There are certain people that come into our lives and we're never the same again. 

They become part of our identities, attached by invisible threads to our very souls. 

We may not see them every day, or maybe even every year, but when we do, we pick up right where we left off without skipping a beat. 

It's in the catching up, the fitting together of all the missing pieces of our lives that have gone between, that we suddenly realize the big gap that was left the last time we said good-bye. 

And so we work hard at filling up the gap with as many happy memories as possible, so that when the next good-bye comes, as it always does, since nothing in this world is permanent, perhaps the gap won't seem so big. 

We put on a brave and happy face and tell them, "We'll see you when we see you and not a moment before!" while hoping it will be sooner than later, and wishing there was a way to make the time apart go faster.

There's a new guy in town - a black ram lamb by the name of Ty that we're leasing for the breeding season. 

Last year our three Icelandic ewes were accidentally bred by an overwintering castrated ram.  

{Yes indeed, castrated.  If you've ever seen an intact ram with his fuzzy boys hanging down nearly to his ankles, you would not mistake an intact ram for a castrated ram lamb.  The boys we had last year were definitely castrated. Apparently someone had something retained that was still functioning despite the lack of physical evidence}

The flock was so surreptitious about the whole thing that I never did see anyone breeding or suspect any of my girls were pregnant. 

Until late April when we sheared them and realized with a shock they were all imminently due. 

This year we were going to be a lot more intentional about the whole thing. 

Unfortunately, we don't own an Icelandic ram yet.  So finding one was the biggest challenge. 

I contacted all of the local Icelandic breeders that I could find and nobody was interested in leasing us a ram.  This struck me as odd, since in the alpaca world that I am much more familiar with, leasing a herdsire is a very easy task.  

I was about to give up in frustration when I located an Icelandic group on Facebook and less than a day after posting my request, Papa Bear and I were meeting some very nice folks in the parking lot of a hotel in DeForest, WI and moving Ty from their dog kennel to ours. 

On Sunday we put him in with our girls, after first removing all of the ewe lambs from the paddock. 

Our biggest two lambs went to market {if you're anywhere between Madison, WI and Minneapolis, WI, we will gladly deliver your order for a whole lamb! Contact us on our Facebook page} and two went into a temporary holding pen until all the breeding is done.  

These ewe lambs are so small we don't want them bred by the ram. I'm also hoping that by separating them and holding them in a smaller pen, I will be able to tame them up a bit.  

These lambs are wild, wild wild!  I can't even get near them to give them the treats that the older ewes enjoy.  In a smaller space, I can give them good things to eat and sit with them until they learn not to be so terribly skittish.  I can also give them extra hay that they won't have to compete for against the bigger animals. 

But back to Ty and the ewes. 

Since our ewes bred in secret last year, I was curious to see what this sheep dating business would entail.  

There was a lot of sniffing and licking (not licking each other, just a lot of tongue flicking out of the mouth), lots of tail wagging, and occasionally Ty would lift one stiff front leg up in front of his body at a ewe. 

He also displayed the upper lip curl, a behavior known as "flehmen response," which is one of his ways to check for a ewes receptivity. 

I saw him attempt to breed a couple of times, but it seemed he was too short compared to the height of the ewe to, um, reach the goal...  

I've been assured by an experienced breeder that the ewes will assist him in "Tying one on" when they are ready. 

{snort}

So I left them to their little huddle and went on with my chores.  

I've learned that in sheep their estrus cycle is approximately 17 days, and she will be receptive to the ram for only about 24-36 hours during the peak of her estrus cycle.  So she should come until heat every 16-17 days until she is bred.  British long wool breeds tend to be short-day, seasonal breeders, coming into heat in Oct./Nov.  

Unlike alpacas, which are induced ovulators and can become pregnant any time of the year (which is why you must run your males separately unless you are trying to have your females bred). 

The alpacas were not one wit concerned about what the sheep were doing, either.  

Which I find fascinating.  The ewes knew Ty was a sheep and was a ram and were extremely interested in him, whereas the alpacas knew he was not an alpaca and could not care less what he was doing.  How do they know?  Sight? Smell?  Sound?  Pheremones? 

