Accepted

I've done business with one particular farm in Gladys now 3 times.  Between rabbits and hay we seem to have established a relationship.  So I was pleased and flattered when I went to pick up a few bales of hay yesterday and Mr. Padgett told me I could get it myself.  I was thinking, "Wow, I'm finally being taken seriously as a person who is capable of pulling her own weight!  I am Woman, hear me roar!"  I thought that all the way until I had to pick up the first bale, carry it back through the little barn, lean it against the back bumper of the truck and then hoist it in.  After that I thought, "But can't they see I'm just a little teeny tiny woman and I need Help?"  I finished up, thanking God I only have four goats and they don't eat alot.  I got gas at Lester's Market, sucked on four soft peppermints and a Diet Dr. Pepper and went home to a bottle of Tylenol and the couch.  I've decided being accepted by the men around is like being accepted by a credit card company.  It may be exciting when it happens, but you pay later.

I think I'll wear a skirt and high heels the next time I get hay.  Acceptance is overrated.

The Good, The Bad and The Ugly

The Good:  When I went out to do the evening feeding, I caught four rabbits in the hutch by surprise.  I shut the "hop-away-door" (so they couldn't) and sexed the little ones inside.  Two males, two females.  Two males went over the fence to be on Daddy's side, two females let loose to go back down the hole.  The main entrance to the hole was covered up today, probably heralding another litter.  I'm not sure whether that's good news or bad, just a fact of life for the next month or so.  I believe within that time frame that any possible litters will have been born (including father-daughter offspring.)  I'll be glad then to just work on some harvesting or selling some breeding trios. 

The Bad:  When I was done with the sexing, I saw a little still fuzzy body laying in the back door to the burrow.  They don't lay there, ever, so I took a closer look and it was a dead one from the last litter.  In a strange way I was flattered because they dragged the body to the door and knew that I would take care of it.  The last time it happened they never dragged the body out but took it off into some secret offshoot of the main tunnel.  So I did what was needed and removed the poor little thing and wrapped it up for disposal later.  I have funny feelings about putting the body in the compost pile, so I'll either bury it or take it in the trash to the landfill later.  I know it's a "waste", but I'm not so fanatical about using 'everything' that I can't let it go. (See "The Ugly" for background on this)


The Ugly:  This account dates back to the wethering of the bucks.  I was "doing the deed" out in the back, with Nutmeg and Echo closed out of my "work area", but some loose chickens running around.  After I clipped the testicles and let them fall to the ground the chickens swooped in and ran off with them.  A fight ensued as proper ownership was determined, and the losers came back and tried to peck at Molasses' poor little scrotum.  I took him and his brother inside until they were done bleeding and the chickens were locked up for the night.  Chickens don't believe in wasting anything.  I'm glad I'm not a chicken. 

Meat vs. Veggies

It is a sad truth that I am much better at raising meat animals than I am at raising vegetables.  My freezer, small as it is, may have various kinds of meat in it at any time:  some pork or beef from my daughter's in-laws, rabbit or chicken from my own little endeavours,  and possibly later this year some goat.  (Or if we want to remove it one step from what it is, some chevon or cabrito.)  All of this says nothing, however, as to the state of my refrigerator.  It is showing definite signs of destitution. 

If we could live on condiments, eggs and pink bismuth I believe we would be alright.  Barring that, I shall visit the local Food Lion this afternoon and remedy this sad situation.  Until then, eggs and mustard anyone?  Wheat germ and marmalade?  No?  Oh, well....

Delicious Mess

I cannot be the only one to see beauty in fresh eggs, still smudged with dirt, nestled in my kitchen towels, accompanied by the fragrant warmth of a just used teabag.  Can I? 

Simple Directions

Since we went away on Monday to visit Allison and Joey, we asked a friend to take care of the animals for an evening and a morning feeding/watering/putting away.  I left simple, clear, specific directions.  I even drew a complete map to remove the possibility of any confusion.  For some reason, they seemed to tickle her.

For those who like lists, I provided a written list of feeding instructions.

An overview map of the entire Animal Kingdom so no one would get lost. 

An excellent, see -thru depiction of the Goat/Chicken House

In case the existence of Echo, under the back stairs, went unnoticed, I called attention to it.

Mr. and Mrs. Bunny's Pen mapped, with careful attention to dangerous, ankle-turning burrow holes.

The kitchen area, where the buckets and, as it turns out, an invisible flake of hay were kept. 

Here, Oh Chicken Disciple, is your copy, for your future amusement.

