Goats and Roses

Today our oldest goat got out and ate the roses. Pink petals are scattered on the ground. She destroyed the blossoms and didn't even bother to gobble up the tasty morsels that fell. 

I think it was spite. She's still mad about the two noisy newbies, and she's still missing our chickens. She busted out of a big cattle gate that a visitor had last closed. I'm not sure if an improper closure caused the trouble or if it was just coincidence. 

We came home to find her nonchalantly nibbling near the barn, as if her unrestrainedness was the norm, as if she went no where near the house where the roses are... or rather were. And she acted as if it was nothing to have a truck rumble past her with only a few feet to spare. And then she quietly resisted being put back in her pasture.

My husband is down below the barn repairing the gate now, making thin, hollow percussive sounds. The nearby rasping croaks of the tree frogs and the distant boom of bull frogs are the undertones to a symphony of singing songbirds as dusk falls. The crickets and insects round out the orchestra, trilling like piccolos and thrumming like violins.  I sit with rapt attention, wrapped in the shadows and sounds, soaking in the peaceful cacophony that resonates with  my life. 

Baby Goats

It's been a whirlwind here lately. There's so much that has happened just since my last posting. The haying is done. No rain, a good crop, and it's all stacked in the lower barn. 

There were a few bales that were too green to stack with the rest, and for lack of a better place to put them, they're sitting on lawn chairs on the patio under the gazebo! Now they are off the wet ground, under a dry roof, and getting lots of ventilation for drying. They look like some sort of practical joke or country humor. I wonder how long I'll have to leave them there. 

I noticed some birds eating at a mulberry tree near the house late last week. I stopped at the window for a moment to observe them, and I chanced to catch a glimpse of a scarlet tanager in an adjacent tree. Of course I grabbed my camera and snapped a pic. for proof.

Our trip to Kentucky last weekend went off without a hitch. (One of my Goddaughters received her first Communion... Yay!) She was beautiful in a dress made from her mother's wedding gown. I was glad to get to spend a little time with her. 

I learned from a friend of mine on Monday that the latest testing that she had undergone to determine the cause of her ongoing abdominal pain and burning turned up a lesion on her pancreas. She was facing the diagnosis of cancer, and not just any cancer, pancreatic cancer. That's pretty much a death sentence! We all prayed for mercy. She had a CT scan Wednesday, and a doctor declared her pancreas normal on Thursday. Praise God! She is still suffering and tired of all the ongoing testing. I hope that her medical trouble can be diagnosed and successfully treated soon. But in the mean time I'm sure that her 6 kids and husband are greatly relieved. I sure am!

Monday night we picked up two doelings. One is 100% Alpine, the other is 75% Alpine and 20% Saanen. Yup, they're future milkers. Right now they are milk consumers though.  They have been transitioned to cow's milk, so they're getting whole milk in bottles via "lamb nipples." And boy are they greedy. They slurp, tug, froth at the mouth, and gulp just as fast as they are able! Their little tails wag, they crouch on their "knees," and they are always disappointed when the bottles are empty. 

The white one is the percentage Saanen.

If I don't come armed with a bottle, they nibble at the knees of my pants. They nuzzle the tops of my rubber boots. (They are black like the bottle nipples.) If my hands are within reach, they'll rear up and suck my fingers, hoping that milk will come out. And they cry a lot when they hear anyone coming. 

They like to play with a ball, putting their front hooves on it and walking it about. They also like to play "king of the bench." Maybe I'll put a kiddie slide in their stall soon. That would be entertaining. 

The bad news is that our geriatric goat has been a, "chickens are my herd" goat too long. She's not happy about two bitty, bleating baby goats getting extra attention and annoying her with their noises. She wants nothing to do with them, unless you count menacing them with her hackles up, her ears forward, and her head down until she has them between a fence, gate, corral, or stall wall... and then charging them. We have tried a friendly introduction multiple times, have given her loads of extra love, and have tried to distract her when they are about, all to no avail. So our new goaties have the stall next to hers and they do not intermingle.

