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.

We're Pregnant!!

No, not Marcel and I....the cows!


8 proud and pregnant mama's. Woohoo!!

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.

Winter Wonderland

As I write, six to eight inches of snow are falling upon Irish Grove.

Our farm has converted itself into a winter wonderland. A fact which did not go unnoticed by Marcel.....

or the kids......

or even Olivia, for that matter.

When it's this beautiful, there's no way you can resist the urge to go out and play.

Here's Marcel pulling a child-laden sled with the PUG. (Pleae don't ask me what PUG stands for.)

We went down to the pond to see if it was frozen enough for some ice skating. On the way there, the PUG got stuck.

Push, kids, push!!

Umm, Armando....?? Just 'cause you're three doesn't mean you can slough off. Gees, what kind of farm kid are you, anyways?

Maybe we should try the other way.

Or maybe we should just walk the rest of the way.

See that open water? Guess ice skatin' is gonna have to wait. Bummer.

Instead, we can just admire the beauty of the creek.

Gosh, that's pretty.

Here's another view:

Winter in Irish Grove is a sight to behold.

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 Story of Stuff

I don't normally plug other websites here, but as a farmer and environmentalist, and with it being the consumer, I mean Christmas season and all, I couldn't let this one pass by.

With the New Year right around the corner, I opine that it would serve us all well to slow down and perhaps decide our yearly resolutions should be about something a little grander than, say, making it to the gym each week or not drinking soda pop. Not that those aren't good ideas.

I propose we stop and really think about how our own personal actions affect our loved ones, our community, our environment and our future. I know that I, for one, need to do much, much better in all of these areas. Shall we try a little harder?

My answer? Yes.

Please check out: http://www.storyofstuff.com/

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?