After a winter that continues to cling tightly with below freezing nights, snow and ice storms, signs of spring are finally starting to emerge.

All the spring birds have returned including our pair of Eastern Bluebirds and Mourning Doves, not to mention a host of other birds like Red-winged Blackbirds, American Robins and Sandhill Cranes. The morning air is awash with birdsong and it fills the heart with joy.

The grapevine shoots we snipped off in Feb. and stuck in water until we could plant them outside are growing leaves.  We can't wait to have more of this wonderful, 50-year old grapevine popping out clusters of juicy purple Concord-tasting grapes.

The maple sap has nearly finished running and the trees are budding out.  So far we've boiled about 10 gallons of sap down to 2.5 pints of syrup. And somehow it tastes even sweeter knowing it came from our own trees.

The apple seeds we planted are sprouting (yes yes, we know specific apple varieties don't grow from seeds, they grow from grafts... but we're willing to take a chance - all the best applesauce and cider apples used to be planted from seeds - aka Johnny Appleseed-style).

And to top it all off, my first batch of turkey eggs are hatching!!

And yes, I can already see the resemblance to my breeding pairs of Blue Slate Turkeys, although we can expect a mixture of colors to come out of our slate-to-slate pairs including black, slate and self blue.

Of course I will love them all no matter what color they are.

My heritage turkeys can breed naturally, unlike 99.9% of the turkeys in this country, the Broad-Breasted Whites that grace most dinner tables during the holidays. 

I feel honored to be witness to this miraculous event, the looping 'round of the circle of life, right beneath my eyes.

Cheers -

I grew up in the country and have returned back to living in the country where it is, to borrow a phrase, "darker than the inside of a cow" at night.

This isn't a problem unless you're afraid of the dark.  As far back as I can remember, I was terrified of the dark.

Family gatherings at our house with other kids inevitably led to rounds of hide-and-go-seek in the dark edges of the woods around our large yard, with me camped out as close to the porch light as possible, nearly in tears that something would eat me before anyone found me.

In high school I was often let off of the activities bus after dark, facing a 1/4 mile hike down the pitch black road to my parents' house. These hikes terrified me. I would sing as loud as possible and run as fast as I dared (no, I did not own a flashlight at the time).

I always figured if there really was something scary on the road, a wolf or a bear, I would probably run smack into it, scream my head off then die of a heart attack, nary a scratch on me, my untimely death forever an unsolved mystery.

If you have an intense fear of the dark or aliens in the cornfield or clowns with fangs hiding out below the sewer grates you know exactly what I'm talking about here.

{Luckily, there are very few sewer grates in the country where I live now, as I would not step foot on one for about, oh, 30 years after reading Stephen King's IT.}

So a few years ago {maybe about 20} I decided I was tired of being afraid of the dark.  I didn't like feeling like a spooked cat every time I went outside, or forcing family members to accompany me, or dragging my little indoor dogs with me to venture out into the dark every time I had to retrieve a bag of groceries from the car.

It was a slow process.  And I'm not completely over my fears.  But I am so much farther down that path that I wanted to share a few insights I've learned along the way.

I'm not a fan of "tossing-a-kid-in-the-pool-to-teach-them-to-swim" method. In other words, I didn't lock myself outside every night until I "got over it." I'm more of the "to-eat-an-elephant-take-one-small-bite-at-a-time-and-chew-slowly" kind of a person. 

Being afraid of the dark was a big, bad elephant in my psyche.  Here are some of the small bites I took to get rid of it.

{Note: Only perform the exercises below if you live in a safe place. I'm not advocating going outside alone in the dark if there is a good chance you will be mugged or worse.}

baby bites

Stand outside near your house or other safe place and breathe slowly, smell the fresh air, let your eyes adjust to the dimmer light, and appreciate the beauty of the night.

You can do this right outside your house (if you don't live right under a street light).  It would be best not to be standing by any bright porch lights either, as that will increase the relative darkness outside of the light's beam. Same goes for using a flashlight. I have a Maglite as long as my forearm that could crush an alien, but it will only illuminate what is directly in the beam. When I turn it off and let my eyes adjust, I can see much, much farther. Not with as much detail of course, but much farther away.