Rule #75

I have many rules.  They are usually for the sake of my sanity.  Today I broke one.  Rule #75:  I am not allowed to watch what I consider a sad movie.  This may range from illnesses resulting in death of a loved character, illnesses resulting in a loss of sanity or mental health of a loved character, death, anybody crying over spilled milk or broken relationships, all the way to dead flowers.  I broke it, and now I am sad and depressed.  I think I'll go play with the goats and see if that helps.  Plus, I think I have to stop reading Cold Antler Farm's blog...at least until spring.  I can't handle all the bad stuff happening to Jenna right now.  I may have to play with the rabbits as well.  Even if they do smell a little funky. 

Jingle Bells

Goats really like to climb and be high.  And if all that is afforded them is a set of steps and a small deck, they will happily claim it for their own.  Echo likes to kneel on the deck in the middle of the night, as evidenced by the piles of goat berries there in the morning.  Nutmeg only likes to climb the stairs if I come out with a treat, in which case she will gallop (yes, a full gallop) from wherever she was and dart up those stairs as if her life depended on it!  And the bucklings love the stairs! 

They play "King of the Mountain", which changes cast members to become "These Are My Stairs, You Chickens!".

They play "This Looks Like a Good Spot For a Nap".  All excellent fun for young, growing goat boys. 

Today I bought all the goats new collars.  The first ones Echo and Nutmeg had were too large, and I finally decided to just get new ones for everyone.  Echo and Nutmeg take a medium dog collar (in case you're taking notes) and the babies take small.  But the store did not have any small dog collars except for pink.  Pink.  So, I got them cat collars in more masculine shades and with the added bonus of a little jingle bell. 

I told Ronny about the collars and he said, "It's the least you could have done for them, giving them jingle bells since you took their jingle balls."  Whatever could he mean? 

Attack of the 50 Foot Anxiety!!!

"Do you have my baby goats?!"

Anxiety is an interesting animal.  It's not domesticated, for one thing, even though it lives in my house.  It is very quiet, sometimes invisible, but then, for no reason at all, it will jump up from under the couch or out of the closet and pounce, claws unleashed!  This morning, while I was vaguely surprised by one such attack, the effect was unusual.  My heart was racing, adrenaline pumping, but I wasn't emotionally involved.  It was a physical attack, but not an emotional one.  I have never had one like that and it was quite curious. 

But later today, when I was giving everyone their dinner out in the "barnyard", I couldn't find Molasses or Cinnamon and I was truly upset. I had images of baby goat thieves staking out our backyard and waiting for the opportunity to strike.  Baby goats tied up like hogs in the trunk of a car, bleating and crying for help.  Ransom notes delivered under the cover of darkness.  Did I have hoof prints for comparison?  Did I have recent photos?  Did they have distinguishing marks?  All such hysterical notions vanished when Cinnamon sensed my fears and hopped down from his perch atop a straw bale under the back steps.  He bleated at me and ran up to me.  "I'm here!  Look where we've been hiding!  Isn't it fun?!"  If I was his mommy I would have spanked him!  But I was so glad to see him that I let him carry on as if I hadn't been concerned at all.  We Goat Grannies have to play it cool, you know. 

Woasted Wabbit

Let me start off just picking a fight.  Okay?  All the controversy out there about eating rabbit is silly.  There.  I said it.  It's no different than eating chicken, pork, beef, etc.  It's an animal, albeit with fluffy cuteness, and if you eat meat it's up for grabs.  Having started on my soapbox, let us continue with the second point of contention:  Is rabbit tough or tender?  This, also, is silly.  If your rabbit was tough, the fault was not in the rabbit, but in the manner of cooking.  Rabbit, my friends, should be cooked in a moist heat method.  Slow cooking.  With liquid.  Got It?  And the final controversy over rabbit is Taste.  No, it does not taste like chicken.  Or pork.  Or beef.  It tastes like rabbit.  But, if I had to compare it to something, chicken would be the best comparison.  The flavor is subtle, the texture soft (it fell off the bone when cooked), and it absorbs the flavor of it's surroundings quite well.  There was tendency for the meat to take on the color of the spices, and this was slightly off-putting, but once you get past the outer layer it is white and pretty. 

I went online to a homesteading site to find a plethora of rabbit recipes.  Since I had not yet eaten any and was prone to being concerned by all the "rabbit rumors" out there, I picked a simple roast which was a little heavy on the seasonings.  I know now I would go for my subtle seasonings, myself, but taste is such an individual thing that others would think it fine. 

First step, browning the rabbit pieces.  This is slightly less than one rabbit.  I threw a section of the back in the bag with the other rabbit because it was just so much meat for our little family. 