Tuesday we went to an event in conjunction with Spaceport Indiana's homeschool space day next fall. All students educated at home were invited to attend a special event that was supposed to include a tour and simulated mission at the NASA Challenger Center. It was a flop. We wasted several hours in the car and a fair deal of gas money. Although the space day event was for 7 year olds and up, the tour was only for 13 year olds and up. And although I had been in contact with someone from Spaceport Indiana repeatedly, and had asked if my younger two could come along, I was never told about age requirements. I was told, "the more the merrier." And nothing on the printed material said so either. And in the end, they didn't do  simulations in the ground control or spacecraft rooms despite having advertised that they would that in multiple locations. It was a, "pay us $500 and we'll do simulations for your homeschool co-op" advertisement session. Well, I'm not even in a co-op these days. I was snookered.

We had the usual music lessons, garbage and recycling drop-off, grocery shopping, errands (like returning summer clothes that didn't work for my kiddos) loads of laundry, piles of dishes, and school work on Thursday. So that's the summary. Today we are helping our neighbors put up their hay. We are also getting ready for my in-laws who are coming "camping" on our property. As my father-in-law has stated, this is his favorite campground. It will probably be a weekend full of fishing and other Grandmom organized events. 

Hay 101

I've been learning about hay for years. Partly this is due to owning a goat. Hay is a large part of what we feed her in the winter. We give her a "flake" of hay at a time. Also, because of where we used to live, I have watched our "neighbors" make hay for cattle for about 12 years. By the time I moved to our new place I knew just by "osmosis" that it was customary to get 2 cuttings a year. I also knew that the hay was cut, dried, flipped, dried some more, raked into rows, and baled. Lastly, I knew that most farmers spread lime on their fields once a year while things were dormant to adjust the pH.

the disheveled way the previous owners left the loft of our hay barn
(It needs needs new siding too!)

Now I am learning more about hay because at our new place we can raise it as a cash crop. Land is usually expensive, so chances are good that people who raise a lot of animals (thereby needing the land for pasturage) have to buy hay. It's usually cheaper to buy someone else's hay than to buy the land to grow it on (not to mention the haying equipment.) It seems that most folks who have enough land to grow their own hay AND raise a number of animals inherited the land. Since we aren't raising animals for sale that need our hay, we are hoping to sell our hay to others.

our upper hay field in the early spring of last year

It seems that raising hay for profit is a bit like gambling. Actually, farming in general has a bit of a gambling element. In the case of hay, the price depends upon when you buy or sell, what the growing season was like the year before, as well as the current year's growing season. For example, due to the weird weather patterns this year, those who chose to hold on to their hay in order to sell it this spring made a profitable decision. Hay is commanding a good price. In certain parts of the country, like Arizona, it's going for $20 a bale! When hay commands a poor price in the spring (say a good hay year followed by an early spring) then you would probably get less money per bale than if you had sold the hay straight off the field and didn't store it until the market was anticipated to be high. And you may end up with old hay filling your barn and no room to store your new hay. Other than weather, the value of hay also can vary due to insect damage, mismanaged soil pH, if your barn roof springs a leak and causes your hay to mold, or if you don't dry the hay enough and end up with spontaneous combustion burning down your barn, etc. The more knowledgeable you are, the more profitable selling hay can be. (Disclaimer: I have certainly oversimplified the whole thing due to my inexperience and for the sake of clarity.)

our upper hay field just before cutting this year

There were occasions in the last 12 years when our farmer acquaintances got in 3 hayings. The growing season started so early here this year, that unless we have an unexpected period of flooding or drought, we should get the rare 3 cuttings this year too. There was also a couple of years when the weather was so extreme that most of the local cattlemen only got one cutting. Last year was just such a year here. From what we currently know, it seems that most years we should harvest more hay than our hay barn can hold. I imagine that we'll try to sell at least one of the cuttings straight off the field this year. That saves us some work, if nothing else. It seems like a safe bet for greenhorn "farmers." And it seems fair to both the buyer AND seller as well. After a (hopefully) normal year, we should know better about how to accurately predict the normal yield and can batter make decisions about how much to put up to sell later.

this year's hay, just after cutting and lying on the field to dry

So far most of our customers have horses. But I think at least one raises llamas and alpacas. So now I am learning the difference between types of hay, and what different sorts of animals need, especially horses.