I suppose I will never know.  

But what I do know is that next spring when we shear the ewes in late April, if we see filling udders and wide bellies, we will rejoice in the knowledge that they did indeed successfully "Ty" one on and soon we'll have Icelandic lambs bounding across the green pastures.

Cheers - 

The saddest day of the year arrived yesterday, the day I transported the majority of our turkeys to the processor in order to supply Thanksgiving tables all around our area with the healthiest, happiest turkey on the planet.

I dread this day above all others - even more than I dread picking up hay bales.

It's not so much that I dread the physical effort, although in hindsight, I should have been dreading this as well, but rather, because I adore these birds.

For the ones I get from the hatchery, this year the Broad-Breasted Bronze and White, I have been there since they arrived at the farm as day old balls of fluff in the middle of June, five months ago.

For our Sweetgrass turkeys, I have been there since the day I collected the eggs from my hens and placed them into an incubator in Feb., counting out the days until the first eggs pipped and hatched at the end of March, 8 1/2 months ago.

For these past eight months I have spent every day caring for them, watering them, feeding them, moving them, being endlessly entertained by them.

I have been awed by their beauty, and giggled over their games of chase and keep-away.

I have talked to them and they have gobbled to me.

In short, I have loved them.

Every. Single. Day.

So yesterday arrived with much trepidation.  Not only is it an emotional day for me, but also I was nervous because this was the first time I'd be transporting them via a livestock trailer (previously my numbers were so small I could do it via dog kennels in the back of the XUV).

I picked up the trailer the day before, and had no trouble getting it out to the end of the hay field where the Sweetgrass turkey paddock was, even doing a fine job of backing it up to the paddock.  It would be ready for loading first thing in the morning.

Unfortunately, overnight we received 1.5 inches of slick, wet snow.

So yesterday morning, I swallowed my nerves and headed out to the hayfield, remembering to turn off the fence charger before heading down.

I opened a gap in the paddock, making the two ends of the fence into a little funnel right up to the trailer.  With the back of the trailer open, the funnel led right into the trailer.

I had no idea if the Sweetgrass turkeys would move up the funnel or be afraid of it (turkeys can be very cautious of something new) but they all were curious and moved right up the funnel.  With some very very slow herding pressure from behind, one by one they all jumped into the trailer.

Well, all except for one Jake who snuck down the outside of the trailer between the fence.

I got the net and caught him and loaded him by hand.

Half of my work was done for the day, and it wasn't even 10:00am!

Hooray!

After firing up the truck (a GMC XUV with 4WD) I inched my way forward up a slight incline, hearing the wheels spin and slip a little.

Uh oh, this was the easy part of the journey - by far the steepest part was getting up off the lower hayfield.

I made it up the little rise and gathered speed as the truck descended down the hayfield, giving it as much gas as I felt it could handle.

We made the rise at the top end of the field and the sharp turn up off the hayfield onto the grass field road running below the cheep shed, and I continued along the field road towards the last turn.

Cranking the wheel for the last turn, I felt my anxiety spike as the truck refused to obey, continuing straight into the next hayfield and completely missing the turn.

By the time the truck turned we were 20' off the field road.

And stuck.

Spinning tires turned slick snow into even slicker ice and mud - I wasn't going anywhere.

Time to call in Plan B.

I tromped to the house in my 20 pounds of Carhartt insulated barn clothes and called my closest neighbor, the one who often cuts hay for us.  They always seem to have a lot of large equipment around, and I was praying they could pull me up the last 40' to the dry pavement of my driveway.

"No problem," my neighbor assured me, he'd be home in 90 minutes.  I checked the clock and estimated a noon arrival, giving me plenty of time to load the remaining turkeys and get on the road for the processor by 2:00pm.

In the meantime I did all the other afternoon and evening chores that I would need to do before leaving for the many hours it would take to get to the processor and back home again.

12:30 came and went.

I kept myself busy.

Somehow I managed to wriggle the truck and trailer off the hayfield back onto the field road, but I was still stuck there.

