Bittersweet

I added an old Irish proverb to my heading: He who has water and peat on his own farm has the world his own way.

This proverb speaks a rural language that is endangered in today's urban society. It embodies the deep connection between farmer and farm, and illustrates the pride and sense of hope that comes with owning your own piece of rural land.

Today, our connection to Irish Grove deepens, as my mom, my siblings and I become full owners of this beautiful family land. We are realizing a dream that has been passed down to us through numerous generations of strong, rural Irish men and women, not the least of whom was my father.

Dad lived most of his life on this land, and had a deep and loving relationship with it. His desire to possess this farm for himself was not born out of greed or dominance or potential profit. He wanted to play a part in his family's history as Irish landholders, and to lovingly nuture this farm for future generations. And he wanted this farm so he could ensure that our family had a place to call our own, a place to keep us grounded and united, a place that would instill a humble respect for the land, for hard work, and for our heritage.

Dad wanted to be the connection between the past and the future. He was, and continues to be.

Dad died two years ago today. At first glance it seems ironic that we would close on the farm on the anniversary of his death. At second glance it feels, quite simply, bittersweet.

A Gaelic Blessing, for you, Dad.

May the roads rise to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face;
The rain fall soft upon your fields

And, until we meet again,

May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

We love you, and are so thankful.

Frozen

We residents of Irish Grove have been suffering a long week of frigid, sub-zero temperatures.

It's cold. D*mn cold. And that's coming from a person who likes winter. But when you wake up in the morning and it's negative 18 degrees out there, and the wind chill is negative 25-30 degrees....well, my friends, that's just too cold for most anyone.

And the poor, poor animals. I have no idea how it can be that they don't suffer from frostbite. They have to suffer through the cold, the wind, a rock-hard barnyard to stumble through on their way to a half-frozen watertank...day after day after painfully cold day.

But then again, their food does come with a nice coat of white frosting!

Oops. I can plainly see that you two don't find my jokes funny. At all. Especially when I get to go inside and savor a nice bowl of warm oatmeal for breakfast. Fine, I'll knock it off.

So like I was saying, we're freezing here in Irish Grove. And way back in the fall, when the weather was pleasant, and January was a long way off, I sold some soybeans for a January delivery. It was a brilliant idea at the time...there was no chance that the roads would be posted, the truckers would be readily available, and we'd get a nice infusion of cash for the new year.

4 months later, and that decision isn't looking quite so brilliant. Especially since our bean bin is extra retarded (err, maybe I should say developmentally disabled?) and you have to shovel out the last 500 bushels or so. Oh, and also because it is bloody cold out there!!

So last night, in the bitter cold, while the rest of the world was snuggled in tight, with their fleece blankets and cups of tea and favorite television programs flickering on the screen, my Panamanian husband Marcel, with his thin, tropical blood, was outside, freezin' his little hiney off for 4 straight hours, filling up a semi-trailer with the last of our soybeans. And do you think that my wonderful, mango-eatin', coconut-slicin', salsa-dancin', latino lover-boy ever complained?...even once?

Do ya? Do ya?

No!! Not once!! The man's an enigma, people! I mean, I can NOT figure him out! Let's do a quick comparison:


Here's Marcel slicin' a coconut open, on his farm in Panama.



Here's Marcel eatin' snow, on our farm in Irish Grove.

Now do you see what I mean?

Once again, my husband's won my admiration. Marcel, my dear, you truly are a good sport.

Olivia

I believe it's about time that I introduce y'all to Olivia, our trusty farm dog.

She's a border collie, a dog that is celebrated for it's intelligence, it's strong herding instinct, and for being a great family dog. Olivia is all of that and more.

Yes, border collies are normally black and white. But Olivia is a beautiful chocolate brown color that contrasts dramatically with her white markings. Her coloring is an expression of the recessive color gene that must be carried by both parents in order to show up in their offspring. Genetics 101 in the flesh.

We think Olivia is definitely the best dog in Irish Grove and possibly in the whole Midwest. First off, she was the most adorable puppy ever.

This picture speaks for itself. I mean, can you get much cuter or fluffier than that?

