After a long summer of being separated by nearly a quarter of a mile, the large group of boys moved up to their winter paddock this weekend, which means that Oakley in the girls' paddock can now see the other boys.

This has made for some very interesting non-verbal interactions between the two groups.

Lots of raised-tail stances, even some hippity-hoppity moves.

{Did you know that intact male alpacas fight for dominance by trying to bite each others cajones?}

Luckily {unluckily?} for Boo, his have already been removed.

For now we'll leave the groups as they are, since Oakley gets along well with the girls and having him removed from the boys group means less fighting.

Sorry chum, you're staying put.

Cheers -

We sheared the Icelandic ewes this weekend, then tucked them into the cheep shed for a couple of nights to get used to having all of their warm fuzzies removed.

When we let them back out into the paddock, the alpacas were very, very confused.  I've never seen Oakley stand in one spot for so long, not moving, just watching.

The girls were also momentarily confused, although they figured it out before Oakley did.

The sheep were of course oblivious to the confusion they were causing.

Cheers -

I almost titled this "the things we do to avoid doing our taxes," but  my mother-in-law might read this and then we'd be in trouble.  Because she's our accountant.

In fact, if you're my mother-in-law, you might want to skip this post and just imagine us diligently working on our taxes.

I also want to warn you that if you're following my blog by RSS or e-mail, this is a post from April that I never posted.  I'm posting it now and back-dating it, mostly because I want my on-line journal to reflect what I was doing back when I was actually doing it, so when next year I scratch my head and think, "When did we order those heritage turkeys?" I don't have to check my June posts for something that happened in April.

I know I've not been posting very much so far this year. There is a good reason. And it's not that I've been too busy preparing my taxes.  I've been neck-deep in a 5-month certification testing process for my job. It has quite frankly sucked all the free-time and creative-writing-energy right out of me.  Not to mention, all my time - day and evening.

But I'm almost done certifying now. Light at the end of the tunnel and all that.

Rah-rah!

I don't study on the weekends, since that is sacred time to spend with Papa Bear and all the farm chores that get put off during the week. So here's a snippet of some of the stuff that's been happening around here lately {and by "lately" I mean last April} when I'm not studying {and we're not doing our taxes}.

Playing with the turkeys. My original batch of turkeys are still alive and well. All four of them. They escaped Christmas dinner. They escaped Easter dinner. My females have been laying fertilized eggs since January, and there are a dozen turkey eggs in our incubator about a week away from hatching.

{EEP!} 

Or rather, {CHEEP!}

We keep meaning to eat some of them (the adults, not the incubating eggs), but my females keep jumping in my lap to snooze and cuddle, and my boys are so tame and sweet that unless they suddenly turn nasty on us, it looks like they may stick around for awhile. 

I also ordered about 15 heritage turkey poults from Porter's Rare Heritage Turkeys last week, and I have a local source for some Midget Whites that also might be showing up some time in May.

Yes, I know this puts me at risk for being labeled "the turkey lady." I'm OK with that. 

Have you seen a baby turkey before?  Have you heard their little peep peeps and trills?  It is nothing like a chicken, and I think baby chickens are freakishly cute, too. It's like a little flock of tree frogs.

But much much quieter and sweeter. 

{mostly quieter}

It snowed up through the first week of April and is still threatening to snow again.  My friends at The Big Farm nearly got their tractor stuck in our pasture trying to move some large round bales out of Molly's Haymow.  In April.  Which was a darn good excuse for PB to put off doing taxes for the entire day, "helping them out." 

And then we found a dead racoon in the machine shed.  Just lyin' there frozen stiff, back leg all busted up. Kind of creepy, I'm glad PB found it instead of me, and I'm glad he found it before it thawed.

The coon's buddy however is alive and well - we discovered him (her?) hanging off the gutter of the house one night reaching for our bird feeder and later snoozing in the haymow with a dead opossum lying next to him.  I am guessing the opossum was there first and the 'coon didn't want to share.

Or the opossum is just really good at playing dead. He joined the dead raccoon out in the hay field.

You can barter hay for just about anything after a bad year for rain.  We bartered some of ours for pigs and lambs this year.  We're hoping for more rain this summer so nobody has to send their herds to auction just because they don't have enough hay to feed them.

The local auctioneer drove down my driveway last week to personally tell me he had some sheep in the auction the next day that I should come and take a look at. And bid on.

We sat in the back row, behind the young Amish farmers bidding on cows. I almost bid on a Brown Swiss steer yearling. 