I realized by original plan of driving the trailer up next to the paddock of Broad-Breasted turkeys would not be feasible given the slick conditions of the snowy hayfields, so I made a "Plan B" for getting my broad-breasted turkeys onto the trailer - I would make a laneway out of my extra net fences leading from their paddock down to the trailer on the driveway.

The fences were extra heavy, given that they had been laying on the ground and covered in wet snow when I picked them up, showering the back of my neck with cold water.

But eventually I had them both set, and beautiful little lane leading right down to the driveway.

{Hard to see them in this photo but there are 2 net fences blending into the snow}

1:30 came and went.

I fed and moved the rabbits, switched out their frozen water bottles, checked on the chickens and sheep.

I spent some time hanging out in the Broad-Breasted turkey paddock, soaking in my last sights and sounds of the flock.

2:00 came and went.  I decided to call again.  He was nearly on his way he said.

At 2:30 he arrived with his 4WD truck and a chain.  It didn't take long to realize we still weren't going anywhere.

"I'll be right back," he assured me, then slipped and slid his way off the hayfield and disappeared.

I entertained myself by checking my Facebook and Instagram feeds, and when I next looked up, a GINORMOUS tractor loomed into my sight.

In less than two minutes the monster and pulled us up the remaining field road onto hard pavement.

I tried sending my rescuer off with some frozen chickens as a thank-you, but all he said was, "That's what good neighbors are for."

It was now 3:00pm, time to load the broad-breasted turkeys.

I pulled the trailer up the driveway and parked it next to the laneway.  After opening the back door of the trailer I realized the turkeys would be able to duck under the door, so I took the ATV and got 3 bales of hay to stack along the back side of the door and prevent any escapes.

It was time to open the paddock.

The turkeys headed down the laneway just as I had planned.

Hooray!

Until they got a couple feet from the driveway.

Apparently, pavement is scary, because they would not BUDGE from their position, even with pressure from me behind them.

And then as if on cue, half of the flock attempted to fly over the netting and escape.

Because they are so big, they didn't quite make it over the net, but did hit the netting hard enough to tumble over it anyway.

GREAT.

Now I had several turkeys in the laneway, and even more outside of it.

The thing about herds and flocks is, in general, they desire to stick together.  That's why if one sheep or one alpaca escapes, I never panic, since they will always hang around the paddock where their mates are.

The same goes for turkeys.  The ones on the outside followed along as I led the others back up the laneway and back into their paddock, then herded them over to their night shelter which consists of a shade shelter with a livestock panel on each end, which we shut them into at night.

Once I got the inside group contained, I opened the paddock and herded the others inside, eventually getting them into the shelter as well.

Now the real fun began, as I could not attempt to herd them down the laneway again, I would have to catch each one individually and bring it to the trailer by hand.

After lifting two nearly-forty-pounder toms I realized I would not have the strength to carry them one-by-one all the way from the shelter to the trailer, so I went and found the wagon and grabbed the biggest dog kennel we had, and caught and transported them two-by-two.

I was utterly exhausted when the last one went safely into the trailer.

By now it was after 4:00pm.  I rushed inside to quick shower and change (I was thoroughly drenched from the exertion of hauling the turkeys), feed the dog, count the cats and if all present (they were), shut them inside the house for the night, then grab a couple of water buckets (in case we got stranded on bad roads on the way there) and head out.

By 4:30 I was on the road, only 2.5 hours past my desired departure time.

Thankfully, the rest of the night was uneventful and the roads that I feared would be slick and snowy were clear and dry.

The friendly folks at the processor even offered to back my trailer up into the loading area for me.

The turkeys herded off the trailer with much less effort than they had required getting on.

The trailer was returned to its owner only slightly muddier than when it left.

Today I ache so badly I almost cannot move.  After morning chores (which consisted of emptying and refilling every single water bucket which had frozen into 4" thick sheets of ice) I had to take a 2-hour nap.

Now that the difficult physical parts of the turkey tale are over, I will have the time and space to grieve the loss of my turkeys, as I do every year at this time.

I will remind myself that another new batch of turkeys will hatch in the spring, starting the cycle all over again.