Our farm was originally a cattle farm. I'm pretty sure that most of it was used for grazing, so the gentleman farmer that owned the place must have purchased much of his hay. When the cattleman/lawyer moved upon retirement, the next set of owners had horses. It seems that they seeded the pastures mostly for grass hay (as opposed to alfalfa or clover- which are technically legumes.) They probably never had more than 4-6 pleasure horses (given the number of stalls on the property) so they had enough land for the horses and the hay.

upper hayfield raked into windrows last fall

We know, from the man that used to run the horse and pony section of our county's 4H program, that our hay is fescue, orchard grass, and clover- primarily red. He was kind enough to give my husband a brief tutorial in hay lore. From this we learned that we have good hay for horses, and that red clover is preferable to white clover. He said that horses tolerate white clover just fine, but it tends to make them slobber, so horse owners usually avoid it in their hay if they can. (He's purchased hay from us, by the way.)

a round bale for our neighbors who raise cattle (from our upper field) last year's hay

What else do I know about hay? I now know that most folks cut hay either with an old-style sickle bar mower or a new, expensive disc mower. Both of these are pulled behind tractors, just as the balers are. Sickle bar mowers are sort of like giant hedge trimmers and have a tendency to get bound up with hay. They also are less tolerant of any stray sticks and their teeth are prone to breaking, so they are cheaper to get a hold of and require more maintenance and skill to drive. Hay can be cut with flail and rotary mowers too, but they tend to chop it up too finely for most people's use. Sometimes hay is fluffed with "tedders" to help it dry. Sometimes it is sprayed with mold inhibitors if it is feared to not be fully dried but needs to be baled anyway. There are even bailers that have moisture sensors and will do this automatically! And hay is raked with..... hay rakes. Finally, hay can be stored in stacks or mows, and by other old fashioned methods, but is most often baled into either round or "square bales." (FYI: always stack square bales on their sides in a loft so that air circulates through the bale and dries any remaining moisture.)

left- fescue (mostly stem and seed)
right- orchard grass (taller, more leaf)

  
Round bales vary in size depending on the baling equipment. The dimensions usually range from 4ft x 4ft to 4ft x 6ft. They are priced according to their size. Damp, musty, moldy hay can give horses respiratory problems. And round bales are hard to store indoors due to their size and limited ability to stack, so they are best suited to cattle, who will even eat corn stalks in years of scarce hay.

  

Rectangular bales are called "square bales." The fixed dimensions of the most common square bales are 14" by 18". The variable dimension can be set anywhere from 12" to 52" on most small square balers. But a bale length of 36" is fairly common because the fixed dimension of 18" is half of that length; therefore, bales can be interleaved when stacked so as to make the stack more stable. A bale size of 14"x18"x36" is about 3 days worth of horse feed. It's also easier to collect off of the field and heft into barn lofts. So that's a size that we ought to aim for if those with horses persist in being our primary market. Smaller (shorter) bales are usually sold by the bale. Larger (longer) bales are usually sold together by the ton. (There are also the pet store-sized mini-bales- which command a tremendous price, by the way.)
  
Last year we had our neighbor make hay for us. The customary arrangement if you have someone else cut and bale is that they get half of the hay for free in exchange for their work. If you help by stacking bales or running equipment, then you can haggle for more. Some folks may try to take a bigger percentage of your hay crop if they think you're "over a barrel." Being at someone else's mercy about when cutting is done, how long the hay is dried, etc. is really frustrating. I recommend knowing your cutting crew well and having a good rapport with them so that any kinks can be communicated and solved quickly and easily. Also, make sure those doing your cutting aren't over-extended. Many who cut others' hay have made too many commitments, and in the end the last folks on the list get late cuttings, the rush treatment, and thereby the worst hay.
  

I'm sure I'm forgetting some things. If you are interested in learning more about hay, I recommend Ronald Florence's Haying FAQ. It contains an abundance of information.

