pretty civic-minded animals. They were very active in the primaries. And even though some of their candidates didn't make it through that process, they've pretty much thrown their weight behind one side or the other.
Of course, Lucero was always a McCain supporter. As he makes his way to the polls, let's see what he has to say about this historic election.
"Well, as you know, I'm a (racetrack) veteran, and we veterans stick together. The hard work and sacrifice that comes with defending the (winner's) flag bonds us in ways unimaginable to you petty civilians. Like John McCain and I say, "Farm first." Plus, Obama wants to redistribute our wealth. Ain't no cow gonna eat my hay."
Chip and Oreo, on the other hoof, support Obama. And they are getting ready to vote as we speak. I wonder what their thoughts are this morning.
"Todaaay is a day for the history books, and we are so proud to be among millions of goats voting for O-baaa-ma today. We want to improve the pastures for all faa-arm animals, not just for ourselves. And once in awhile, you know, you just go-otta eat a few bitter burdock leaves or bite into that thorny raspberry cane. It's painful, but necessary. We must keep the graaass healthy for everyone. Short term saa-acrifices for long term gains."
The other animals are getting in line to vote as well. Although your guess is as good as mine as to who they'll support.
The chickens had supported Huckabee, but he went the way of the possum. Flat as a pancake in the middle of the election super-highway. Think they'll support the Republicans anyways?
Of course, the cows wanted Hillary to win. She was going to shatter the glass barnroof that has enslaved the female bovine world and reduced them to little more than calf-makers.
They're obviously still a little peeved that she isn't the Democratic nominee.
But will they switch parties? I mean, could they find something in common with Sarah Palin, who doesn't want their daughters to know the real reason the bull is being so nice to them? Then again, there is that glass barnroof thing. Hmmn.
Unfortunately, Irish Grove isn't immune to the election-stealing tactics so common these days.
I'm ashamed to say it, but I noticed some illegal voter registration a few months ago. The goats were hosting a get-out-the-vote rally, and they added every single farm animal to the registration rolls.
Including the chicks,
and the calves.
Um, I'm sorry, but don't those voters look a little young? Quick, someone call the media!
And then there was the familiar, yet despicable voter intimidation that rears its ugly head every 4 years. Seeing as the farm animals can't read, some of us took to a more time-honored, old-fashioned way:
"You're gonna vote McCain or I'll......"
Shudder. You don't want to know the rest of that sentence. Trust me.
Oh, and I forgot one thing. Don't forget the hispanic vote this year.
That's right. Our own wonderful farmer, Marcel, is off to vote this year for the first time ever!!
Woohoo!!
Yes, good and bad, Irish Grove is like a little cross-section of America. And off we go to the polls. With pride, dignity and hope. To vote in the new leadership of our great country. May God help us all.
No more campaigning, no more lies, no more sleeze and smear, no more pandering, and no more 'gotcha' journalism. ('Course, in my opinion, if you get 'got' by the journalists who are clearly playing the game you signed up for, then who's fault is it?)
Election day on the farm is like election day everywhere else. It starts out pretty normal, with a morning stretch, a little breakfast, and a few laps around the barnyard. But then the last minute preparation begins. Time to get in line, go to the polls, and cast our vote.
You may recall that here in Irish Grove we've got some pretty civic-minded animals. They were very active in the primaries. And even though some of their candidates didn't make it through that process, they've pretty much thrown their weight behind one side or the other.
Of course, Lucero was always a McCain supporter. As he makes his way to the polls, let's see what he has to say about this historic election.
"Well, as you know, I'm a (racetrack) veteran, and we veterans stick together. The hard work and sacrifice that comes with defending the (winner's) flag bonds us in ways unimaginable to you petty civilians. Like John McCain and I say, "Farm first." Plus, Obama wants to redistribute our wealth. Ain't no cow gonna eat my hay."
Chip and Oreo, on the other hoof, support Obama. And they are getting ready to vote as we speak. I wonder what their thoughts are this morning.