But the nearly empty paddock will seem lifeless despite the remaining inhabitants - five remaining Sweetgrass turkeys (my breeding flock), and the boys, all of which will be coming up off the hayfield this weekend and settling into their winter paddocks.

And of course there are still the sheep and lambs, the girls, the laying hens, meat rabbits and the Velveteens.

My daily chores and care giving tasks will help me take my mind off of the loss, and will also remind me of a greeting card I once read, the wisdom of children always surprising me:

I once asked a four
year old what the
secret of life was.
"Feed the kitties," she said, "Feed the kitties."
— Ellis Felker

Blessings -

It is 11:00am and I am sitting in my kitchen, watching a 4 month old ram lamb lying on his side on an old rug on my kitchen floor. A hair dryer plays over his wet wool, warming him.

His eyes are open and he is ruminating, both of which are improvements over when I found him this morning in the pasture, lying on his side in a cold rain, eyes closed.

I thought he was dead.

But when I approached, I could see his sides moving. He was still breathing.

I scooped up his tiny body and brought him into the warm, dry kitchen where he now lays.

I have no idea if he will live or die.  But I decided if he is to die today, he will not do so alone in a cold, wet pasture.

Yesterday, a lame turkey poult we had been nursing for two months died quietly in the sunshine in the barn.

Earlier this week, a raccoon reached through the electric net fence enclosing a group of young turkeys and grabbed one, killing it, but unable to breach the electric netting to take it out of the paddock, left it dead where it lay.

This has all happened within the past week.

***

My husband and I and our menagerie of critters have lived on our 40-acre farm in southwestern Wisconsin for a little over two years now.  Prior to that neither of us had ever raised livestock save for a few bum calves my husband and his sister raised as 4-H projects in their youth.

In my youth I loved all animals. I remember going out to spring my dad's leg traps in the garden, and after graduating high school and volunteering on a wildlife rehabilitation center and learning about our industrial methods of raising meat animals, giving up eating meat for the next five years.

I had the very naive idea that I was somehow removed from death through these simple acts.

But the truth of the matter is, we're all going to die some day.  We are all a part of the food chain. We all know this, and yet, we forget.

***

In a world were we are so separated from death - from the neatly wrapped packages of meat in the grocery store to the way we tuck away our aged and sick in hospitals and institutions out of the eyes of the mainstream - we often forget that we, too, will also die some day.

We are born, we live, we die.

We forget that the circle of life would not exist without that little part about death.

We do not get to cheat death just as we do not get to decide where we are born or how long we live.

And so we fool ourselves into thinking we have forever to cross that item off our bucket list, tell that special someone we love them, forgive an old hurt, or try out that hobby that fuels our passion.

***

Living on a farm brings the circle of life into much sharper focus.

I've watched a number of our animals give birth these last two years.  An alpaca cria nose and front two feet emerge from her mama and slip slowly towards the ground as her unbelievably long and gangly body and legs emerge behind.  Not even 45 minutes later, she is taking her first wobbly steps and searching for her mama's milk.

It is a miracle to see a life emerge into the wide open world.

But sometimes, it all goes wrong.

You find the baby lamb dead in the paddock while his sister lamb is up and nursing and healthy.

You watch the tiny cracks appear around the shell of the turkey egg in the incubator, its fluffy siblings peeping nearby, yet the poult never emerges, and you never know why.

The raccoon comes and steals your full-grown tom turkey off it's high roost, the turkey's headless remains stashed in the tall grass of the pasture for you to find in the morning.

***

This growing season has been especially hard on our livestock.  We have lost more animals this season than in the two seasons we've lived here previously.

We raise mostly poultry, with a few ruminants and several dozen rabbits.  It's not uncommon for the weakest kits in the litter to die while their stronger siblings thrive.

It's not uncommon to get a weak batch of broiler chickens from the hatchery who just do not thrive as they should.

But the death toll this year seems unusually unfair.

We have only half of our original flock of broad-breasted turkeys alive today, a result of poor genetics (at the hatchery) and determined raccoons.

