Country Girl Goes to the City

We leave for Panama tomorrow morning.

And it was exactly one week ago today that I had a rare moment of clarity. An awful, stressful, panic-inducing moment of clarity.

It was about 10:30 PM and I had gone to bed. I was lying there thinking about everything I needed to do to prepare for our trip. And, coincidentally, feeling rather self-congratulatory at how organized I (thought I) was.

As I was falling asleep, however, a disturbing thought crossed my mind. A horrible, dread-inducing, heart-sinking-ly terrible thought: Passports.

I knew, knew in that very instant, that Madelina's passport was expired. I jumped out of bed, to check, and sure enough, I was right.

I have been suffering mild anxiety attacks ever since.

I can't breathe. Can't. Breathe.

What to do? Well, thank heavens Chicago has a passport office. (The next closest is located in Washington D.C. Or Houston, TX. Or Denver, CO.) And we found a telephone number to call to make an appointment for passport emergencies. Luckily we could get in right away, so we dropped all other plans and headed to the Windy City the next day.

Madelina was happy, because she got to skip school and make a trip with her parents to the Big City. And the Big City to a country bumpkin like Madelina is pretty darn exciting. She was all "Wow, look at that!" "Whoa, mama, look at that!"

So I gave her my camera and let her take pictures of whatever she wanted.

Here's Country Bumpkin in her natural habitat, after climbing down the rope from the hay loft:


Here's Country Bumpkin on her way to the Big City:


Here's what she found exciting about the Big City.

A pretty church.


Airplanes flying over the highway. This was a BIG highlight.


The El train.


And graffiti.


But then.

Then!

Then she saw something wondrous.

Something incredible.

Something unimaginable.

She saw the Oscar Mayer Wiener-mobile.


With an Irish theme, no less.


And then, well, then this Irish Grove Country Bumpkin felt right at home.


And I dare ask, who doesn't wish they were an Oscar Mayer Wiener?

Boots

Galoshes?


Or shit-kickers?



You decide.

Sorting Cattle

In Irish Grove, the time has come to separate our young Murray Grey calves from their mommas.

Unfortunately for the calves, this is pretty darn awful. They've got a good life...I mean, who doesn't like a little milk with their hay? Add in a mother's watchful eye, some playful nudges here and there.....well, there's no better feeling in the world than Mom.

But the mother cows are pregnant, you see. And if you've ever been pregnant and nursing a babe at the same time, you'll know that it isn't much fun. And then you've got a certain bull with a certain, um....drive to, um......well, you know....checking out those poor little heifers, all innocent and cute and much too young to be initiated into such wordly matters.

Yes, it was time to move the babes onto the next phase of life.

Of course, we picked the most lovely of all late winter/early spring days. It was so lovely, in fact, that more than a few Irish Grove farmhands tried to get out of the job.

But being the whip-crackin', ass-whoopin' farmer that I am, I was having none of it. I mean what kind of farmer reschedules a work day because of a little rain?

Marcel and I are all geared up and ready to get working

and yet Marcel's still stalling on account of the rain, the wimp.

When you separate the cattle herd, all of a sudden space becomes an issue. All the animals need access to a water tank and shelter. We've got two barns and two groups of cattle. No problem, right?

Wrong.

'Cause we need shelter and water for the horses and goats, as well. And if you've read this blog for awhile, you'll know that Lucero and cows don't mix.

So we spent a few hours moving the horses and goats to the chicken pasture. First we had to get the animals to move, and then we had to move the gear. Or bale cages, to be more specific.

You see, horse bale-cages and cow bale-cages are different.

The tractor has ahold of a horse hay-ring. You can see that the sides are open at the top. In the background is a hay-ring for the cows (on its side). There's a top bar on that one with diagonal supports. The cows have to stick their heads through the holes to eat while the horses get to raise their heads high and chomp in fashion.

Life is stacked against the cows at most every turn like that.

Anyways, Marcel brought one cow cage down from Mom's place for the calves, changed the horse cage over into the chicken pasture, and then filled them both with hay. In the meantime, I was very handily opening and shutting the gates for him. Yeah, it's a no-brainer, but also an immense help and time-saver for the tractor driver.

After everything was in place, I walked the lane down the hill and back up to Mom's, opening all the gates through which we'd soon be running the calves. Did I mention it was raining?

It's pretty much not a good thing when your pasture has been converted into a mini river.

Anyways, to make an already long story a little bit shorter, we got the calves shut in the round barn and sorted out rather nicely. I gave my mom the camera to take some action shots, but then we had to ask her to hide around the corner because her presence in the doorway was keeping the calves from wanting to run out. Sorry Mom.

So unfortunately I have no pictures of me manning the exit gate, swinging it open to let a calf out when it came round the bend and quickly shut again to keep the momma's in. This was pretty hard, seeing as both my boots and the gate were sticking, in that suction-type way, in the ankle-deep "mud".

No photos of Gordy, our most recent Irish Grove addition (and Mom's new beau), as he dodged the bull and bravely shoo-ed the calves through the barn

No photos of Marcel, cattle-handler extraordinaire, as he weaved in and out through the mass of cows, calves and bull--31 of them to be exact, skillfully separating the mothers from the babes and telling me when to open the gate, and when to quickly shut it.

Just this photo of us in ankle-deep in "mud" after we had the calves first separated,

and this one, after we had successfully driven them through the pasture, up the lane and into the barnyard at our house:

A job well done.

Haunted Barn?

A little earlier I snuck out to check on the calves.

We separated them from their mommas yesterday so they're not too happy. In fact, we couldn't sleep last night from all the bawling and bellowing. Poor babes.

But when I got to the barn, I saw something that made me rethink my assumptions. Maybe the calves were bellowing and bawling for another reason.