Next step, remove rabbit from pan, brown onion and garlic (we used powdered garlic and skipped the browning for it).  Place rabbit back in pan.  Add 2 cups chicken broth.  I have a frozen container of Rooster Broth from earlier this year and in it went.  Add 1 teaspoon each of Thyme, Rosemary, Basil.  Add 1/4 teaspoon black pepper.  I added carrots so I would not have to cook a separate vegetable.  Cook for 4-5 hours at 250 degrees in a cast iron skillet with a lid.  That's it.  When done, it smelled wonderful, tasted a little spice heavy, but certainly not the fault of the rabbit, and I used the broth to make a gravy which was served on rice. 

When all was said and done it looked just like chicken and I don't think Craig would have known if someone hadn't said what it was.  At that point he announced his body was not used to rabbit.  But I meanly made him eat three bites drowned in A-1 sauce.  Ronny ate two pieces, I had one.  There is plenty left over for a soup, although I think I would add the rabbit at the last in the soup since it is already so tender.  Maybe five minutes before serving?  Also, it would be good as a salad or in a sandwich. 

I have another rabbit in the freezer which I had intended to give/sell to a brother at the Hall, but now I'm thinking twice on that.  Once you go through all that work you really just don't want to give it to someone else, you know?  Or maybe it's just that I'm selfish and stingy.  Could be.  I don't like to give my bread away either.  Same reason.  I'm kind of like "You want homemade bread?  Make it yourself!  You want rabbit?  Fine.  I've got some extra does.  You catch it, you kill it, you butcher it and I'll only charge you 5 bucks (lol) for the privilege!"  I obviously have to work on my generosity.  If angels stopped by my house unawares, would I feed them my fatted rabbit?  Hmmmm....

I'm Too Old For This Stuff

Yesterday morning, while bringing hot buckets of water out to the animals, I slipped on the icy back steps and took a ride down them on the right side of my body.  Mostly my back, elbow, and shoulder.  I ended up on the ground soaked in hot water and unhappiness.  But the animals must be attended to, so I went back in, stripped right in the mud room, took clean clothes out of the dryer and went right back out.  But this time I wore some ice cleats that Ronny had been given from his employer.  They slipped right on over the bottom of my chore boots and dug nicely into the little ice blanket that seemed to be covering everything.  I only wish I had thought of them earlier. 

Needless to say, today I feel yucky.  Stiff, sore, tired, achy, bummed. As of today I vow never to fall down the stairs again.  I'm giving up the habit.  I quit, cold turkey.  Do they make a patch for that?

Wether Weather

"Call Social Services!  We're being abused!"

The goatlings were exactly 11 days old today.  The process of castrating surgically, which I had in mind to do, is recommended to be done at no later than 10 days.  In hindsight, I would not put this off past 7 days, and maybe it could be done earlier. 

For those looking for an informative post:  One person holds the soon-to-be-buckless  in a rather undignified position, both back legs held up to his ears, exposing the area of interest, specifically the scrotum.  This is an impressive little sack, full of things which we do not want.  The other person uses a sharp knife (note to self:  invest in a scalpel) to open said sack, squeeze testicles out, pull the cord until it releases, spray with disinfectant, release buckling. 

As is often the case here at Good Enough, this ended up being a solo endeavor, as all Testicularly Intact Individuals could not deal with the matter.  The directions were followed without much difficulty until we got to the cords, the cords rumored to just magically detach.  They did not. They had to be cut.  They bled, becoming a point of concern.  I brought the poor eunuchs into the house to keep an eye on them, putting a cold compress on their sad little scrotums.  (Spell checker informs that the plural of scrotum is scrota.  Who knew?)  After a half an hour they seemed out of danger, although the book which reports that they will walk away with a stiff legged gait did not tell the half of it.  They just wanted to huddle together under the hay hanger, their wee little heads hung in shame. 

"I just can't face anybody right now.  Tell them to come back tomorrow."

All in all, it was a learning experience.  I would do it earlier next time, I would have a scalpel, I would have super glue to seal the cord after cutting, and I would enlist the assistance of a female since the operation seems to have a negative effect on all males in the vicinity. 

Gallimaufry

There are things that I blog, but then delete, that are perfectly worthwhile things.  Their only fault is that they interfere too much with the flow of the story or just seem to strike a discordant note at the time.  Here, for your reading enjoyment, is an assemblage of such oddments.

*Whenever I write a particularly convoluted sentence, in my mind appears the spectre of Sister Mary Denise.  She strikes me with her blackboard pointer, intoning "I would like you to diagram that sentence for the class, with special attention to dangling participles, subject predicate, and independent clauses."

*I prefer the British spelling of many words, which my spell checker constantly attempts to correct.  Yes, Mister Spell Checker, I did mean to say Spectre, Theatre, Catalouge, Judgement, Arguement, and Grey. 