Once I click off the light or step away from any streetlights, my eyes start to adjust to the dimness. I notice the wind blowing through the trees, the moon rising above the pasture, Boo with his snowy white fleece lying near the chicken coop.

Repeat the above exercise as often as you can handle.  Try to stand a little farther away from the house each time. Don't force yourself if you're scared.  Set a goal of 3 minutes, then when you can stand that, try 5.  

give yourself a pep talk 

Self-talk isn't just for learning how to be more confident or gathering courage to talk to a cute guy. If you're afraid of the dark or cornfield aliens, you probably already have a long-standing running commentary going on in your head that feeds your fears.  "Oh it's so dark outside... I'm so scared of the dark... I can't see anything past the porch light... I bet there's lions and tigers and aliens out there just waiting to eat me..."

If you catch yourself doing this, stop the soundtrack.  Replace it with a new, more positive one. "It's dark outside but wow, look at those stars!  I'm being so brave coming out here. I bet I will be even more brave tomorrow. I can walk to the barn without turning on my flashlight. Then I'll turn it on to go check on the critters. I can do this!"

{Nobody can hear you, so go ahead and talk corny to yourself. Sometimes you need to cater to your inner-4-year-old.}

Once you can stand near your house, then a bit farther away, and spend several minutes outside alone without having a panic attack, it's time to move on to something more challenging.

stretch yourself to try scarier things

For me, that meant going on longer walks.  In the woods.  Alone.  I allowed myself to carry a flashlight, and to use it for part of the way, but I would also make myself stop and stand still and turn the flashlight off for several minutes before turning it back on.  Occasionally this exercise was preceded by a glass of wine. Or rewarded by a glass when I returned home without being eaten. Or both.

stretch to even bigger, scarier things

I decided I would try renting a small hermitage cabin at Camp Amnicon as a real test of my fear-fortitude. Three days, two nights, all... by... my... self. I had no problems during the day, going for long walks, enjoying the fall colors, reading, writing, taking photos. 

And then the daylight faded.  And then I realized there was no lock on the door of the cabin.  That night, after shoving all the furniture up against the door, I stuck my earplugs in, gave myself a pep talk, pulled the covers over my head and after tossing and turning, eventually fell fitfully asleep.

The second night I figured I better put on my "big girl panties" and take a walk down to the lake after dark. I had to work up the nerve for this exercise all day.  I stretched out my dinner for-ev-er.  I had an extra glass of wine.  I sorted all the items in my suitcase. Finally, I had no more excuses or procrastination tactics left.

I walked all the way down to the lake (about 1/2 mile) with my flashlight on, but on the return trip, turned it off and walked most of the way back by moonlight.  I was amazed at how much I could see when my eyes adjusted. Small noises still startled me, but did not terrify me.  I did not run into any long-legged beasties.

the scariest test of all

For my 30th birthday I tested treated myself to a solo, 3-day canoe trip to the BWCAW.  I had been on canoe trips before, but always, always, with some form of a big macho guy or pack of tough ladies. This time, I was the big macho guy.

Just like with the retreat cabin, the days were idyllic - perfect weather, paddling at my own pace along my own chosen route, stopping to eat and snap photos whenever I chose. I picked spots to camp that I had stayed at before, to give me some sense of comfort and familiarity. I chose a route that required no portaging.

And I made sure I went into the tent and went to bed every night before it got really dark. With my earplugs in. And the sleeping bag pulled over my head.

Yes, I woke up and heard things several times every night which scared me.

No, the Blair Witch did not come and eat me.

Yes, it was scary AND liberating all at the same time.

Since that time I've backpacked parts of the Superior Hiking Trail solo several times with similar results. My favorite memory was when I was camped in Judge C.R. Magney State Park in my ultra-lightweight Hennesey Hammock, which hugs you like a cozy cocoon.

I woke up after I had been asleep for awhile, and wasn't sure what had woken me. The night was quiet, but then I heard an owl hooting. I felt like the universe was hugging me and cradling me in safety. It was the best feeling I've ever felt while alone in the wild.