She's got beauty all right, but does she have brawn? Or, in border collie terms, does she have a strong herding instinct?

"Alright ladies, let's see whacha got."

You'd better believe she does. She's a herder, through and through.

Olivia is in hog-heaven when we're working the cows. (Please don't ask me what hog-heaven means.) She lives for this very thing.

"Okay, mom. Just give me the sign. Come on...I'm in position. Where do ya want 'em?"

Yeah, Olivia will bring the cows in if we ask her to, but the most important thing to her is that they all stay together in a nice, tight unit. And she perks right up if she sees someone or something out of place.

"Is that a cow breaking away from the group? I don't remember giving anyone permission to walk away on their own here."

Recently, the cows got out of the pasture by pushing through an old gate in the fence. I was all alone. Trying to round up a bunch of cows with their minds set on adventure in a new field is easier said than done, and darn near impossible without a posse of farmhands to help. I manned the gate and sent Olivia out to fetch the cows. We got the cows back in the pasture in under 5 minutes. That never happens. Take my word for it.

Unfortunately, some situations require that we banish Olivia from the cowyard...situations where we don't want the cows all stirred up. But it is the mother of all insults to make her sit out on the action, like we did on the day we beautified the cows.

"This is so unfair. And after all I've done for them. It's a betrayal of my loyalty, really."


"I almost can't even look. Almost."

Sorry, Olivia.

Of course, she herds other things besides the cows....things like the kids, the other dogs in the extended family, and yes, the tractor. She accompanies the tractor out, and likes to think she brings it back in, too.

"Whew. Why don't my humans just leave the tractor in place already!"

But Olivia's most important trait is her wonderful temperment. She is simply a great dog. A love sponge, as I call her, since she will beg and whimper and cry until you can't help but give her a good belly-scratchin'.

Olivia's top-notch in Irish Grove. A real peach. Our number one canine.

Our first and most important addition to the farm.

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.

The End of an Era

Grandma Ruth passed way on December 11th, 2007, at the ripe old age of 95. And with her comes the end of an era for the Flynn family.

I realize that you readers must be thinking by now, "Good God. How many more posts about death can we take?" Well, I can assure you two things. First, I am wondering the same thing. And second, I promise to keep this one light.

In fact, it is pretty hard to be all glum and gloomy while reflecting on my Grandma's impact on our lives and Irish Grove.

Born Ruth Doty, she came from a relatively prominent family in Pecatonica, and was the youngest of 6 children. We didn't hear tons of stories about her life as a child, but she did talk about riding to school in a horse-drawn carriage, and about the different chores they had to do during the Great Depression.

When Grandma married Grandpa Lowell, she became part of Irish Grove history. But she didn't see the value in looking back much, and would only reluctantly throw us a few nuggets about life on the farm. Things like how the Spelman's would come over to play cards, and the kids would run wild, blissfully unattended. Or how she hated it when the kids rough-housed. She'd tell me about her large garden South of the house that she loved to dig around in, and would suggest I move my garden there immediately. "It has the best soil of the farm." She was right, by the way, and that was precisely the reason my Dad didn't let me put my garden there. And she'd talk about her flock of laying hens and how she sold the eggs, just like we do.

On second thought, she did enjoy telling us how tight Grandpa was with his money...so tight, in fact, that Grandma would hide her egg money from him and use it to secretly buy things she needed or wanted. She also enjoyed rolling her eyes at Grandpa's "hair-brained ideas" that were going to make he and his brother Donald "a million bucks". Ideas like planting a Christmas tree farm across the road from the house, or building the machine shed that was going to be used to store grain for the government.

When I asked her if they'd made any money, she'd quickly say "Lord no!!" in her gravely voice, and she'd raised her eyebrows and wave her hand at you. She had a certain "stick-it-to-ya" attitude that I always admired, one that has successfully been passed down the generational line. In fact, Grandma's crusty attitude might be her most enduring legacy. (Remember what I said about crusty farmers and getting a kick in the pants?) A Flynn family get together can often turn into a competition to see who's best at flinging barbs, and the fastest to duck-and-run.