*When Peter wrote "In like manner, you wives, be in subjection to your own husbands, in order that, if any are not obedient to the word, they may be won without a word through the conduct of [their] wives"  is throwing a dish rag at their head included? 

*So, while I'm chasing his children around the pen in an effort to catch them for slaughtering, Mr. Bunny takes time out to shtup his daughter.  Seriously, Mr. Bunny?  You have serious issues that need to be addressed in therapy. 

*If you didn't highlight that word and then click on "Search Google for..." I'm not working hard enough. 

Goat Jewelry

Happy Family

After being the Agent of Death yesterday, it felt good to spend some time today with new life.  Since I'm not bottle raising the two bucklings, it's important for me to spend time with them so that they become people friendly.  The Hyperactive Twins were settling down on the the old deck platform in the backyard ready to take a nap. Since they were getting ready to nod off in the midday sun, I was able to scoop them up without a chase and make nice with them.  Cinnamon was much more relaxed than his brother, Molasses, who would only be my friend once I started scratching his sides.  He liked the scratching so much he climbed into my lap and let me curl him up in a little ball so I could check his scrotum.  Romantic picture, isn't it?  I was combining two necessary things:  making friendly goats and checking out the territory for wethering.  Everything was good, things look doable, and I believe they will forgive me once I divest them of their family jewels.  I've never cared much for jewelry, you know. 

Warning: Graphic Photos of Rabbit Butchering

I do believe that if you are going to spend your afternoon working with death you should spend your morning working with life.  Everlasting Life.  So, I spent this morning in the ministry, assisted cleaning the Kingdom Hall, went home to care for the two most helpless men in the the Known Universe, and by 2:30 I was outside doing what must be done if a person is going to give their meat rabbits a purposeful life.  The hardest part of the whole process was catching the two bucks.  I caught the does with some effort, and put them in with their mother, and then harvested the two buck teens.  Viewing it as a biology lesson made the task easier. 

Two buck meat rabbits all bled out 

 I have read all sorts of descriptions of how to hang the rabbits.  I must say that some clothesline and a board which topped the fence in that spot were more than sufficient.  My pocketknife was all that was required to dispatch the stunned rabbits.  More force is required to stun them than you might think.  If you are planning on doing this, do not hold back your strength.  Be decisive, unhesitating. 

In the kitchen to begin the butchering phase

 From this point on the only tools employed were a pair of Kitchen Shears, some slight use of a non-serrated steak knife, and a large pair of clean Pruning shears, 

Removing the pelt carefully so I don't damage it or any internal organs.

 One pelt was much easier to remove than the other.  This may be the origin of the expression "thin-skinned".  The second rabbit was very thin skinned. 

One Rabbit Pelt, One Skinned Rabbit with his boots on

Yes, pruning shears are the best way to cut through those difficult joints. 

The stomach cavity emptied of all its contents, but we still had to deal with those rabbit private parts. 

 There was no information in my resource book for handling the private parts of the rabbit.  I managed to deal with them without much difficulty, but I wish I had had more information on them, maybe a diagram. 

8 pieces of rabbit all ready to soak in salt water for a couple of days. 

All in all, it was a good experience. I wouldn't want to do it every day.  From start to finish took me just under 3 hours and I was glad it was only the two instead of the four I had thought it might be.  Ronny called me after the whole thing was done and said I was very brave.  I replied with his favorite line, "I married you, didn't I?".  We all agreed that this had required bravery and concluded by agreeing it was good that I had neither skinned nor eviscerated him.  Yet. 

Death and Taxes

It is said that there are only two things certain in this world:  Death and Taxes.  Today was spent with the latter.  Even with the lovely invention of e-file taxes are a pain.  They would actually have been easier to do on paper, but then you don't get the advantage of early filing, quicker payment of your refund.  And I discovered too late that Virginia doesn't provide i-file any longer.  The problem here was that I had filed a free Federal Return already, planning to i-file with the Virgina, and then was left out in the rain with no ability to file a free state return without filing the federal which I had already filed!  So, I had to download the paper forms, the instructions and the patience to wade through all that and paper file my state return.  Bummer and a half.  And for some reason Adobe Reader had disappeared from my computer and I had to download that in order to view and print out my federal copy.  Does anyone want to guess how long that takes to download on dial-up?  Whatever you guessed, you were under by hours.  I could have driven to Norfolk and looked at the Ocean in the time it took.  But, it's done, thank goodness. 

That leaves Death.  Tomorrow afternoon, after I come back from trying to assist people with their search for everlasting life, I will bring death to Good Enough Farm.  It is time to slaughter the rabbits.  I know, I've put it off, but the truth is the tipping point was realizing how much feed they are going through.  Mercenary thing, aren't I?  So, to put a stop to all this unwanted consumption there is only one solution.  Four rabbits must be sacrificed for the good of my wallet.  Thankfully, the four in question separated themselves with their Father in what shall come to be known as the "Butcher Pen", and all I had to do was block the door.  So, we'll take pictures, or not, and let you know how that turns out. 