{Almost}

I didn't bid on the lambs. They were vaccinated and conventionally grown {read: GMO grain-fed} and me and my customers want GMO-free, grass-fed.

We boiled down about 8 gallons of Maple sap into nearly 2 pints of maple syrup. It took 1.5 days on the stove in the kitchen.  Which means we have 7.75 gallons of maple water in the air in our house now.  And it gave us 1.5 days not to work on our taxes.

Zoey decided she can climb the big white pine by the house.  Kali is extremely jealous of Zoey's front claws.

Mojo followed us all the way out to the back pasture.  He's never done that before.  He did spend the entire jaunt complaining.  I think he was saying, "You're going too far!  Come back to the safety of the house! 

{Come baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaccckkkk!!!!"}

Big News - we've renamed our farm.  But I haven't had the time or energy to fix the website I'm creating for it. So you'll have to stay tuned for the grand opening celebration.

There will be door prizes and lots of clapping.

Cheers - 

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 -

Boy meets girl.

Boy flirts with girl.

Girl flirts with boy.

Boy shows off to impress girl.

Girl 5 months pregnant decides flirting is all boy will get.

Boy disappointed.

Electric net fences remain intact and in place.

Cheers -

Horses and buggies at the Little Farm auction in May, 2012

As I pulled into the gravel driveway next to the large, well-kept white farmhouse, I spied four boys I guessed were between the ages of 4 and 7 lingering near the open door of a big red barn.

I got out of the Suburban and headed towards the group, all eyes watching me closely.  All four boys were dressed alike in dark pants and bright blue/green shirts nearly obscured by dark coats. 

I was already enjoying myself, and we hadn't even exchanged a word yet.

"I'm here about some rabbits," I began tentatively, not sure how much of the farm's business I would be able to discuss with the youngsters if their father wasn't home. 

We had pretty much negotiated the entire purchase of our flock of lambs last spring from a different farmer's young son, so it was entirely possible these youngsters would be able to assist me today despite their age. 

At the very least, they probably knew as much or more about raising rabbits as their father - it was, I guessed, one of their regular chores.

"Yup, they're back there," the oldest one answered me, indicating the barn behind him. 

"Is David here?" I inquired.  I knew when I pulled in it was about 5:15pm.  David had told me a few days earlier that he would be home from his "outside" job around 5:00pm.

"Nope, not yet, he'll be home around 5:00," offered the same boy.  I guessed he was perhaps the oldest of the brothers, and seemed quite comfortable talking to me, while his siblings all hung back wordlessly, brown eyes staring wide at me.

"Well, it was just after five when I pulled in," I offered, wondering if the boy wasn't aware of the time.  Perhaps in his tender youth he was yet blissfully unaware of watching the clock.

"Yeah, 5:00 YOUR time!" he retorted with a sparkle in his eyes and a big grin.

"Ha - you've got me there!" I responded, laughing and following the group of boys through the big barn and across a barnyard to another building. 

He was of course referring to 5:00 "English" time, that is, time driven by man-made clocks and imposed by our rigid 8-5, time-clock-punching culture.

5:00 Amish time was a whole different barnyard.

In the second building we entered I spotted two long rows of rabbit cages, their inhabitants planting soft noses against the mesh, no doubt inquiring as to the whereabouts of their dinners.

White rabbits with black ears and noses, white rabbits, even a cinnamon colored buck and a dark black doe, all New Zealand whites, the boy informed me.

I wasn't sure how many questions I should ask the boys, but as I walked along the cages the eldest followed close behind me, pointing out items of interest such as the baby bunnies in nesting boxes lined with their doe's fur, bodies so tiny entire litters would have fit in the palms of my two hands.

I asked if they were born with their eyes shut and he told me they were, adding the most fun time was when they came out of their boxes at about 4 weeks old and started hopping around.

The boy didn't know how many his father wanted sell and I didn't ask for a price.

Stalling for time, I asked if I could meet their Holstein calves who were licking up the last traces of their dinner from a trough across the barn.

They agreed and we all made our way over there.  One of the silent younger siblings decided to do some showing off and jumped into the feed trough walking back and forth in front of me as I offered my hand to the calves.

The calves were curious and delightful, trying to suck my fingers.  If I had been ready for a milk cow I might have asked the boys "how much?" for the nearly all-white one.

But I'm not ready for a cow.

Yet.