But her sense of humour and crusty attitude were her most colorful characteristics, and ones that served her well throughout her life. You see, Grandpa Lowell decided to check out early, dying from a heart attack at 48 no less, and he left Grandma with 3 kids and a farm to manage. No small feat for anyone, much less for the Doty child who was "spoiled and used to getting her own way", according to her older sister Dorothy (who died three short weeks after Grandma Ruth, at the even riper old age of 103!!).

Grandma persevered, and wisely turned the farm over to the Brown family until Farmer Don retired in the 1990's. She also put her mark on Pecatonica with her many moves and home rehab jobs, earned the respect of the community, gambled in one-cent increments during her weekly penny-poker reunion with friends, and became the center-piece to en ever-growing family of 3 children, 10 grandchildren, 24 great-grandchildren and counting. All of us Flynn's, all of us benefiting from Grandma's strength and love and stick-it-to-ya attitude, all descendants of Irish Grove....Lord help us all.

We will greatly miss her. Grandma, there is no way you could ever be replaced. Now go shake 'em up in heaven. I'm sure there's any number of high-falutin' souls that could use a good kick in the pants.

In memory of Dad

A beautiful memorial to my dad was erected today. Right in my front yard, no less.





It has brought with it a mixed bag of emotions. Pride. Sorrow. Wonder. Loss. Gratitude.





I think it's a lovely addition to the farm.





And a lovely reminder of the people, the sacrifices and the hard work that has gone into this farm. We are forever grateful. And we will never forget.


Thanks, Aunt Nancy and Uncle Jim. Your memorial is a fitting tribute not only to Dad, but to our whole family.

The Method behind the Madness

I realize that I've pointed out my farming inadequacies more than once or twice in this blog, and that my constant self-humbling could become more than a little tiring. But I do often wonder to myself: 1) who the heck do I think I am, trying to run the farm? and 2) why haven't I screwed things up yet?

Well, it turns out that I have a little secret. A well kept secret. A secret that I'm about to let you all in on.

Shhhhhhh.......listen closely. There is a method behind the madness. And that method is Marcel. That's right, my incredible husband, Marcel.

For those of you who don't know Marcel, he is the only Panamanian living in Irish Grove. Still not ringin' a bell? Well, he has an awesome smile, a laugh that sounds just like Eddie Murphy, the patience of a saint (he's got to put up with me, the poor, poor man), a generous spirit, an uncanny ability to eat huge amounts of food and still stay incredibly thin, and the tenacity to put up with me (did I already say that?).

But more importantly (at least for Irish Grove's sake), he is a master mechanic with a God-given ability to repair even the most mind-numbing of mechanical, electrical, and logistical problems. A common complaint I hear from homeowners is that when you finally repair the roof, for example, the gutters fall off. "There is always something" is the collective sigh ringing out across the country. Well, when you run a farm, multiply that frustration by a thousand.....

.....the auger's broken and we can't get the corn out, the water tank has frozen over and the cattle are thirsty, the blades need sharpening, the tractor won't start, the sliding barn door fell off the track, the raccoons are eating the chickens (again), the electric fence isn't working, the wheel fell off the grain wagon, the lights on the cattle trailer won't work, etc. etc. etc., ad naseum. Marcel is the answer to all this and more.

That is not to shun his inventive nature, of course, because Marcel spends a large quantity of his time at home in the garage, inventing something that will save us time or labor. In fact, I often tease him that he is the hardest working lazy man I've ever met. And while he has jerry-rigged many, many a system that has made our lives around the farm much, much easier, he has also come up with a few ideas that have had me laughing and shaking my head for days.

Like the sweep auger he invented so I wouldn't have to shovel the last 500 bushels or so of soybeans out of the bean bin. It was a great idea, and very sweet considering that he wanted to save me a long day of dusty, dirty, sweaty labor. But when you have an open(!) corkscrew blade whirling around at 50 mph, and the dang thing weighs close to 100 pounds, and I'm supposed to lift it and throw it onto the pile of beans without throwing my back out or getting my hand caught in the auger.......well, let's just say I tried for over an hour to get it to work, mumbled a few choice words that day (in true John Flynn style), and shoveled the beans out anyways.