At a recent dinner party a guest asked, "Aren't you afraid of living out here in the country where it's so dark and you're so far away from anybody?"  I was surprised by the question, as yes, I've always been afraid of the dark.

And then I realized, my response to her of "No, I'm not afraid of living here in the dark," was finally the honest truth.
 

From ghoulies and ghosties

And long-leggedy beasties

And things that go bump in the night,

Good Lord, deliver us!

~Scottish Saying

Cheers -

How often do we just sit still and listen?

I can tell you, for me, it's not often, even though my child is grown and gone and my husband works off the farm, leaving me all the stillness I can handle.

You'd think it would be easy then just to sit still for a minute and do nothing but soak up the sights and sounds around me.

It's not.

I'm a driven person - driven by my endless 'To Do' list which revolves in my head like a carousel, a new Task ever revolving into view, the circle of tasks endless no matter how many I accomplish in a given day. 

I also have a full-time job.  Which most of the time I can do from my home office.  A blessing - but again, more stillness, more alone time, more time with my carousel of unending tasks.

In my "free time," I am primary caretaker for over 40 animals on the farm, making sure each one is fed and watered and mineraled, that nobody is acting "off"  or in need of an intervention.

Sometimes this means sitting in the barn for 45mn waiting for one of our turkey hens to lay her egg, watching her pace become more and more frantic in her search for the "perfect" spot. 

I tell her (out loud even) that "It's OK, you can lay your egg in the corner and I will take care of it.  I am here."  She continues to pace, her vocalizations rising in urgency.

I am reminded of myself whenever I watch her.  Of how worked up I can get over the little things, the things that really don't matter and will be forgotten by tomorrow, and forget the big things that do matter - family, friends, my health, this farm.

So this afternoon after my second round of chores I decided I needed to just "sit still and listen."

Despite the cold wind blowing across the hayfield, despite the fact I had already been outside, dressed in my insulated Carhartts, for nearly an hour.

We have two massive white pine trees flanking the west side of our house. When the wind blows through them it transports me to places in the Boundary Waters that I love to visit.

So I chose a tree and sat.

The wind blew around me and above me, making sweet music through the pine needles.

After awhile I heard a strange noise and looked up just in time to see a flock of about a dozen wild turkeys gliding in over the hayfield, most of them landing on the steep bank that rises up to the highlands of our property.

{The tiny speck in the photo above is a turkey running towards the hillside.}

Our heritage turkeys also saw them and called out to them, but the Wild Ones were on their own mission.

Despite their distance from me, I could still make out their calls to each other - slightly strange yet oh-so-familiar, cousins to my own small flock, their calls not so different from my own birds.

I felt a surge of unexpected Kinship with the Wild Ones.

I decided to climb up the steep hill to the highlands and see if I might spot them wandering around.

The climb involved a lot of snow, slippery slopes and crawling on my hands and knees, but eventually I made it up to the top. The turkeys were long gone, although I did manage to startle the last 4 who took off silently, gliding through ancient oak branches and out across the back pasture.

I circled the highlands and started to make my way back down.  My turkeys and guineas were creating a ruckus despite the wild turkeys being gone.

As I made my way down the hillside I realized why - a fat opossum was making it's way up the hayfield toward the poultry paddock.  I slid down the hill coming from behind him (her?).  He never even noticed me, and paid little attention to the noisy paddock of birds.

From there I followed him through the fence (thankfully he crossed near a gate) and wandered his way up to the old garage, stopping to sniff Papa Bear's antlers on the way by, then stopping under the Butternut tree to much on a pile of something I could not see.

By now I was only about 10' from him.  He seemed not to notice, or care.

I wondered momentarily about rabid opossums.  Shouldn't he be scared of me and run?  What if he came snarling after me?  What would I do?

Then Molly showed up meowing and when it appeared he was going to head in her direction, I made a noise and he turned and walked the other way.  As I followed him and walked past the Butternut tree, I looked at the spot where he had been munching something and realized... it was a pile of cat poo.

And then I realized,if I had gone back inside after my earlier chores like I normally do, I would have missed it all.

