Old Tricks

Mrs. Duck is back to her old bullying behavior.  She pecks at the chickens toes when they are on their roost at night so that they come down off the roost.  She pecks through the divider in the chicken house which separates the baby chicks from the grownups, knocking the baby chick's waterer over.  If there is something on the ground to eat, she will intimidate the hens so that they are afraid to come up and eat.  She is back to that sort of cackling evil quack she had  when Mr. Duck was still around.  She may have to be segregated again just for the protection of everyone else. 

I would feel bad about this, but I've never cared for Mrs. Duck.  She exists solely because of my husbands sentimental attachment to her.  If a fox just happened to eat her I would only be upset due to the possibility that he could then attack the hens. 

That probably makes me a bad person. 

Nah. 

Psycho Therapy

The Goodwife suggested a good counselor.  I have to say my best results have come from these guys here.  A sense of peace and contentment that is readily absorbed absolutely exudes from them.  So after lunch I went out for a nice therapy session.  Their fee is very reasonable, I must say. 

Cagney and Lacey, from right to left.

Mrs. Duck and one of The Squatter Twins commiserating over the loss of the goats.

Squatter, the First, in one of her favorite laying spots.  Isn't she just perfection?

Mrs. Bunny takes good care of all her children and grandchildren.  She will soon have an empty nest while we all catch our breath.

I hope you have enjoyed sharing in my therapy session for the day.  Mrs. Bunny said she can make special time for you in her appointment book.   She thinks you have problems, too.  Why Mrs. Bunny, how rude!

Updates from the War Front

The ongoing struggles with Depression have been having mixed success.  Chemical Assistance has been supplied by the Allied Forces in the form of medication.  There are definitely breaches in the enemy line.  Unfortunately, Anxiety has been streaming through those breaches.  The Defensive Troops seem paralyzed by the Anxiety and we have reached a stalemate. 

There has been some relief offered from the Civilians in Liberated Territory.  Beyond providing Our Troops with Sustenance, they have been supplying some much needed Laughter and Lightheartedness.  The Commander in Chief has also stepped in with fortifying spiritual assistance and headship.  All of these Blessings will certainly shore up the forces and contribute to an eventual victory. 

This is Sick Inspiteofitall reporting from Laura's Brain, Virginia. 

Touchy Subject

Many times as we are out and about in our ministry, Jehovah's Witnesses hear people say to us "You don't believe in Jesus because _______________"  Fill in the blank with assorted reasons ranging from "You don't celebrate Christmas" to "You don't celebrate Easter."  With Easter fast approaching, I thought I would take the time today to set matters straight.

We do believe in Jesus.  We don't celebrate Easter.

You were hoping for more?  Oh, Okay.  You forced me.


Easter is commonly regarded as the celebration of the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead.  We are all familiar with the traditional Easter Bunny and Easter Baskets, Egg hunts, etc which are described as being non-religious, or secular elements of the holiday.  The name of the holiday itself is quite interesting.*  The book The Two Babylons traces the name back to the Babylonian goddess Astarte, also known as Ishtar.  The hot cross buns of Good Friday, the dyed eggs of Easter all came from Babylonian rituals in her honor.  The Catholic Encyclopedia states:  "A great many pagan customs, celebrating the return of spring, gravitated to Easter.  The egg is the emblem of the germinating life of early spring...the rabbit is a pagan symbol and has always been an emblem of fertility."  Easter, as celebrated today, is a curious combination of Christian and Pagan elements.

I now pose what may seem a strange question: Would Jesus want his followers to celebrate his resurrection?  Does he ever say anything about it?  It is a significant thing that Jesus only commanded his followers to do one thing in his remembrance.  You may already know it was during his last observance of the Passover that he broke the bread and shared it with those present at the table, directing "Keep doing this in remembrance of me."  (Luke 22:19)  Paul cites such precedent when he says at 1 Corinthians 12:23, "For I received from the Lord that which I also handed on to you, that the Lord Jesus in the night in which he was going to be handed over took a loaf and, after giving thanks, he broke it and said:  "This means my body which is in your behalf.  Keep doing this in remembrance of me."  He did likewise respecting the cup also, after he had the evening meal, saying :  "This cup means the new covenant by virtue of my blood.  Keep doing this, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me."  For as often as you eat this loaf and drink this cup, you keep proclaiming the death of the Lord until he arrives." 

Are you surprised?  The first time I saw that I was taken aback.  The only observance/celebration that Jesus directly commanded was to proclaim his death until he comes again.  And that is exactly what Jehovah's Witnesses do.  Each year, on the anniversary of his death, we hold the solemn observance which we call The Memorial of Christ's Death.  We remember his sacrifice, we reflect on the meaning of the New Covenant and we look forward to what his death makes possible for those who put faith in him. 

In short, Jehovah's Witnesses don't celebrate Easter not because we don't believe in Jesus, but because we do. 

*The word Easter appears once in the King James Version in the 12th chapter of Acts.  There are arguments aplenty over whether the word Easter was meant or the word Passover.  I think if we examine context we see several clarifying events:  
1.  Herod wanted to mistreat the Christian Congregation
2.  He did away with James the brother of John by the sword
3.  He saw that this was pleasing to the Jews, so he went on to arrest Peter.  The verse specifically says that these were "the days of unleavened bread", identifying this as the time of the Passover.  
4.  He puts Peter into prison, intending to 'bring him forth to the people' after Easter?  