Counting aborted fetuses and death from injury and an extremely harsh winter, I have lost half of my small alpaca herd since last fall.

Every single loss affects me, no matter how large or small the critter.  They are all under my care, and I feel personally responsible for their safety and welfare.

When an animal dies, I feel I have failed them in some way. This year, I have felt like I failed a lot.

So what have I learned from all of this death and loss?

gratitude

I have learned not to take the lives of my livestock for granted.

When a healthy baby bounds across the green pasture in pleasure, I make a conscious effort to express my gratitude for this miracle of life.

When my husband checks in with me at the end of the day and asks, "What went right today?"  Sometimes the only thing I can answer is, "Nobody died."  But that in itself is a gift that I am grateful for every day I am able to say it.

Likewise, I am also more grateful for my family and friends, and more conscious of expressing my gratitude for them and to them.

acceptance

I have learned that I cannot control the outcome of many things, despite my beliefs or best efforts.

The electric net fences I have supplied to keep predators out of the paddocks sometimes turn into deadly weapons when the critters they are meant to protect get tangled in them.

That doesn't mean the nets are bad. Some circumstances we cannot predict or prevent.

I am learning to accept the things I cannot control or change.  I don't always like them, but I accept that there is a greater plan for the animals - and the people I care about - that may be beyond my current understanding.

doing my best

I have learned that no matter how attentive we are as caregivers, sometimes animals will still die.

We offer the best possible care we are able to here, with organic supplements, new grass paddocks every week, clean water, sunshine and pure air.

We offer minerals to help boost immune systems, and electric nets to protect from predation.

And yet, animals still die sometimes.

I am learning not to blame myself when this happens - or if I am at fault, to learn from any mistake that was made, then release myself from an unhealthy cycle of shame and blame.

Likewise, I am learning how to forgive others that have harmed me, and release them from my continued judgement and blame for their mistakes.

trusting my intuition

I have learned to trust my intuition when it comes to reading the "animal language" on the farm.

There is always someone puzzling me on the farm.  Turkeys that are wheezing, rabbits that are sneezing, someone looking just a bit "off."  Without calling in the (very expensive) vet every time I see someone "not quite right," I have had to learn on relying on my gut instinct to tell me what might be wrong and what the best course of treatment might be - and when to call in an expert.

If you have trouble listening to your inner intuition, it's best not to rush or force it.  Observe whatever is happening.  Gather as many sensory clues as possible. Does my little ram lamb have diarrhea or very pale lower eyelids?  If so, probably a heavy parasite load.  Is my chicken wheezy?  Possibly mycoplasma.

If there are no clear visible clues, that's when it helps just to ruminate about the situation for awhile.  In a day or two or three, you may have a small idea somewhere in the back of your mind of what possibly may have happened.  The more you pay attention to this little voice, the more accurate it becomes.

I am always pleased when I have suspected a particular cause, then find out later (usually via a veterinarian) that I was right.

You have instincts and intuition for a reason - learn to trust - and use - them.

Teenagers often pose a similar dilemma.  They speak our language, but often we don't understand what they are telling us, or what they need.  Learning to "read between the lines" and listen to your inner voice will help you find solutions.

ending suffering

I have learned that making a critter comfortable or ending their suffering is sometimes the last gift we can give to them.

It is not always possible to tell if a critter is suffering. They don't speak our language, and many have evolved to hide their pain and discomfort.

We practice a form of intervention that follows the thought that if the animal still appears to be fighting for its life, we continue to fight for it as well.  That doesn't mean always calling the vet, but it may mean giving the critter its own space where it doesn't have to compete for food, or giving it a heat lamp so it doesn't have to expend energy to keep warm, or giving it special feed or supplements to help boost its recovery.

Not having to fight for food or resources is sometimes the only thing they need to get their fight back and recover enough to be placed back in the herd or flock.

But often, it just gives them a warm, quiet place to spend their final moments.

giving back

I have learned that giving something to someone else when I am hurting eases the pain of the loss.

When a small animal dies, I often leave it out in the back pastures on a rock for the wild animals who share our farm to get a "free" meal.