And, lastly, for those following The Epic of Echo, she has seemed to settle at last into her new role as Auntie Echo.  Though she in not the sort of Auntie who gives you toffees out of her purse, or has a lace hankie for you to blow your nose.  She is more the sort of Auntie who hisses, "Go Away, Kid, You Bother Me" under her breath when your parents are not listening.  But I haven't seen her rocking in a chair with a butcher knife yet so we may be safe.  Although if she had a butcher knife maybe she could help me out with the rabbits.  Oh well......

Shakespeare for Goats

It was Shakespeare who wrote "Frailty, thy name is Woman!"   On the face of it this is an illogical statement, because he just called it Frailty, so obviously that is it's name, but that is neither here nor there for the purposes of our discussion today in which I am rewriting Shakespeare to read "Deception, thy name is Echo!"  For it is.  You see sweet little Echo, my favorite goat until Nutmeg showed her pregnancy and I disloyally switched favorites?  You see her up there, waiting so patiently outside the door where Nutmeg and her two little bucklings are shut up?  "Oh," you say. "Sweet little Echo is so lonely and forlorn.  She misses her sister so.  Poor little Echo."  Lies, I tell you!  It is a sham.  For the real truth, Gentle Reader, is that Echo is only waiting for me to open the door so she can

TAKE OVER!  

Yes!  She waits until Nutmeg runs out and then she butts the little sweet jumping beans out of the shed and she Takes Over.  She stands guard in the doorway and will not let anyone back in.  No One.  She pushes Molasses and Cinnamon off the little ramp and butts them so they bleat for Mommy.  Of course, Mommy comes and then she and Echo have a butting contest.  When Echo refuses to accept defeat, Nutmeg squeezes by her in the doorway and pushes her out!  The Family Drama is Riveting!  This has been going on for three days now.  We will keep an eye on matters to make sure no one is harmed in the filming of this Soap Opera, and will keep you updated on the Continuing Story of One Goat Family in Turmoil.  Stay Tuned. 

Visitors!

In my mind, I am the boy with the castle on his head, Craig is the fish in the bowl.  I will not assign Mrs. G or her girls, they will have to do that for themselves. 

Today, while going through my email, I saw a message from Mrs. G of Providence Farm, which all by itself would brighten my day, but when I read that she was in possession of her electric dehorner and was willing to come to my house and dehorn my bucklings, well, the sun came out and the angels sang!  Visitors!  I checked that the bathroom was clean, the dishes were done, the beds were made, all poop was swept from the back door (a futile effort since it was redeposited shortly after) and anbesol & Vaseline & a styptic pencil were by the back door in case they were needed.  I called her to make sure that it was still convenient for her to come by.  She gave instruction to shave the boys heads well because their hair is very smoky when it burns.  I went out and tonsured the boys (visions of Catholic monks ran through my head. They were singing in Latin and making cheese at the same time.)  I waited excitedly by the windows.  Wow, they were dirty windows!  I ended up Windexing them while I waited.  I tried to watch TV but it was too hard to sit still.  When I heard their vehicle pull up I ran and got my boots and went out on the front deck to meet them.  She was accompanied by two of her beautiful daughters who were invited to go inside, since I'm sure that goat dehorning does not hold quite the thrill for them as it does for me. 

I meant to take pictures, but instead I stood as surgical nurse to Mrs. G's surgeon.  She held the boys front legs between her knees and their body over her leg and they were really quite good.  I had not thought of this position when I shaved their heads, which I had accomplished by zipping them up inside my jacket like a little papoose, leaving only their heads out so that I could shave them.  See, that's we we look to the professionals!  She was very instructive as she worked, explaining how she marked the horns first, then burnt one growth ring at a time, assessed it, and then went back over if needed.  They looked excellent when we were done, and as promised elsewhere, while you would have thought they were dying from all the 'MAAA"-ing going on, the second they were put down and back with their Mother they were completely fine.  Not a care in the world.  But that's classic male behavior.  They never let up that they are in pain.   "What, in pain?  Why?  Just because someone burned two holes in my head?  Nah!  One time I chopped my leg off and I didn't even notice it for a week!"  That's a guy for you. 