"Todaaay is a day for the history books, and we are so proud to be among millions of goats voting for O-baaa-ma today. We want to improve the pastures for all faa-arm animals, not just for ourselves. And once in awhile, you know, you just go-otta eat a few bitter burdock leaves or bite into that thorny raspberry cane. It's painful, but necessary. We must keep the graaass healthy for everyone. Short term saa-acrifices for long term gains."
The other animals are getting in line to vote as well. Although your guess is as good as mine as to who they'll support.
The chickens had supported Huckabee, but he went the way of the possum. Flat as a pancake in the middle of the election super-highway. Think they'll support the Republicans anyways?
Of course, the cows wanted Hillary to win. She was going to shatter the glass barnroof that has enslaved the female bovine world and reduced them to little more than calf-makers.
They're obviously still a little peeved that she isn't the Democratic nominee.
But will they switch parties? I mean, could they find something in common with Sarah Palin, who doesn't want their daughters to know the real reason the bull is being so nice to them? Then again, there is that glass barnroof thing. Hmmn.
Unfortunately, Irish Grove isn't immune to the election-stealing tactics so common these days.
I'm ashamed to say it, but I noticed some illegal voter registration a few months ago. The goats were hosting a get-out-the-vote rally, and they added every single farm animal to the registration rolls.
Including the chicks,
and the calves.
Um, I'm sorry, but don't those voters look a little young? Quick, someone call the media!
And then there was the familiar, yet despicable voter intimidation that rears its ugly head every 4 years. Seeing as the farm animals can't read, some of us took to a more time-honored, old-fashioned way:
"You're gonna vote McCain or I'll......"
Shudder. You don't want to know the rest of that sentence. Trust me.
Oh, and I forgot one thing. Don't forget the hispanic vote this year.
That's right. Our own wonderful farmer, Marcel, is off to vote this year for the first time ever!!
Woohoo!!
Yes, good and bad, Irish Grove is like a little cross-section of America. And off we go to the polls. With pride, dignity and hope. To vote in the new leadership of our great country. May God help us all.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Happy St. Patrick's Day
Ahh, St. Patrick's Day. A day that celebrates fun, laughter, and a playful spirit. A day for blarney, for embellishments, for a few tall tales here and there. The Irish are no strangers to hardship and misery, but they are good at reminding us to lighten up a little and to take life's troubles with a grain of salt, or perhaps more accurately, with a glass of warm beer.
So it is with an Irish spirit that I salute you, with a raised glass I toast you, and with a wink I remind you that if you’re lucky enough to be Irish...You’re lucky enough!
Enjoy a bit o' Irish culture, if you may....
Irish Diplomacy...
is the ability to tell a man to go to hell so that he looks forward to making the trip.
An Irishman's Philosophy...
In life, there are only two things to worry about—Either you are well or you are sick. If you are well, there is nothing to worry about,
But if you are sick, there are only two things to worry about—Either you will get well or you will die. If you get well, there is nothing to worry about,
But if you die, there are only two things to worry about—Either you will go to heaven or hell. If you go to heaven, there is nothing to worry about.
And if you go to hell, you’ll be so busy shaking hands with all your friends you won’t have time to worry!
Irish Bravado...
The Mouse on the Barroom Floor: Some Guinness was spilled on the barroom floorwhen the pub was shut for the night. Out of his hole crept a wee brown mouseand stood in the pale moonlight. He lapped up the frothy brew from the floor,then back on his haunches he sat. And all night long you could hear him roar, 'Bring on the goddam cat!'
Irish Family Values...A family of Irish birth will argue and fight,
but let a shout come from without, and see them all unite.
An Irishman's Character...
An Irishman has an abiding sense of tragedy which sustains him through temporary periods of joy.
Irish Ego....
The Irish, be they kings, or poets, or farmers,
They're a people of great worth,
They keep company with the angels,
And bring a bit of heaven here to earth
An Irish joke...
An Irishman, an Englishman and a beautiful girl are riding together in a train, with the beautiful girl in the middle.
The train goes through a tunnel and it gets completely dark. Suddenly there is a kissing sound and then a slap! The train comes out of the tunnel. The woman and the Irishman are sitting there looking perplexed. The Englishman is bent over holding his face which is red from an apparent slap.