Recently one of our nearly full grown Tiger Bronze heritage tom turkeys was fighting with some other toms and got its foot tangled in the electric netting.  The other toms attacked it.  When I found it it was very weak - dying, but not dead.

I donated it to an Amish family with 10 children.  I knew they would use every part of it to feed and nourish their family.

We also regularly donate to charities that are making a difference around the world, like Heifer Project, Int'l, Central Asia Institute, and KIVA are just a few of the organizations we support.

grieving

Although death has come often on the farm this season, it still takes the wind out of my sails, especially if it is an unexpected death of a seemingly healthy animal.

There is always a grief process for me.  Sometimes I ball my eyes out.  Sometimes I just have a heavy lump in my stomach all day.  Whatever the circumstance, I know I have to go easy on myself that day and possibly even the next several.

My energy wanes, I get tired easily, and even the activities I normally enjoy will seem somehow dull and lifeless.

I know this happens, and so I am able to give myself permission to be slow, tired, and sad.

Sometimes I call a friend.  Sometimes I go visit a friend.  Sometimes I take a long walk on the property.  Sometimes I take a long nap or go to bed early.  Getting off the farm for a bit always seems to help.  Writing down what I am processing always helps.

Whatever I need to do, I accept that, and give myself time for the grieving process.

In a few days, I will feel back to my old self again, and life will resume.

honoring the circle of life

Most importantly, I have learned to accept death as a natural, and important, part of the circle of life.

We are all going to die.

For me, it is better to know a critter has lived a short, good life, than never had the chance to live at all.

That's what keeps me getting out of bed in the morning, despite the days where the raccoons seem to be winning, or I find a dying lamb in the cold rain in the pasture.

The lamb will die. Maybe today, maybe tomorrow, maybe in months or years.

I will die.  Hopefully not today, but who knows.

What is it I have left undone in this life?  Who do I need to forgive?  Who needs to hear I love them? I will do it today.

My ram lamb still lays on the rug in the kitchen, ruminating quietly.  Karma, our Siamese kitten, has found him and curled up beside his belly, sharing her warmth, unafraid.

An odd combination perhaps, a boisterous kitten full of life lying quietly beside a dying lamb.

But it all makes sense to me.

Perhaps she knows if he will live or die.

I do not.

But for now, they curl together, sharing the warmth and the quiet.

Blessings -

Sometimes despite all that we do, despite our best intentions and best efforts, an animal will fail to thrive.

The batch of Broad-breasted Bronze and White turkeys I purchased from Sunnyside Hatchery this year was extremely frail and we lost half of them before they were even half-grown.

This little poult was quite lame from a very young age, and despite our efforts (taping her bad leg to her good one, offering her her own space so she would not have to compete for food or water, keeping her in the brooder when all the other turkeys went to live outside, giving her special supplements) she never recovered.

Until finally one day this autumn, as she lay in a sunbeam in the barn, she went peacefully back to the big incubator in the sky.

Every animal that dies before its time takes a piece of my heart with it, even when I realize it was in their best interest.

I hope she and Cricket are having a grand old time now, wherever they are, bodies whole and strong again, soaring above the clouds.

Blessings -

Our second batch of itty bitty broiler babies has arrived!

This batch came from Sunnyside Hatchery in Beaver Dam, WI.

As usual, when I took the boxes into the barn where my kiddie pool brooders were already set up, I took each one out of the box one-by-one, dipped its beak in the food and water, and personally welcomed him/her to the farm.

It's amazing these tiny balls of fluff will be market size in just eight weeks.

Last year I took a photo every day for 56 days.

This batch seems especially vigorous, and I am hopeful they will thrive here.

Also as usual, I will enjoy every single minute they live on our little farm.

Cheers -

P.S. - this batch did indeed thrive - being one of the healthiest batches I have raised in the three years I've been doing it.  We only lost one bird, a small, weak bird that I could tell from the first day would not likely make it.  Every single other bird made it to market day. 

I have a soft spot for baby chickens.

For you two who have been reading this blog for awhile, you'll remember that last year while working at the Big Farm I brought home two injured chickens - Teeter and Raven.