Now, in my husband's book when you done what you came to do then you leave.  While he is a very sweet man he is not the most sociable individual you will ever meet.  But, thankfully, Mrs. G is not of that school of thought.  She came in, the girls joined us while Craig hid in the closet (don't ask, I don't know why) and we had tea and oatmeal cookies and sealed our eternal friendship.  We are Constant Comment Friends now and that is an unbreakable bond.  After she left Ronnie cracked his bedroom door, where he had managed to sleep through our "kaffeeklatsch" (although technically it wasn't since we drank tea and not coffee, and I wouldn't call it gossip since it was all upbuilding and encouraging, but it gives the flavor of the thing), Craig came out of the closet and we brought the boys in for a photo session. 

"And a good time was had by all.  The end."

Old Goats, Young Goats, An Assortment of Bucks

Young Goat, Old Goat

Two Young Bucks

One Old Goat, Three Young Bucks

One Young Buck Who Did Not Pee On The Floor Because He Crossed His Legs

Ruminations

There are many ruminants here at Good Enough Farm.  The rabbits, which technically speaking are not ruminants, certainly appear to chew the cud throughout the day.  The goats are big on re-chewing partially digested food.  And while I can claim neither a multi-chambered stomach nor the wondrous habit of regurgitating my food daily, I do believe I can confidently claim to be a human ruminant.  For example, with the birth of the bucks came many a decision to be made:

• To dehorn or not
• To wether or not
• To descent or not
• To sell as bucks, wethers or meat or to keep as bucks, wethers or meat
• To bottle raise or to let them nurse

I cannot tell you the hours I spent agonizing over some of these decisions.  I cannot express how sick it made me to think of depriving Nutmeg of her babies.  I posted an ad on craigslist and then took it off within less than 24 hours.  I prayed to Jehovah to give me peace in making decisions about them.  And then this morning, after several offers for the bucklings appeared in my email, I knew with crystal clarity that I was going to keep those little jumping beans.  I knew that I would dehorn them, although not right away, that they would be wethered, but not right away, descented, but not right away, allowed to nurse part time when I decided to milk Nutmeg, and lastly, that we would harvest them at the appropriate time.  As bizarre as it sounds, I cannot bear to part with them so much that the only solution is to eat them later.

I know.  Yet I have complete peace over the whole matter.  The mysteries of the human soul never cease to amaze me.

Visiting the Past

My Mother had an Irish/English heritage.  My Father was first generation Italian-American.  It was from his side that we learned bits of Italian--an Italian nursery song, counting to five, an odd phrase here and there. I always wish I knew more Italian, more of that culture, more about my heritage.  Sometimes I find little hints in odd, roundabout ways. 

Craig had me looking for a lullaby the other day and I found a page of  Italian Lullabies reflecting a life that most people no longer lead.  They are honest songs, mentioning exhaustion, endless chores, the life in a small village or farm.  They are far more beautiful than "Lullaby and Good Night" in that they are real.  Come, visit a small child's bedside at the fall of evening in the land that my father's family left to come to America. 

• Mother's Song to Little Hans

"Be quiet now, my little boy.  Please lie down to sleep.  Mum is sitting by your bed Singing rock-a-bye.  Mum is so very tired.  She badly needs to rest.  It is dark and late at night.  Go to sleep my child."

• Hullee, baby 

"Hullee, baby, I’m rocking you. After you fall asleep I’ll leave you. I’ll go to the garden, to the valley for raspberries."

• Go to sleep, my Simone

The shepherd cries when it snows,
he doesn’t cry when he eats the‘Ricotta’*.

The shepherd cries when it rains,
he doesn’t cry when he eats the ‘Caciole’*

Hush a bye, my Simone,
You will learn your father’s art,
You will learn to use the cross-cut saw,
Hush a bye, my Simone.

Hush a bye, my sweetie,
Your dad has come,
he has brought a little hat for you,
Hush a bye, my sweetie.

Hush a bye, rag baby boy,
Until it will be half past twelve,
Until the bread in the oven will be ready,
Until it will be half past twelve,

Until the bread will be ready,
the damsels are in the square,
my baby is in his big bed,
and sleep, my Simone.
 *Caciotta: a soft cheese from Central Italy
*Ricotta: soft white unsalted cheese

• Star, Little Star

Star, little star
The night is approaching:
the flame is tottering,
The cow is in the cowshed.
The sheep and the lamb,
the cow with the calf,
The hen with its chicks,
The cat with its kittens;
and all are sleeping
In the mother’s heart!
   
I have to confess to loving  Go to Sleep, My Simone the best.  How can you not love any song that talks about Ricotta?