But that pales in comparison to his now infamous invention: the Chicken Condom. Yes, you read that right, I said chicken condom. As gross as it was, Marcel was being his kind, generous self and was really just trying to accommodate some of our egg customers, who were a little wigged out by the dot they sometimes found in their eggs. You know, that little brown dot that means the egg was fertilized? Well, Marcel set out one day to solve this little problem by inventing a condom for the roosters. He took the tube out of an old bicycle tire, and fashioned it so that there were two looped ends--one to hook around each wing--that then met at the bottom in a sort of 'V' shape that got hooked under the tail feathers. And this is the important part: here is where a flap hung down to supposedly impede the rooster from penetrating the hens.

I soo wish I had taken a picture of it. Perhaps then we could have had it patented. And revolutionized the chicken world forever. Needless to say, I found the condom in our backyard a few weeks later, discarded hastily by that promiscuous, dirty, and very naughty rooster with absolutely no respect for the fact that we have young children that play in that very area. The very thought!!

And so, while I poke fun at my husband for his twisted, I mean, less productive ideas, he is the reason we are up and running in Irish Grove. Marcel is the method behind my madness, the how and the why of it, the safety rope that we depend on, and as the kids say, the one who can do anything.

And that's no blarney.

Lucero

Meet Lucero, our trusty farm horse. He's a Standardbred--a huge and powerful animal that's as tame as a puppy dog. He also happens to have a pretty intimidating presence about him. Just ask our cows.

Lucero is his Panamanian name. (Hey, we do more than one culture around here.) His real name is Battleborn, or so it was before we acquired him. But we renamed him our 'bright star', which is what lucero means in Spanish.

Lucero is a horse with a past. And that's no small feat for a horse that's only 6 years old. Before he came to Irish Grove he lived in the Chicago suburbs, was owned by my cousin Jeff, and was a race horse...a trotter. Trotters and pacers pull these small carts with small men in them around a not so small racetrack, and try to outrun and out-manuever the others. They are harness racers. And the only thing that differentiates a trotter from a pacer is their gait. When a trotter runs, he simultaneously moves two legs which are diagonal from each other, i.e., his right front leg with his left back leg. Pacers move the two legs on the same side of their body at the same time, with both left legs stretching out first, then both right legs.

Lucero's life as a trotter was short-lived, however, because he was knock-kneed. He was fast enough, but as he got going, his knees would knock together and make him stumble. I know how it is. I was a knock-kneed young kid, too. Thankfully we've both outgrown our affliction. But Lucero earned an early retirement, and cousin Jeff generously gave him to us.

Farm life is a little boring for Mr. Big-City Race Horse, though, and Lucero likes to shake things up once in awhile. So when he gets the chance for a little excitement, he's not gonna let it pass him by.

There go the cows, into their fresh paddock for the week.

Ahh, what a peaceful farm scene.

Uh, oh.....

No, Lucero! Don't do it!

It's not too late! You can still turn back!

Hey...are you sure you weren't a rodeo horse in your early days?

Darned horse. Oh, and if the photos are a little blurry, it's because he was moving so darned fast. Knock-kneed? I don't think so.

Tribute to the Flynn Bros.

Lowell and Donald Flynn

Edward and Anna (Spelman) Flynn bought this beautiful Irish Grove land in 1910. The original farmland they purchased encompased not only the 210 acres at our homestead, but also the land directly across the road, which is similar in size. Edward began his adulthood as a teacher, and earned $18 a month. Once married, however, he and Anna bought our farm on Best Road, built the house that I now live in, and raised 5 children: Donald, Lowell, Margaret, Mildred and Rita.

Great-Grandpa Ed died at a young age, which is unfortunately common for the men in my lineage. When he died, his sons Donald and Lowell took over the farm, cared for their mother, and put their sisters through school. Times might have been different back then, but I find that remarkable.

Our whole extended family owes a great thanks to these two, for stepping up when the times were tough, for caring for the family homestead, and for providing us with a moral compass and strong family foundation. We are lucky to have had them.

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.