The music of the wind through the pine branches.

The surprise of a flock of wild turkeys gliding past.

The crawl to the top of the hill.

The slide down, watching the progress of the opossum.

The realization of what an opossum eats for dinner when it can't catch my chickens.

All I had to do was sit still and listen, to be present for a few moments.

So basic. 

So difficult.

So necessary.

Cheers -

Allspice is our bantam Americauna rooster. He was the first of our 4 bantam roosters to start crowing last fall. 

Allspice was also the first of our bantam roosters to start, ahem, "dating."

We have a full-sized rooster named Vigor.  He's bold and beautiful and everything you'd want in a full-sized rooster.

He rules our flock of 38 birds (a mixture of full-sized and bantam chickens, Guinea fowl and turkeys).

But... he doesn't rule the barn floor.

Allspice learned pretty early on that he couldn't out-run, out-muscle or out-compete with Vigor.  If Vigor caught him sidling up to one of his full-sized ladies, he quickly got yanked off his feet by the scruff of his neck and tossed to the barn floor.

{The lady in question might also get a peck on the neck for her transgression.}

It seemed like it would be a long, lonely life for Allspice, hiding in Vigor's shadow.

But that is not the end of Allspice's story.

I noticed pretty soon after Allspice starting having "dates" with the bantam girls that he was also dating the full-sized hens.

Behind Vigor's back.

He'd wait until Vigor was outside the barn chasing ladies around the pasture, then he'd grab all the remaining hens in the barn and "date" them all.

When Vigor takes his ladies to the roost at night (which he does pretty early in the evening), Allspice stays on the barn floor "dating" every last hen who comes by for a late night snack before bedtime.

Allspice is out-sized and out-classed in every way. 

But it doesn't matter to him.

He makes up for in courage what he lacks in size. 

And at the end of the day (or night), guess what?  Allspice gets more dates than Vigor does, a hundred times over.

What's my point in all of this?

All of our lives we are absorbing messages.  First from our parents, then our classmates and teachers, friends, neighbors, coworkers, bosses, significant others.

Sometimes the messages are positive and encouraging: "You sing great!  You should try out for choir!"

And sometimes, despite perhaps the best of intentions, those messages are less than supportive: "You really should pick some other type of career - I don't think History Professor / Actor / Singer / Dancer / Artist is going to put food on the table."

 Over time, these messages change us.

The child who doodles in her notebook during Math is scolded and told to pay attention in class. Eventually she stops drawing and becomes a librarian instead of an artist.

The boy who animatedly engages the class with his comedic gestures is told to be quiet and sit down. Eventually he becomes an accountant instead of an actor and playwright.

The teenager who dyes his hair pink, gets a nose ring and tattoo and plays loud music in the garage is told to get serious, he'll never be a rock star. He takes the first paying job that can take him out of Smallville and is now is stuck in middle management, paying the second mortgage and the second vehicle loan and wondering what happened to his dreams.

That unbridled passionate joy that we expressed in so many unique ways as children gets smothered by a thousand expectations of how we should be/act/work/live/love. 

As the spark inside of us grows dimmer, we turn to distractions like work, TV, social media, our kids' schedules, food and addictions to numb the pain.

Where did our uniqueness go?  What happened to that child so full of life and hope and tenacity, with the world at her fingertips?

She or he is still there.  Bruised perhaps, dormant most likely, but still there. 

Like Allspice tossed to the barn floor.  Bruised & dusty & humiliated.

But resilient.

Allspice doesn't have an education.  He doesn't have a flock.  He doesn't have big spurs to fight with or a big car to impress the ladies, or any other external advantage.

The only thing he has is a big belief in his own worth as a rooster, the cajones to take risks and chances where he knows he could fail (and often does), and the ability to, when tossed to the ground, pick himself up off the barn floor, shake the dust off of his feathers, sing his little heart out, and keep chasing after the ladies.

We could all learn something from a pint-sized rooster.  What are your dreams, and what's stopping you from chasing them?

Cheers -

P.S. - Most of the pics in this post were shot with an iPhone and shared in Instagram. Have an IG account? Let me know so I can follow you!