The Englishman is thinking "Damn it, that Mick must have tried to kiss the girl, she thought it was me and slapped me."
The girl is thinking, "That Englishman must have moved to kiss me, and kissed the Irishman instead and got slapped."
The Irishman is thinking, "If this train goes through another tunnel, I could make another kissing sound and slap that Englishman again!!
and an Irish blessing......
May the lilt of Irish laughter
Lighten every load,
May the mist of Irish magic
Shorten every road,
May you taste the sweetest pleasures
That fortune ere bestowed,
And may all your friends remember
All the favors you are owed.
And happy birthday to my lovely and, yes, blarney-filled sister Laura. An Irish toast for you, Laura....
May you have warm words on a cold evening, a full moon on a dark night, and a smooth road all the way to your door.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Irish Grove Politics
I hate campaign season.
I hate that they call it a 'season' when it lasts 2 long, painful years.
I hate how the candidates want us to think they care about us, but really only care about our vote (and campaign contributions).
I hate the non-stop political reports, the requisite scandals, the knit-picking of every syllable spoken by every candidate.
And I especially hate the endorsements made by those who take themselves and their political sway way too seriously.
Does it matter to you that Ted Kennedy loves Obama or that Arnold Schwarzenegger favors McCain? Do you care what Eva Longoria (Clinton) or Chuck Norris (Huckabee) think about our political future?
Well, I certainly don't. But then again I don't speak for all of Irish Grove, do I?
Suddenly I'm curious as to what my Irish Grove cohorts think. Let's go find out.
"Hillary really moooves me. She's proud. Articulate. Ready to face the world. I can relate to that."
"O-baaah-ma, baby. He's multi-colored, err racial, just like us."
"I'm single, progressive, and like to treat all animals in a herd equally. Plus I like to run. Over and over again. Just like Ralph Nader. He'll take my vote this November."
"The candidate that best resembles, err represents me is John McCain. He'll keep the country in line, just like I keep the cows in line."
"I just wish John Edwards was still in it. He made me giggle and feel tingly all over. I never did get a chance to bat my long, luscious eyelashes at him."
"Huckabee. He's as persistent as a rooster in a flock o'hens. Oh, and he eats possum; a nasty habit that is, nonetheless, a relief to chickens everywhere."
"Who me? I'm an independent. Ain't nobody takin' my vote for granted. If they want it, they'll have to work for it."
So, folks, there you have it. Straight out of the horse's mouth...and the cow's mouth, and the....well, you get my drift. And these? Well, these might finally be some endorsements I can take seriously.
I hate that they call it a 'season' when it lasts 2 long, painful years.
I hate how the candidates want us to think they care about us, but really only care about our vote (and campaign contributions).
I hate the non-stop political reports, the requisite scandals, the knit-picking of every syllable spoken by every candidate.
And I especially hate the endorsements made by those who take themselves and their political sway way too seriously.
Does it matter to you that Ted Kennedy loves Obama or that Arnold Schwarzenegger favors McCain? Do you care what Eva Longoria (Clinton) or Chuck Norris (Huckabee) think about our political future?
Well, I certainly don't. But then again I don't speak for all of Irish Grove, do I?
Suddenly I'm curious as to what my Irish Grove cohorts think. Let's go find out.
"Hillary really moooves me. She's proud. Articulate. Ready to face the world. I can relate to that."
"O-baaah-ma, baby. He's multi-colored, err racial, just like us."
"I'm single, progressive, and like to treat all animals in a herd equally. Plus I like to run. Over and over again. Just like Ralph Nader. He'll take my vote this November."
"The candidate that best resembles, err represents me is John McCain. He'll keep the country in line, just like I keep the cows in line."
"I just wish John Edwards was still in it. He made me giggle and feel tingly all over. I never did get a chance to bat my long, luscious eyelashes at him."
"Huckabee. He's as persistent as a rooster in a flock o'hens. Oh, and he eats possum; a nasty habit that is, nonetheless, a relief to chickens everywhere."
"Who me? I'm an independent. Ain't nobody takin' my vote for granted. If they want it, they'll have to work for it."