They not only survived but are still thriving, happy members of my own laying flock.

Then this spring, out of a hatch of 50 eggs at the Big Farm, only two survived.  I named them Vim & Vigor, and we were happy to acquire them as new additions to our own laying flock.

Adopting hard-luck peeps seems to be "my thing."

Soon there was another big batch of eggs incubating at the Big Farm.  This time the hatch rate was nearly 50%, and 60+ new peeps were calling the Big Farm "home."

Several small and weak chicks died in the first 24 hours.  Not so surprising.

And then there was Gimpy.

His left wing was terribly stunted and his left leg didn't move.  His right leg was bent at a right angle.  He could only move in circles by kicking his right leg and right wing.

We all expected him to die the first day.  We even tried taking him out of the brooder (the other chicks were picking on him) but he peeped so loudly it seemed he was more distressed by loneliness than by being picked on.

We tried putting him back in the brooder.  Other chicks sat on his head and pecked at his deformed leg.

Another batch of eggs was in the incubator, toasty-warm.  So back he went into the incubator, set closely to a water container and several small milk-jug caps full of chick food.

We expected him to die the first night.  He didn't.

He seemed to accept his fate of being alone, quietly peeping from the incubator, perhaps telling all of his unhatched cousins in the trays above him about all of the wonderful new things they would soon be experiencing in the big, wide world they were about to be hatched into.

Every so often Papa Bear or I would open the incubator and retrieve him from a back corner where he appeared to be stuck.

Eventually he learned to stay up front near the door, so that whenever we opened it, he would literally fall out onto the towel we had placed below it. 

We would take him out and hold him up next to his food and water, which he ate and drank eagerly.

He chattered to us non-stop.  He peeped while he ate.  He peeped while he rested in our hand.  The only time he stopped chattering was when he drank.

We started calling him Cricket, for the chirruping noise he'd make whenever he heard something strange, like the timer alarm on Papa Bear's iPhone.

I don't know what he was trying to tell us with all of that chatter - probably about how lonely and hard his little life was, how unfair it was that he had no use of half of his twisted little body.

But he didn't seem bitter.  He seemed... grateful, dare I say, happy?  Grateful to have a warm hand holding him, a kind spirit offering him water and food. 

We still expected him to die any time.   We weren't sure he was getting much nutrition when we weren't hand-feeding him.  He was still weak and his limbs were still deformed and useless.

But he didn't die.

Three weeks after Cricket hatched, we started making plans to move him to our new farm after the closing.  We could set him up in the same plastic tote that held Teeter during her recovery last summer.

We found a frisbee that we lined with a washcloth.  When we laid Cricket on it, he could move around the frisbee in a circle, the only movement he could make.  We put his two milk-jug caps of chick food in the frisbee, too. And put all of that into the plastic tote.

On Friday, June 1st, after signing the closing papers on our new little farm,we checked on Cricket in his new tote and made sure his food and water were full.  He peeped at us like he always did. We told him we'd be home in a few hours after the market, and that tomorrow was a big day, when we'd all move to our own little farm.  Then Papa Bear and I headed into La Crosse for the Friday farmer's market at Cameron Park.

When we got home late Friday night after the market, Cricket wasn't peeping. He had already moved on to his own Big Farm in the sky.

We had been expecting him to die for so long, why was it still such a terribly sad surprise? 

Saturday morning we took our first load of items over to our new farm.  Several boxes of clothes and garage tools. And a plastic tote holding one tiny lifeless chicken.

We should have felt ecstatic, this brand new beginning in a place longed for for so long. 

When we pulled into our new driveway, we didn't rush into our new house.  Instead, we took out a shovel and the plastic tote and headed over to our one ancient apple tree in the pasture.

We dug a little hole beside the apple tree and put Cricket in it, then we each said a few words and wished that wherever he was now, he was not in any pain and could jump and hop and fly with strong legs and wings.

A small shovel full of dirt and a few tears later, the tiny hole was once again just a part of the pasture.

One small life, gone.  Who would miss it?

Saturday morning we made several trips back and forth from the Big Farm to our Little Farm, moving more of our things.  There was peeping in the incubator again - the new batch of chickens had started hatching.