Jenny from the box

How I spent this eve: 

Put on 20# of insulated Carhartts and trek to barn through fresh snow to shut the poultry door. 

Notice turkey acting strangely. Intuit she is going to lay an egg. 

Wait 45mn for her to lay egg so it won't freeze over night. 

Watch turkey climb into a chicken-sized nest box. Wait for turkey to lay egg. 

Watch turkey get stuck in chicken nest box. 

Take down entire next box unit (10-box unit) and remove turkey. 

Go inside to find something turkey can use as nest box. 

Remove 20# Carhartts. 

Find cardboard box. 

Reapply 20# Carhartts. 

Take cardboard box to haymow and fill with hay. Bring box to barn. 

Find turkey egg in the middle of barn floor (still warm). 

Leave cardboard nest box in barn. Return to house. 

Remove 20# Carhartts. Place egg safely on table with other eggs. 

The End.

hey hay hay Molly!

I was tagging an Instagram photo the other day (find me there as @gypsy_farmgirl) when it suddenly occurred to me that I had no idea how to spell haymow... and then it occurred to me I also wasn't exactly sure how to pronounce the word, or even exactly what could be called a haymow (does it have to be a loft area of a barn?  Can it be the overhang on the back side of our machine shed full of hay?).

So I did what 99% of the world does today when in need of vital information such as the spelling and pronunciation and definitions of old Germanic and Norse words - I Googled it.

The result was this fascinating and entertaining explanation from The Word Detective.

And no wonder I was confused.  Not only are there two different versions of mow - one pronounced like "moe" and one like "cow," there are different ways to describe places to hold hay and other forages. 

Here's the quick and dirty run-down as per The Word Detective.  Feel free to visit the link above if none of this makes sense:

Mow - rhymes with moe - “to cut down grass or grain with a scythe or machine.”

Mow - rhymes with cow - “a heap or stack of hay, grain, corn, etc.” or “a place, especially a part of a barn, where hay or corn is heaped up and stored.”

So technically, haymow means any haystack. A haystack even still in the field is technically a "haymow."

A stack of round and square bales under the overhang of our machine shed is a "haymow."

{Whew! I've been calling it that for months!}

Can you see Molly?

A hayloft, however, comes from an old Norse word meaning "air or sky" or "upper room."  By this definition, a hayloft may also be a haymow but not every haymow is a hayloft.

Clearly confused yet?

Which reminds me of my current favorite joke:

"A man walks into a bar completely wrapped in Saran wrap.  He asks the bartender, "Bartender, do you think I'm crazy?"  The bartender looks at his clothing and replies, "Sir, I can clearly see you're nuts."

But I digress.  Back to haymows.

I read on a bit further and discovered a word that's even more confusing - a "mowhay."

In this case, mow still means stack of hay, grain, etc. but "hay" means fence or hedge.  A stack of hay enclosed by a fence or hedge.

Substituting "mow" (heap of hay, grain, etc.) with "hay" in mowhay and we end up with a...

hay hay.

Or like I like to greet my friends and family, "Hey, hay hay!"

Now at least I finally know what I'm talking about when I say this.

Cheers -

There's a new girl in Papa Bear's life.

She's young and sweet and oh-so-cute.

He likes to stroke her back and nose.

And I don't mind one bit.

She eats hay and pellets and if startled, may leave a pellet or two in her wake.

She is an as-yet-unnamed, 17-week old female Velveteen Lop.

She was supposed to arrive as a surprise in mid-November but work schedules got changed and suddenly we had to wait another 6 weeks and spend 12 hours in the car to get her.

We both think it was worth it.

She seems pretty happy too, hippity-hopping all over our kitchen.

The cats are not amused, but they never do like sharing the house with other critters.

I'm sure they'll get over it.

Eventually.

Her color is "blue torte," but to us she's peach covered in grey covered in adorable.

If you didn't already have 45 reasons to visit our farm, now you have 46.

Hippity-hop on over here and stay for a spell.

We'd love to see you, and so would Velvet.  Or Bunny or Hunny or whatever her new name is going to be.

Cheers -