"Mama's coming," I was informed, and through the big barn I saw a short, slender figure leading a horse with one hand and holding an infant in the other.  Behind her trailed two more children, both girls, none of which could have been more than three years old.  She tied her horse to a stall and continued in our direction, asking if I'd been here long.

"Not too long," I reassured her.

We stepped back outside the barn to chat.  After scolding her boys for still being in their school clothes, she sent them off for chores and started talking about the rabbit business. She was very curious about how many rabbits I would buy and where I would sell them.

As I listened to her talk and answered her questions, I couldn't help but admire the view.

Their farm was perched along a ridge top with a view of rolling hills for miles.

The sun was about to set and had dropped below the cloud line, illuminating a pair of Belgium draft horses with an almost magical light.  Her oldest son had already explained to me the pair of horses was getting old and would soon need to be replaced.  But in the slanting evening sun he looked perfectly strong and beautiful.

Just then a one-horse cart came wheeling into the driveway. We all stepped off the road as David maneuvered his cart and horse to a stop.

"Sorry I'm late!" he yelled cheerfully, dismounting from the cart, grinning like his oldest son, but sporting a surprisingly bright red beard and looking ten years younger than me.

"Did you like what you saw?" he inquired.  I told him I was just in the "looking" stage right now, hadn't even measured the space the cages would need to go.  How many was he looking to sell?

He reiterated his wife's sentiments about wanting to keep them but not having buyers for them at present.  "No use butchering them if someone else could use them," he said to me.

He told me they had been large rabbit producers in Pennsylvania, at one time having more than 1100 rabbits under their care.  They wanted to raise rabbits here, too, but the only market they knew of had dried up.  He loved raising them he said, and his smile and sparkling eyes confirmed the truth of what he said.

David's wife then asked me, "You've never tried rabbit?" 

"No, not yet, but I'd like to," I added, trying not to sound too city-ish.  "How do you like to prepare them?"

David interjected that she liked to prepare them in the pressure cooker, then fry them.  "They're very good," they both assured me again.

I asked them how they liked their turkeys -  I could see several large white ones strutting around their yard near the house, could just make out their familiar trilling voices.

They told me they really enjoyed raising the birds, though they've been "fighting" lately - displaying their plumage at each other. My males did that on occasion also - though I'd hardly call it "fighting."

The sun slipped further towards the horizon, and I told them I'd need to get back in touch with them after I conferred with my husband tonight.  It was time to get home and do my own evening chores.

We said our good-byes and I walked back towards my vehicle, watching their oldest boy pull a wagon-load of firewood up the hill towards their house.
 
It is no surprise to me why people - farmers and non-farmers, English and Amish - are drawn to the idyllic images of the farm.

Red barns, bawling calves, mooing cows, plodding draft horses, scratching chickens, gobbling turkeys on the loose.

It may still be one of the hardest ways to make a living, and often the most heart-breaking, but I would have to say, so far at least, it is also the most enjoyable enterprise I have ever attempted.

Cheers -

Despite the worst drought in 60 years, third crop was recently cut on the Little Farm, most of it from the back acres that have not been grazed or cut this season.

We ended up with ten round bales. 

And a half.

Baby Bale has grand hopes of becoming a big hay bale some day.

I haven't broken the bad news to him yet.

Which reminds me of one of the oldest jokes I know:

Who's bigger - Mrs. Bigger, or Mrs. Bigger's baby?

Mrs. Bigger's baby is just a little bigger.

 
That's what Baby Bale needs to be - just a little bigger.

Cheers -

One of my chickens, Sunshine, has a poopy butt. 

{I will spare you the photo.}

I was worried about this, since I often shoot pictures of my chickens' butts, and a poopy butt could be a real photo-op-ruining moment.

{You all shoot chicken butt photos too, right?}

Actually, I was worried she might have chicken diarrhea or coccidia or have eaten the sprayed soybeans in the neighbor's field. So I asked an on-line chicken forum about it.

{You didn't know you could ask about chicken butts on-line?  Well, you can, thank goodness.}

Nobody responded.  Apparently, poopy-adult-chicken-butt isn't a common problem. Baby chicks are another story however. "Pasty butt" happens to baby chicks, where runny poo dries so hard it can seal off their vent (poo hole) and they can't eliminate and can die. 

When my girls were this age back in April, I had a few pasty butts to clean that first week they came home.

That's chip I'm holding above, an Americana, who is also in the next photo.  Ack! Where did my little "cute-as-a-Chip-&-Dale-Chipmunk" go?