Bluebirds

A pair of bluebirds has recently arrived on our homestead. Periodically, they alight on the board fence behind my house. They sit on the top rail, surprisingly drab looking, scan the surrounding ground, dart down in a dazzling flash of azure to grab an insect, and then flit back to the fence. (Interestingly, the blue they sport is not a pigment in their feathers - the color is caused by light refracting through the physical structure of the feathers themselves. When backlit, the feathers appear brown. That's why they are more brilliantly colored when moving.) 

I notice them while dining, working with my kids in the "stone room," or doing chores in the kitchen. I am uplifted by their presence. And that's not just because they are good for eliminating insects or helping gardens, as the Self Sufficient Gardener podcast asserts in episode 109. You see, bluebirds are a particular sign for me. They bring consolation. They remind me to be joyful.

After my daughter was stillborn about 10 years ago, my heart was broken. I ached with grief. I struggled to wrap my mind around the reality. I remember feeling aimless rage at random things. From the start, I took solace in nature. 

For example, unable to sleep much the night after the funeral Mass, I arose early the next morning to a thick, wet fog. Everyone but my mother was sleeping, so we slipped out of the house into an other-worldy mist, where you couldn't see much beyond an arm-length. A flock of mourning doves rose in a jumble of shadow-forms and the whirring of wings from the yard. We identified them by their soft cooings, which sounded almost harsh in the hushed world of water vapor. Slowly we made our way across a stretch of hay, down the blacktop roads, and to the nearby hilltop country cemetery to gaze at the little mound of fresh earth, to pray. We arrived home filled with peace, but shrouded in grief, shrouded in mist, our minds thick with heavy thoughts, the air matching our mood. Our clothes and hair were soaked, as if tears that would no longer come were oozing from our pores. 

But the beauty of God's creation didn't always bring me solace. I remember one evening, several months later, collapsing into a rocking chair on the beautiful stone-slab porch of our old place, gazing across the road, down the valley of hay where the butterflies danced among the waving seed heads, at the pasture on the next ridge with its contended cows idly munching. After a time, I noticed a rabbit, nibbling dandelions in the grass near our mailbox just across the road. It deftly snipped a flower stem near the ground and nibbled, pulling the stalk bit by bit into its mouth until the fuzzy seeds stuck to the fur on its face like a beard. As usual, the beauty of nature fanned that flickering of hope within me. There was so much beauty in the world. 

Then the rabbit hopped into the road, tentatively thinking of crossing. That's when I heard the car round the corner about 1/4 mile away. I could hear it accelerating, as all cars did on our road. They all turned at the stop sign and just kept increasing speed until they were out of our little community and bounded by hay and woods. This car was no different, and I was paralyzed into inaction. My insides knotted up and screamed. "No. Please... no. Move. MOVE!" 

The rabbit that was so alive a moment before was struck before my eyes. A motionless mound of crushed bones and rumpled fur was all that was left. And instantly I was so hopeless that the anger welled up again. It seemed like such needless death and destruction took place so frequently in our cold world! Like most who face death and loss, things looked particularly bleak to me at moments like those. 

So I began praying to Mary and asking for her to intercede with her son for me. I identified particularly with her under the title of "Our Lady of Sorrows." The mother of Christ Crucified knew pain and suffering. She endured more sorrow than I. Surely she could help me accept this sorrow and work it into something good. After all, her "fiat" (Latin for "let it be done") was an example of how we are called to serve God.

This painting entitled, "Mother of Sorrows"
by William Adolph Bouguereau 
"spoke" to me at that time.

And so I prayed. And when I couldn't pray, I sang. As the song goes by Snow Patrol:

And when the worrying starts to hurt

and the world feels like graves of dirt

just close your eyes until

you can imagine this place, 

yeah, our secret space at will.

Shut your eyes and sing to me.

And so I sang the lyrics of a simple Catholic children's song by Jean Prather and Kathy Dobbin:
  

Mother of Sorrows, 

Lady of Tears, 

Virgin Most Desolate, 

all through the years 

the words of the prophet 

every day are renewed. 

The sword does pierce 

thy tender heart through.