Chickens take 21 days to hatch.  Cricket lived 21 days.  In my overly-imaginative mind I can only assume he lived that long in order to talk to his cousins while they were growing, to tell them not to be too scared, that the big wide world was bright and loud and sometimes scary, but it was also full of things to explore and good things to eat, and that there were good people waiting for them, people who would take care of them and make sure they lived a good, happy life.

No matter how many or few days that happened to be.

Amen.

Two weeks ago was heartbreaking at the Big Farm. Probably the worst week in over two decades of farming for my friends here. The prolonged heatwave took its toll on babies and mamas, and in turn, on everyone else here, too.

There were times I felt things so sharply I was afraid I might break inside. It was the kind of week that could make you want to quit farming, if you weren't tough enough.

It was with great relief we welcomed a change in the weather last week. My frequent trips to the pasture where the large female herd grazes, to rest my eyes on my girls and reassure myself they were still OK, weren't tainted with an edge of terror for the life of Brigid's cria.

But even so, Brigid kept me waiting, holding onto that cria past her due date.  I counted the days and hoped she would not deliver the moment I got in my car for the long drive back to MN last Thursday afternoon.

Back home at the Little Farm, life was exciting.  My peeps are 4.5 months old now.  I had a feeling we needed to get moving on switching out the feed for our laying hens (from grower to layer) and get them some oyster shell, not to mention, put nesting boxes in their coop.

Boy was I right.  Saturday morning when I went into the barn to put some oyster shell near their dust bathing box, in a far corner I found seven perfect tiny brown bantam eggs!

SEVEN! 

One of my girls has started laying! 

WOO HOO! 

My very first eggs from our very own chickens!!

We're almost positive it must've been Dixie Chick.

For one thing, we only have two bantam-sized chickens - Dixie, and Frickin.  And I'm not sure Frickin is a girl.  Plus, he/she will lay blue or green eggs, not brown. 

For another thing, Dixie's been making quite a racket around 10:00am for a few days in a row, kinda like crowin' about herself. 

{I'd be proud, too, Dixie, you sweet little thing!}

We were so proud we took pictures of all her beautiful, perfect eggs. 

Sadly, an hour or so later, we accidentally dropped them all on the floor, prompting us to quickly mix up a tiny batch of scrambled eggs and fry two of them.  The yolks - oh my goodness me, those bright orange-yellow yolks, like nothing you'll ever see from a factory chicken. 

{Note: Most "free-range" chickens sold in grocery stores are raised without access to the outdoors until 4 weeks of age, at which time they have no instinct or awareness to go out the small door that is finally opened to the green grass outside. They are slaughtered just a couple of weeks later, wearing "free range" labels, never setting foot on real grass.}

No siree, these eggs from Dixie were grass-fed, free-range tiny bits of egg-heaven.

More good news - the two injured chickens I brought home from the Big Farm are recovering nicely.

   

Teeter is catching up in size to Raven, and Raven's broken leg is healing very well - she's even beginning to use it a little.  We were able to move the girls together into the wire dog kennel, and they get along just peachy.  They spend their days out on the grass under the shade of the trees.  At night, they come into the safety of the front porch.  We put Raven on the roost next to Teeter at night.  She can't get up there herself yet, but she will, soon, I bet. She seems to like being up there. She's so quiet, especially compared to the boisterous Teeter.

I didn't think there could be anything else to top all this good news.  And then, just as I was leaving for my weekly trek back to WI Sunday afternoon, I noticed a missed call on my cell phone.  The message?

Brigid had her baby!!! A healthy baby boy! Perfect delivery!

After keeping us on our toes for two whole weeks, he was born on a full moon, strong, healthy, alive, a "spitting" image of his mama, except for the addition of a white chin and two white ankle bracelets.

This morning I watched him romp around this beautiful valley for the first time, meeting his new herd, Brigid never more than a step away from him, humming for her baby. 

At that moment, there was no doubt in my mind about my choice to be a farmer and caretaker, a steward and a shepherd.

Through the tough times, and the good.

Amen.