Goat History

Molasses in mid frolic and Goat #1

Only a goat nerd would get excited about the history of their goat, I'm afraid.  Color me nerdy.  Mrs. G informed me of the history of my goats today and how their ancestry included a purebred Oberhalsi, whose coloring is reflected in Goat #1.  I checked out Wikipedia and found the following: 

The Mini Oberhasli, also called an Oberian, and formally called Miniature Oberhasli, is a dairy goat that was created by breeding a Nigerian Dwarf with an Oberhasli. It is most often colored red bay with black markings, although it also may be pure black and only rarely red (not accepted for registration). The Mini-Oberhasli should be a mid-sized version of the Oberhasli dairy goat. At this time, one trait that came exclusively from their Nigerian ancestors is still allowed: blue eyes.

By Winkies!  (inside joke, Mrs. G) I think she's right!

Can't Smile Without You

Echo was very lonely today.  Nutmeg spent all but maybe a half an hour in with her kids and Echo was forlorn.  But later when I tried to let her in and see the babies she was freaked out and wouldn't go in.  She turned and went back to the space under the stairs, her head hanging.  Poor Echo. 

Now, on an udder note, (get it, an udder=another, lol!), I compulsively udder check the girls,  (well, except Nutmeg because I know she's not pregnant), and I was checking Echo and she looks suspicious.  I'll have to keep an eye out.  I've had the girls since the end of October, so---November, December, a week of January--she could definitely just be showing now if she got pregnant even at the end of September.  Hmmm.   Maybe this is my chance for a girl!  I love the boys, I do, they are adorable and a half.  They make me smile and laugh like a crazy person, but they are not girls.

Finally, a little story about Goat #2.  When he was born he was a little slow getting going.  He was a little slower than his brother in walking--okay, like five minutes, but still--and he had a devil of a time figuring out where the ninny was.  Seriously.  He bonked a leg.  He bonked me.  He bonked his brother.  He bonked Nutmeg's belly.  I put the ninny in his mouth and he couldn't figure out what it was til the third try.  Okay, not the brightest bulb in the bunch.  So, I was talking to The Chicken Disciple, telling this story, and she ups and says "You should call him Molasses, 'cause he's slow."  I whooped, right there in the Kingdom Hall, and that was it.  So, Goat #2 is now Molasses.  We're still looking for a moniker for Goat #1.  Top contenders are Cinnamon and Clove, mostly because of color. 

Thoughts, anyone? 

Thursday, January 6, 2011

When I got up this morning I mentally dedicated the afternoon to the rabbits.  Today I would block the the little doorway between pens as I attempted to secure the teens in their own pen.  This was much easier than I had imagined as three of them were already in the pen and all I had to do was balance a cinder block in the little doorway to cut off their access to the original pen.  Conveniently, the babies can use the hollow of the block to travel back and forth, but the teens are too big and so are stuck.  I stuffed the "basement" of the hutch with straw, made a nice bed of it in the hutch, gave them food and water and called it a day. 

As I walked back toward the house I glanced in the goat shed and Nutmeg was in there--nothing out of the ordinary there--but she was laying down.  She saw me and gave the most plaintive, distressed bleat!  I immediately went to her and she was pushing to beat the band!  Within 3 minutes she had delivered her first kid still in the sack! 

I made sure the nose and mouth were clear and then ran inside for my "birthing bucket".  I came out to assist and found Nutmeg standing outside the shed looking at this foreign being with confusion, licking her lips obsessively.  I realized she needed to come back in but she wouldn't budge.  I also quickly realized that she was going to deliver again so I heaved her bulk back inside.  She began licking the wee goatling, paused long enough to go down on her knees again and deliver baby number two.  She virtually ignored the poor thing in her licking frenzy of Goat 1, so I took over her duties and toweled the little thing off. 

Goat One found the teats and began to nurse, but Goat Two took repeated tries before finding what was needed.  So, all fed, all dried, all happy. 

A rather amateurish examination reveals that they are two little boys.  I have to admit to being slightly disappointed, having wanted girls, but que sera sera.  I'm looking for names in the Spice Family, following the tradition set by Nutmeg.  Any suggestions? 

Good Day

You have to understand how it is.  I homeschooled both my kids, and even when I worked outside the home I worked nights so I would be with the kids during the day.  So, when I have an opportunity to be By Myself, it is a luxury.  Yesterday Craig had a difficult morning emotionally and I was so glad that he was better by the afternoon.  I was able to go out in the back and tackle the rabbit fencing.  I ran the new 1 inch poultry netting all the way around the new rabbit pen, set the "hutch" up on cinder blocks to minimize the chance of flooding or snow blockage, lined the edges with old branches or slender tree trunks, found an old part of a stump for the rabbits to play hide and seek with, and then viewed the results with satisfaction.  Now I just have to catch those babies and separate them by sex. 