So, folks, there you have it. Straight out of the horse's mouth...and the cow's mouth, and the....well, you get my drift. And these? Well, these might finally be some endorsements I can take seriously.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Burgeoning Locavores
Did you know that the Oxford Word of the Year for 2007 was "locavore"? Here is an excerpt from their website:
"Locavore” was coined two years ago by a group of four women in San Francisco who proposed that local residents should try to eat only food grown or produced within a 100-mile radius. Other regional movements have emerged since then, though some groups refer to themselves as “localvores” rather than “locavores.” However it’s spelled, it’s a word to watch.
So, anyways, I've been struck at how when you live and work on a farm, it's pretty easy to be a locavore. Okay, maybe not easy, but definitely easier.
Here's Armando exhibiting our crop of free-range eggs, collected this morning:
I love the way the white and brown eggs mix and match in their cardboard homes.
But what about supper? (And no, it's not dinner, darn it. Dinner happens at 1:00 p.m., when the long morning's work is done.)
We ain't San Francisco, but we got a little somethin' somethin' going on in that department, too. Here's what I'm cooking tonight:
Yum, yum. You can always butter me up with some butternut squash. Just in case you wondered.
And some good old fashioned, home-grown and corn-fattened beef (non-GMO, at least).
In a year or so, we'll have some even better beef to eat (and, yes, sell!). Our very own (non-certified organic) 100% grassfed beef!! Yoohoo!! I highly recommend you check out Jo Robinson's website Eat Wild for some really great information about the health and environmental benefits of grassfed beef. And then I highly recommend you mark your 2009 calendars with capital letters: BUY BEEF FROM JACKIE IN IRISH GROVE.
Okay, I admit. To make the near-authentic Panamanian meal carne asada, which, by the way, is what I'm cooking, I couldn't pull off the whole meal without a few un-local, fossil-fuel-siphoning, carbon foot-printing, world-warming ingredients to round it all off. Especially since it's January, and much of my garden-preserved goodies have long since been eaten.
Here are a few of the guilty parties:
I say if you strive for perfection, you'll only end up a downtrodden, bitter, wrinkly worry-wart. That's what I say, alright. (Why I say that is unbeknownst to us all.)
The moral to the story? When the urge to join the locavore movement becomes too great to resist, give your local farmer/gardener a call. Preferably one that lives in Irish Grove. We'd be more than happy to help you attain your new hipster status.
The “locavore” movement encourages consumers to buy from farmers’ markets or even to grow or pick their own food, arguing that fresh, local products are more nutritious and taste better. Locavores also shun supermarket offerings as an environmentally friendly measure, since shipping food over long distances often requires more fuel for transportation.
"Locavore” was coined two years ago by a group of four women in San Francisco who proposed that local residents should try to eat only food grown or produced within a 100-mile radius. Other regional movements have emerged since then, though some groups refer to themselves as “localvores” rather than “locavores.” However it’s spelled, it’s a word to watch.
By now, you all should know that I am one fashionable, trendy lady, and so if locavore is the new word, then you shall find it here ad naseum. Plus, as my friend Margie put it, this is Madison South, baby. Just as "locavore" is the word to watch, Irish Grover's are the people to watch. Period.
So, anyways, I've been struck at how when you live and work on a farm, it's pretty easy to be a locavore. Okay, maybe not easy, but definitely easier.
Here's Armando exhibiting our crop of free-range eggs, collected this morning:
I love the way the white and brown eggs mix and match in their cardboard homes.
Locavore breakfast? No problemo.
But what about supper? (And no, it's not dinner, darn it. Dinner happens at 1:00 p.m., when the long morning's work is done.)
We ain't San Francisco, but we got a little somethin' somethin' going on in that department, too. Here's what I'm cooking tonight:
Homegrown butternut squash.
Yum, yum. You can always butter me up with some butternut squash. Just in case you wondered.
And some good old fashioned, home-grown and corn-fattened beef (non-GMO, at least).