A super scary reason. 'Cause this is what I saw in the bullshed tonight:


Ahhhh!! What is it? A ghost? A monster?

An evil spirit come to whisk me away?

Umm.....It's a spirit, all right.


A spirited 4-year old that's come to finish me off.



This face gets me every time.

Processing

We're hearing a distinct clamor in Irish Grove these days.

What began as a few appeals, inquiries, and an occasional nudge, perhaps, has steadily grown to what I might deem a racket, a ruckus, a downright cacophony.

Allright, so cacophony may be a slight exaggeration.

People want chickens. They want home-grown, cage-free, organically-fed, pastured chickens. And I can't say I blame them.

Most of you know how I feel about store-bought chickens. If not, go get enlightened here.

But raising a couple hundred chickens for these nice, chicken-loving souls who find themselves at the mercy of Tyson concentration camps....well this endeavor holds one very large, daunting, avoidance-inducing problem for your friendly Irish Grove farmers.

The problem is the processing. Butchering. Killing. There I said it. Yes, unfortunately we have to kill the birds to eat them. PETA followers be satisfied.

(An aside: Joe Salatin says PETA stands for People who Eat Tasty Animals. Which is funny for everyone except PETA members.)

(In full disclosure, I used to be a member of PETA.)

(And a vegetarian.)

The only USDA certified processing plant in Illinois is in Arthur, IL. Which is a 4.5 hour drive from here.

4.5 hour drive!!

This would be my day on processing day:

2:00 AM: Load chickens into crates.
3:00 AM: Leave for Arthur.
7:30 AM: Drop birds off for processing.
8:00 AM: Take truck to car wash for cleaning.
9:00 AM: Eat something.
10:00 AM: Try to nap.
2:00 PM: Pick up processed chickens, pack into coolers.
3:00 PM: Leave for home
7:30 PM: Arrive home.
8:00 PM: Move chickens to freezers.
9:00 PM: Shower!
10:00 PM: Collapse in bed.

How much fun is that!?!?!

Seriously, guys. When we talk about sustainable farming, we sometimes forget to take into account how sustainable the operation is for the farmer, as well as for the land and animals.

Can I do this once each summer? Sure, definitely. Would I do this more than once? Not so sure. Would it be worthwhile to invest time and money into the cages, coolers, moveable chicken pens, etc., for one trip to Arthur with 150 birds or so? Yeah, probably not.

And therein lies the problem. I want to raise chickens for ya. I really do. I know the demand is there. So I ask you:

Would you buy chickens that were processed on the farm?

Would you come on a pre-planned day, bring your own plastic bags, bag your own processed birds, and keep your committment to do so?

Most importantly, would you mind buying chickens that have been processed while on roller-skates.

I'm really asking the hard-hitting questions now, aren't I? But I ask for a reason:


We call this photo Roller Pluck.


Honestly, home processing is really the only way I can imagine raising chickens for ya. Let me know what you think.

Selling the Farm

If there is one thing that repeatedly upsets me, it's seeing a 'For Sale' sign in the middle of a corn field.

'For Sale' due to foreclosure. 'For Sale' because of a job transfer. 'For Sale' because of a death in the family. 'For Sale' because the kids have all moved away and there is no one left to run the farm. 'For Sale' because I'm just plain tired of working all the time.

There are a million and one reasons to sell the farm. And I, someday, may claim one of them as reason to sell my share of this farm, God forbid.

I think, though, that the most common reason to sell the farm is this: Mom and Dad are retiring, and it's time for us kids to cash in on the American Dream.

Is there anything wrong with that? Honestly, it's everyone's right to claim their inheritance and to transform that land into whatever currency most fits their lifestyle. And a lot of times, selling the farm is the most practical, obvious solution to the 'problem' of inheriting a farm.

So why does it bother me so much?

On an intellectual level, if I could be so bold to claim that I even have an intellectual level, it makes sense. I get it. But on an emotional level (which I definitely have), it kills me.

Especially because reality dictates that whoever purchases the farm will likely be a developer waiting to turn that farm into houses. Or they will be an absent landowner, renting your land out to the lowest bidder who doesn't much care if they degrade the soil. Or, if your farm is most unfortunate, it may go to a businessman who also has a dream, a dream that looks a lot like an industrial 'park' or ethanol plant or landfill.

From my point of view, land is constant. It is sustenance. It connects us to our past. It shapes us into who we are.

The land educates and humbles. It defines and enables. It inspires.

Our farmland provides for us. It is space to move about, to use or preserve. It permits us to be. It is our culture, our heritage, our rural treasure.

Farmland to a Midwesterner is home.

So you see, when that 'For Sale' sign goes up, we trade in our past, our culture and our heritage for a swollen bank account. And while land's value lies in its preservation, money's value lies in it's use. Land is worth something only when it is cared for and loved. Money is only useful when it is spent. And while the land will always be there, the money doesn't offer any guarantees.

Land is the loving spouse. Money is the love affair.

So, children of farmers, I want to remind you that the American Dream wasn't always a large bank account*. It used to be a parcel of land to call our own. A place to be and become.

The American Dream was a farm. May it be that way once more.

*If farm ownership isn't practical for you, or if you really do need the money, please look into a Farmland Conservation Easement. What usually happens with an easement is that you sell or donate the development rights of your farm to an easement holding company. While lowering the cash value of your property, you do receive tax incentives and your land can only be sold as farmland for perpetuity. Please check out your options at American Farmland Trust. Locally, the Natural Land Institute can help you discover your options.

*A second local option would be to contact The Land Connection. They work with would-be-farmers to help them find and purchase available farmland.

Winter Reprieve

February has given us a welcome winter reprieve. We realize that the warm weather isn't going to last long, so we made the most of it while we could.









This has gotta last us through April. Well, at least according to Punxsutawney Phil.