We had an old fishing net from somewhere and I tried using it to catch the rabbits but it always fell short and the rabbits just looked at me funny. "What is she doing?"  Before I wet my pants laughing at myself I decided to give up on that particular plan and hatch another.  So today I am going to cut a small "door" in the fencing and encourage the rabbits to travel into the other side.  The burrow-less side.  Once they are trapped in my evil clutches secured on the other side the real work can begin of catching, sexing, and then separating. 

All this work has been done under the watchful eye of the goats, who insist on coming up and tasting my tools--hatchet taste, hammer taste, rope taste, finger taste, pants taste--and the chickens, who congregate wherever the goats are.  It's like some sort of farm parade, with the goats being the lead float.  The lesser floats follow in their wake, Mrs. Duck the loudest float of all.  I think that makes me the baton girl marching in front in her shiny boots and her silly hat. 

Nutmeg's pregnancy is becoming more fun for me:  I got to see and feel some hooves through her belly.  I introduced myself to the little one and it nudged back.  Absolutely Awesome, in the truest sense of the word.  She is oozing a little more and I keep checking her ligaments, now that I know what I am doing.  I have to get a "birth bucket" ready with paper towels, molasses, maybe some iodine for the umbilical cord, a pair of shears, a glass of wine, stuff like that. 

So, Friends, I can say that in spite of the difficulties, it was a good day. 

Beatrix Austen

I was looking out the kitchen window this afternoon, doing the dishes.  It was raining a bit and the only animals out and about were Mrs. Duck and Nutmeg.  Echo stood in the doorway of the Goat Shed looking rather forlorn.  It was at this moment that I realized Who My Goats Were!  (And Mrs. G, this is all your fault with your cows named Jane and Margaret!) 

I saw at once that Echo was Jane, who, sent into the rain,  came down with a cold of such epic and dramatic proportions that she could not move from bed for a week.  No wonder poor little Echo stands in the doorway, afraid to get a single drop upon her delicate nose! 

This leaves the role of Lizzy to Nutmeg, "crossing field after field at a quick pace, jumping over stiles and springing over puddles with impatient activity, and finding herself at last within view of the house, with weary ancles, dirty stockings, and a face glowing with the warmth of exercise."  The resemblance in uncanny! 

Now, if Mrs. G*. will only write and tell me a tale about Margaret and Jane I shall be content!


*(Mrs. G resides in cyberspace at one of my favorite blogs http://providence-farm.blogspot.com/)

History Makes Me Cry Sometimes

Once upon a time, in the tiny town of Concord, Virginia, there sat a pretty little Train Station right by the tracks.  It sat there happily, doing it's job day and night and never once complained.  But times changed.  One day Some One of Importance Decided that the little Train Station was no longer needed.  I'm sure that the little Station shivered in it's boots.  What would happen to it?  Would it just be carelessly destroyed now that it was no longer of value to Some One?

I am happily to tell you that Some Body saw some value in that little Train Station.  And they moved it.  That pretty little Station is older now.  A little Grey with arthritis in it's joints.  It shivers and creaks in the wind, pulls it's wrap around it's shoulders and dreams of better days.

I wish it was in my backyard.  I'd bring it tea every day at four.  I'd rub Ben-gay into it's joints and let it ramble about the Olden Days. But either way, I'm just glad that I can visit and listen to how it was before I was even a twinkle in my Father's eye.

Procrastination

The above image is from "Life as a Polyface Apprentice."  It is not mine.  And this is why: 

I had said to myself that I was going to butcher the rabbits this weekend.  It was going to be warm.  Perfect time to do it.  Yet, I didn't.  I couldn't decide if they were big enough.  I know that they are about 2 1/2 months old, but they don't seem all that large in comparison to the parents.  In comparison to the second litter, they are a good size, but I still couldn't seem to make up my mind.  Truthfully, I'm think I'm just putting off the nasty.  So, to shake off excuse 1 (They're not big enough) I shut up the hutch with a couple first litter rabbits in it and picked one up.  Probably 4 pounds.  So a week or two won't hurt, I guess.  I just have to put my mind to it and do it.  If I'm going to be serious about the meat rabbits I need to be serious.  Someone at the Kingdom Hall found out I had meat rabbits and got so excited I was scared for their heart health.  It seems they want one, butchered, and for some reason that made me greedy.  I only have 4, I said to myself, and all the time and food it took really can't be compensated for, I said to myself, and one little rabbit won't satisfy their appetite, I said to myself....but I think it's just procrastination. 

Time to man up, Laura. 
I don't think it's working.
Sure it is.  You just need to go over the tutorial a few more times. 
Okay.  I'll study the steps til I could do it in my sleep.  Can I?
What?
Do it in my sleep?  That might be easier.
Wimp. 


Image:  http://polyfaceapprentice.blogspot.com/2009/01/butchering-rabbits.html