In a year or so, we'll have some even better beef to eat (and, yes, sell!). Our very own (non-certified organic) 100% grassfed beef!! Yoohoo!! I highly recommend you check out Jo Robinson's website Eat Wild for some really great information about the health and environmental benefits of grassfed beef. And then I highly recommend you mark your 2009 calendars with capital letters: BUY BEEF FROM JACKIE IN IRISH GROVE.
Okay, I admit. To make the near-authentic Panamanian meal carne asada, which, by the way, is what I'm cooking, I couldn't pull off the whole meal without a few un-local, fossil-fuel-siphoning, carbon foot-printing, world-warming ingredients to round it all off. Especially since it's January, and much of my garden-preserved goodies have long since been eaten.
Here are a few of the guilty parties:
I say if you strive for perfection, you'll only end up a downtrodden, bitter, wrinkly worry-wart. That's what I say, alright. (Why I say that is unbeknownst to us all.)
The moral to the story? When the urge to join the locavore movement becomes too great to resist, give your local farmer/gardener a call. Preferably one that lives in Irish Grove. We'd be more than happy to help you attain your new hipster status.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
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?
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?
Thursday, August 23, 2007
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.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
What Type of Vines Grow Beef?
Being the country bumpkin that I am, one of my favorite riddles is: What type of vines grow beef? It's a riddle that's as old as the hills, I know, but I still love it. It's a "groaner", the highest type of humor in the Purnell family.
Who are the Purnell's, you may ask? Well, they're the wonderful German-English family that produced my wonderful mom, Marcia! And they're also the ones that add a definite touch of class and culture to my immediate family. I don't mean to diss the Flynn's, of course, but the difference in the two families is quite striking:
A Flynn get-together is a rowdy, loud, winner-takes-all affair, while an event at the Purnell's is a soft-spoken, well-mannered affair. You can relax with the Purnell's, which might very well be dangerous with the Flynn's. The Purnell's will nuture you, they'll give you a sweet hug and kiss, and they'll even tell you "there, there" when you're feeling low. The Flynn's will hug you too, but they'll also squeeze and shake you, slap you on the back, and give you a kick in the ass if they feel it's warranted. The Purnell's are the yin to the Flynn's yang.
But I'm trying to talk about cows, not families, and I'm way off track.
Over the years, we've raised lots of cattle in Irish Grove. The farm originated with milking cows when Great-Grandpa Edward first bought the land. Grandpa Lowell continued milking until his untimely death, and then the tenant farmers, the Brown's, milked until the mid-1990's. (The Brown's deserve their own post.....check back!)
When my mom and dad decided to build a house by the round barn, my dad lost little time in acquiring a small herd of cattle. But this time they were beef cows. Dad loved playing farmer with those cows, and he dove into the work that animals bring with gusto. He mostly raised steers, or feeder cattle as they are called. But with those cows, he proved to everyone, and most importantly to himself, that he was a Hard Worker. And there was no higher standing in John Flynn's world than that of a Hard Worker.Looking back, I can see that the beef cattle were also, arguably, my dad's most effective parenting tool, and he used them extensively while raising my siblings and me. The cows were used to teach us responsibility, because they needed daily care in the form of morning and evening chores, and they also taught us the perils of procrastination. I can remember numerous occasions when I ran as fast as I could, completely terrified, through the shadowy area between the barn and house--all because I had put off my afternoon chores until late evening in the hopes that someone else would ultimately do them for me. No such luck.
The cows were often used for discipline. Many a long day was spent pitching manure as punishment, usually because my sister Laura was lousy at misbehaving without getting caught. And every time she would get in trouble, my dad would look at me and grumble, "get out there and help your sister", which seemed especially unfair. He would later laugh and say it was prevention.
Last but not least, the cows were effective at teaching us humility. You can only imagine how humiliating it was when we'd hear our school friends, or especially that boy we had a crush on exclaim, "Ewwww! I can't believe you're scrubbing a cow's butt," as we washed our steers before our 4-H competitions at the Winnebago County Fair.
Parenting tactics aside, I can now see that my dad mostly loved his beef cows because they allowed him to feel connected to his past, and because they kept him humbly rooted in the farm. They offered him a peek into the life of his father, Lowell, who died when he was only eleven. They allowed him to measure his success in life by a standard that his father would recognize: Hard Work.