Sorry Chip, you know I luv ya, but ye ain't the cutest chick on the block I'm afraid.

But back to Sunshine.

Not content with my "no response" forum, I checked another on-line forum (yes there are multiple places to ask chicken butt questions), and here I found a variety of possible causes and solutions.  They ranged from the benign to the serious. 

• Posture issues - chickens that don't squat far enough to miss their butt feathers - ignore it. 
• No cause - just trim their butt feathers real short all the time {Brrrr?}
• Give them a bath when you get one that is prone to having this.
• Mites and lice and bugs - oh my! Dust 'em with pesticides! Douse 'em with wormers!

For good measure I decided to rewatch my Chicken Video DVD because I remember her showing how to give a chicken a bath. In her "general chicken care" chapter, she didn't cover "poopy-adult-butt" syndrome but she did cover a non-chemical way to deal with mites - give the chicken a bath in soapy water but don't rinse it off her feathers.  The soap will form a seal around the mites when it dries, killing them.

Aha!  So I could give her a soapy bath during which I could wash off all the poo, and it might also treat her if she had any mite problems. 

{I do also put diatomaceous earth in their dust bathing areas since this will also help kill mites.}

So this morning before I went out to the coop, I got a dog kennel set up in the bathroom, some extra towels, a bucket in the tub with warm soapy water, turned the space heater on, and went to get Sunshine.

She was sitting in a nest box.  Perfect timing.

I came back a little later and nabbed her.  She lets me pick her up all the time, so this was not a dramatic moment.  At first she was all "I-know-you're-just-going-to-hold-me-for-awhile-and-put-me-down," with her happy clucking noises.  Then we approached the house, and I saw a look of distinct, "Wait-this-isn't-what-we-normally-do" accompanied by some louder clucking noises.

Then we went inside, and her clucking escalated and increased in frequency.  Into the bathroom, then into the bucket.  Now she was definitely all "WHAT-THE-HECK-ARE-YOU-DOING-TO-ME??" She even tried to fly out of the bucket a few times.

But then she sort of settled in, stopped fighting, and seemed to rather enjoy her bath.  Maybe she understood that I was trying to remove the crusted poo that was probably tugging on her butt feathers all day long. Or maybe she was dissociating. It's hard to tell with chickens.

But for the rest of her bath, she just stayed calm and let me get the soapy water up under her parts and work the poo off her butt.

{By the way, a wet chicken smells kind of like wet dog. And looks even more pathetic.}

I thought I could dry her off with a towel and leave her in the kennel in the toasty warm bathroom for awhile, but she wasn't getting much drier, so I ended up blow-drying her off.

{I kid you not.}

She tolerated this just as she tolerated her bath - calmly.  I am eternally grateful for being able to practice this entire maneuver on our tamest chicken. I shudder to think what Shia Lebeouf (our other Buff Orpington) would have done under similar circumstances.

After her coif & curl session it was time to head back outside. I figured she'd fly off my arm at her first opportunity, what with all the torture and stuff. But she stayed perched on my arm when I took her outside, even preening her feathers a bit.  Eventually she hopped down, and mingled into her flock.

Later when I went out with treats, she came right up to me, apparently forgiving me for her ordeal (dissociation helps with that I'm sure).

And when she turned around, I couldn't even tell which buff-colored fluffy butt was hers anymore.

All was right in the world again.

The End

In the last hour before sunset, the chickens have a ritual. They gather together as a flock, searching out the last tasty tidbits near the barn before heading to the coop and securing their favorite spots on the roost.

I like to take my Z-rest and sit near them (or at least try - they are a moving target usually), enjoying the last light of the day as I sit quietly and observe.

A few things I have learned from them:

1. Keep one eye on the ground for tasty tidbits, but always always keep one eye to the sky. You never know when that eagle will be back.

2. Always check out the Hoomans whenever they come out of the house - they are your best bet for getting tasty tidbits.

3. When you see something you want, don't be shy and don't hold back - grab it and run like hell or someone else will get to it first.

4. Stick with your wingman. Raven & Teeter (above) are great at this. They are always found together, even on the roost at night. 

5. Being the smallest does not mean being the lowest in the pecking order. Dixie, our smallest bird, a bantam Barred Rock, is the leader of the flock, with the top position on the roost and the loudest voice.

6. The only thing that should ever ruffle your feathers is a tail wind. All the rest is probably not worth worrying about.

Cheers -