Dear mother afflicted,
I think of your pain:
standing beneath the cross
where your dear lamb was slain.
Teach me to pray
as you prayed with your son,
"Father in heaven,
only thy will be done." 

And when I couldn't even hum that song, I lit candles in front of a statue of her as silent prayers rising to heaven. 

Shortly after turning to Mary in prayer, bluebirds appeared on our old property. They brought a flash of brilliant beauty to me at unexpected moments when I seemed to need comforted the most. I know it all probably sounds trite, superstitious, and silly, but those blue birds seemed like silent messengers from Mary reminding me that despite the fact that this world is imperfect- it is full of splendor and goodness too, that everything has a purpose, that good can be wrought from bad, that I was not alone, that she had taken my pleas to the Lord, that my time on this planet is only part of my existence, that my small daughter had never suffered any earthly pain, and that my daughter was probably in the company of Jesus himself. (How could I not be satisfied with that?!)

I suppose that their blue backs and heads made me think of Mary, since blue is the traditional color that she is depicted in. The rosy color of their breasts and sides reminds me of the liturgical color rose, which symbolizes joy. (Think Gaudete Sunday during Advent- Latin for "rejoice," and Laetare Sunday in Lent- latin for "be joyful.")  And the white of their bellies bore witness to Mary's purity. Whatever the case, and no matter how frivolous and fruity it may seem, I am glad that they have arrived at my new home. They are the proverbial "welcome sight for sore eyes" after the year that I have had (moving away from the cemetery where my kids are buried, leaving the home I loved, preparing it for sale, maintaining it and our new place- which are one hour apart, trying to "dig out" of the state that this new homestead was in, and tending and educating 4 kids from the ages of 2-13 while my husband was preoccupied and travelled a great deal, etc.)

I still grieve for my daughter. (I also grieve for a child that I miscarried a few years after her birth.) At certain times of the year, like the anniversary of her harrowing birth and mother's day, the pain is particularly sharp. But after the passage of time, I can see the good that my children's short lives wrought in me, in my family, and among certain friends and acquaintances. When I see bluebirds now, it is a reminder to pray, "Thank you, God!" For truly, I have SO much to be thankful for.

Bloom Mania

I am a bit keen on flowers. I really didn't know it until I received a camera for Christmas. I have taken a ridiculous number of flower pictures this spring.

Flowers are simply lovely. I am enamored with their gradations of limpid color, the way that light filters through their delicate petals, the gentle movements they make in breaths of air, and the way they cradle drops of water. 

Right now there aren't too many things blooming on the homestead. There are several colors of irises. There are a couple colors of columbines. There's the usual dandelions, buttercups, and white and red clovers.

The tulip trees are in blossom. The blackberries are in bloom. Wild roses cascade along the drive and encrust the circumference of the hay field.

But my muse this week has been the lavender irises. This is mostly because they are right outside the garage door and easy to access on the way to the barn.

Depending upon the time of day, their color shifts to purple.

I like the beards on iris... and the veining. I love the undulating, loose folds of paper-thin petals creating curvilinear curtains that shelter their hollow core.  

I even enjoy pictures of them that happen to be out of focus. Then I can concentrate simply on color. (This is the sheltered interior of an iris.)

Coyote Chase

The coyote sightings continue. This one was even more unnerving. Several nights ago my husband and I went out onto our screened porch after tucking the kiddos in for the night. It was still light out. A light rain was falling. A fog was rising. 

We began sorting out our schedule, chatting about and planning the upcoming and never-ending string of events. Interspersed with this was discussion concerning our children and their antics. We spoke animatedly, laughing and chatting without restraint, since our closest neighbor is over a 1/4 mile away across a hay field, a valley, on the other side of a strip of woods, the dam, and our lower barn. 

These pictures of deer are from earlier this spring.

Two does munched away in the hayfield that lay before us, browsing contentedly as we conversed. At some point during our conversation their tails went up, signaling possible danger. I figured we had disturbed them, despite their relative tameness. But they soon dropped them and began feeding again. Several times they seemed alerted, but always they went back to browsing. It was nothing unusual. We see such behavior frequently, as deer are pretty skittish.