When dad died last year, we sold his herd of cattle. It sounds sudden, I know, but it was actually following his plan for the year. We had planned to switch breeds that year, and embark on our new farm project: raising grass-fed beef. It was, at the time, a relief to have the cattle gone. We were tending to our broken hearts, and to our suddenly difficult task of simply living.
But when we bought 10 steers from Farmer Bill this spring, it felt like we were coming home from a long journey. The cows were back. The barns were occupied. The pastures were happy. And we could breath a little bit easier.
The cows have returned to Irish Grove, and have allowed me to keep alive my connection with dad. And not only him. The daily routines and occasional problems that the cattle bring us tap into a rythym deep within that connects me to my past, my Irish ancestors, my origin.And I must admit that I have already sent Ana and Madelina, ages 8 and 5, out to the barn, pitchforks in hand, after a particularly tiring day of bickering. Armando, age 2, is safe. For now.
What type of vines grow beef? Bovines, of course.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Sundays in Irish Grove
Back in the mid 1880's, a bunch of Irish immigrants descended upon this innocent corner of the world and altered it forever. It's hard to imagine what the area was like before they arrived, but they settled in and established a small historical community that is now lovingly referred to as Irish Grove. My ancestors, the Flynn's, were a part of that group. Now the Flynn's have a fairly decent reputation in the immediate vicinity, mostly known as a fun-loving, hard working and hospitable crowd. And while that is by most accounts pretty accurate, we certainly have our faults, not the least of which are our loud, booming (deafening, really) voices, our competitiveness, and our over-sized egos.
Irish Grove can't be found on a map, even though many people call it home. But the community is literally split between two or three local towns, which at second thought seemed strange. So the other day I googled Irish Grove, and found that it is located in Rock Run Township. Aha, Rock Run Township. Wait a second....Rock Run Township? Like my little guy Armando likes to say when he receives an unacceptable answer to a question, "Huh?"
Anyway, unlike Rock Run, Irish Grove does exist, and the proof lies in the puddin', or in this case in the heart of the countryside: St. Patrick's Irish Grove Catholic Church.
I was raised in this church, and, like most diligent Catholic children, hated getting up for Mass on Sunday mornings. My parents would let us sleep just late enough to 1) fool us into thinking we weren’t going that day, and 2) ensure that there was insufficient time to primp and curl and properly prepare for the eye candy, oops, I mean soul food at church. Sorry, Lord.
But attending Mass at Irish Grove had its benefits, too, one of which is mentioned above. The second was the coffee and donuts served in the basement after church. And the third was running around the cemetery after Mass, climbing onto and jumping from one headstone to another, as my parents would laugh and commune with the other parishioners, many of whom are extended family.
Because we Flynn’s like to talk a lot, we were undoubtedly always the last people to leave for home. When the last stragglers finally said their good-byes, and conversation was no longer an option, my dad would walk around the cemetery with us and point out tombstones where an ancestor, “good old so-and-so”, lies. And he would tell us what he remembered about him or her, and how we were related to them. He’d say, “He’s your Grandpa’s first cousin, on his mother’s side,” in a slow, cadenced way that made me think he was practicing for his own benefit, lest he forget his family history (the mother of all sins).
I’m still a member of Irish Grove Catholic Church, and I’m also still pretty lazy about Sunday Mass. But when I do go, I make sure my kids get an opportunity to jump on those headstones as I chat with the parishioners making their way to their cars. I then attempt to relay those familiar old family connections to them (lest I commit that unspeakable atrocity against my kin) and usually fail to remember most of the details. All the while, my husband Marcel is patiently waiting for me to finally stop talking. And with his natural-born Panamanian sense of propriety, he is properly horrified at how wrong it is to let our kids jump and stomp on someone’s final resting place. I give him my best harrumph, and tell him that not only is it right, it’s tradition, for goodness sakes. And I’d just bet those hard-working, fun-loving old Irish men and women lying beneath that sacred ground are all the happier for it.
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