Then the deer suddenly bounded across the hay, easily sailed over the board fence, and stood stock-still in the gravel lane staring back at the field. I scanned the grasses, seeing nothing. (The hay is thigh high by now, seed heads waving atop long stems.)

Throughout these events, we continued talking and laughing. Eventually, I noticed that the does continued to stand in a high-alert state for an unusually long time. I commented on this and again I scanned the field. This time out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed what I thought was a coyote slinking quickly along with her head lower than her shoulders, just before she disappeared behind a thicket that separated the deer from the coyote. It was about 15 yards from where we sat.

I cried out in surprise and alarm, raising my arm to point out to my husband both where I saw the American jackal and were the deer still stood. We jumped to our feet, unsure of what to do or what would transpire. We heard a short, rasping growl and the deer took flight. The coyote was close behind them, and they disappeared around the house. 

We hurried inside and rushed to one of our bedroom windows, hoping to catch another glimpse. The coyote had stopped at the bushes that border the woods. She  was still standing there, as if posing for the camera that I had grabbed from its hook in the hall on the way. With trembling hands, I tried to focus through the rain and mist as dusk fell.

                                                                                                                                        After a short time, she turned around and began to head the direction that she had come, sniffing the air for a few seconds as if unsure about what she should do next. 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        Then she paused, paced in a few slow circles, and tested the wind again.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                  Unhurriedly, but deliberately, she strolled towards the gravel drive. 

                                                                                                                                                                       She followed along the curve of our driveway as we trailed her from window to window in order to get the best view. She even glanced at the house as if she saw us. 

                                                                                                 She continued, seemingly carelessly, to where our cement sidewalk meets the gravel. Then she paused, lowered her head warily, and looked toward the front door, as if she expected someone to come out.

                                                                                                                                                                                          Finally she turned, headed toward the forsythia bushes, 

                                                                                                                                                                                       picking up the scent of the rabbits that had so recently been nibbling dandelions there. 

                                                            With her head down, neck outstretched, and nose to the ground, she slowly slipped into the shadows. We stood there breathless, awed by the close encounter with such a wild creature, astonished at the brazen antics of the intrepid hunter.

The mist continued to curl and rise. Darkness gradually fell. And as the wonder and excitement began to fade, fearful thoughts began to creep into my mind. "That coyote sure got close before I spotted her... I'm surprised that she didn't mind our noise.... It wasn't even dark out... Everything I've read said that coyotes rarely hunt deer and only hunt them in packs... she was only about 20 feet away... The hay field borders our whole back yard... She could have crept up on one of my unsuspecting kids!" Maybe the fears that I touched upon in a previous post about coyotes aren't entirely unfounded.

Macro Photos

As I mentioned in my Morning Moments post, I am amazed by minutia. 

Close-up views of basic things awaken wonder in me... and reverence.  

Here are a few shots of trifles that I took this week.

I told you that I liked dew jewels! I also like stomata and veining. It makes a sort of involuted lace-like pattern. 

 Even spent dandelions are interesting to me when closely examined. Look at the seed left attached by the "parachute." Why didn't it get blown away? Is that a bit of web that I see holding it there? Or is the spider's filament slowly pulling off the seed? Notice the calix folded down so far. Observe the interesting texture left where the seeds have detached.

 Something as simple as a snail can become a thing of fascination for me. Look at the ridges on the shell, the flawless spiral. Notice those strange eye tentacles and the respiratory spores.

Even vinca major leaves are engaging with the right light, perspective, and distance.

Few people like insects of any sort, at least in close proximity- myself included,

but I even find observing an ant through a lens eerily interesting. 

And nearly everyone hates flies, 

but I find them morbidly absorbing on the macro setting. 

Since I have been taking pictures of flowers, I have found that flowers and insects often go hand-in-hand. It seems as though some flowers are the natural habitat for the "wee beasties." I don't usually notice the bugs until I'm closely observing the blooms, but I think that "creepy crawlies" actually add interest to a picture, so once I notice them, I try to include them in my composition. 

I find the intricate detail and tremendous complexity 

of even the simplest of things to be staggering.