The context would certainly indicate the Passover.  He's focused on the Jews, pleasing the Jews.  We have the celebration of Passover specifically identified in verse 3.  There is no good reason to think anything other than the Passover was meant in verse 4.  

We will not speculate on why the word Easter appears here, we will merely state that it is not a "proof" of the celebration being in existence at that time.   

The Adventures of Nutmeg Goat Across the Eighth Dimension

This Saturday marked the occasion of The Great Goat Exodus.  In the morning, Mr. and Mrs. from Lynchburg came with their two little boys and gathered up Cinnamon and Molasses.  Mrs.was wearing overalls.  Mr. knew my chicken breeds.  I knew right away that this was a good match.  Armed with leftover feed and a lesson in hoof trimming, off they went, Mr. hunkered down with the goat kids in the back of the hatchback.   I wish them great times. 

Having safely sent the two young'uns off, I opined I should take Nutmeg back to Mrs. G in the truck. Ronny  was convinced she would crawl all over me as I tried to drive, so she was coaxed (with a firm hand applied to her rear) into the back seat of the Malibu and off we went!  Now, I will tell you a secret:  I have the world's worst sense of direction, and as much as I like things simple, I believe that they are always more complicated and act accordingly.  How does this relate to our story today?

We begin with the words of the famous Robert Frost::
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
-I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

It certainly did.  I was following my memory (silly me!) on how to get to Mrs. G's, and was doing fabulously well.  Turn here, pass the cool Coca Cola building

and the beautiful spillway,

and keep going til you hit Red House. I sat there at the intersection of Spring Mill and Red House and wanted to turn onto Red House.  But then the self-sabotaging part of my brain said, "That's too easy.  It can't be that easy.  You must be supposed to turn down Morris Church because that's more complicated."  I submit to this Absolutely Insane voice and go down Morris Church.  After some peeing (not me) and pooping (again, not me) and almost running out of gas I end up in Brookneal.  Seriously. 

I leaned back to swear Nutmeg to silence. 

"A slip of the lip can sink a ship.  Mum's the word."  

As I paid for my gas, I look out to see someone staring into the backseat of the car! Apparently the sight of a goat in the backseat of a four door sedan is unusual.    Who knew?  I would have thought livestock riding about in cars would have been a commonplace event in Broonkneal.    Fortified now with gas and M&Ms,  I retrace my route to the point of error and happily find my next Landmark.  Huzzah! 

Whilst inside getting batteries for my camera, a whole minivan of Goat Gawkers stared into my car.  Really, y'all need to get around more!  This is Phenix, after all!  A few more minutes finds us at the Promised Land, Providence Farm.  I'm not certain who was more excited, Nutmeg or me.  She jumped out to rejoin her goat brethren and sistren.  Mrs. G and I and assorted members of her lovely family chatted outside in the cold.  She kept inviting me in; I kept insisting I had to go.  An hour or so later I finally took my leave, bringing my very own goat adventure at an end. 

But she does have some gorgeous sheep....

On Why There Are More Men Who Write But More Women Who Read

While Facebooking this morning,(yes, it is a verb now) I found a link which I followed which led me to another link which I followed.  You really don't care about this, I know, but humor me.  I ended up at a page called "Ready, Set, Hut" which talked about the desirability of a Writer's Hut.  How glorious it would be for a writer to have a separate little "hut", "a little structure set apart from the bustle of home life, dedicated to eliminating distractions and focusing the efforts of the writer’s mind on the business of writing"!

I am afraid that some sort of rabid animal within myself was aroused and I laughed as a way to tamp it down.  Who are these people?  I am sure that the existence of a Writer's Hut is a thing much to be desired.  Who wouldn't want their own space separated from the 'bustle of home life, eliminating distractions'?  My Good Lord In The Heavens!  What Wife and Mother wouldn't pay for the privilege of a small space within her own home where she could go and achieve such a state?  Virginia Woolf touched on the reality.  While Men almost always have the privilege of an Office, how many Stay At Home Mothers have that same privilege?  My father, who contributed to the existence of Eight Children and a Modest Home in which children still had to share bedrooms, had his own office.  It housed a couch, a desk with a typewriter, a lamp, a rug, a small heater for coziness, and a television set.  My mother's "office" was a desk in their bedroom for doing bills and figuring out the budget.  Perhaps with eight children she would have liked an office.

She used to have a fantasy of a tree house, which I always see in my mind as something akin to Mr. Tumnus' residence, with walls lined with bookcases and nothing else to do but read.  She had a small token of such a fantasy in our childhood home with one wall in the basement being fitted with nothing but bookcases.  But no comfy space there to read, and certainly not nothing else to do.  She has made such a space for herself in the home she has now, with three rooms lined with bookcases and nothing else to do.

Which brings us back to my original rant:  Men seem to presume, assume, take for granted this right to have some separate existence for them to concentrate and create.  Women, by our place, position, nature have no such right or privilege or even ability many times.  Our creation is funneled into quilting or needlework, or painting or cooking, gardening or small farming.  And even this is done with children at our feet, in our laps, on our backs or in our bellies.  What would we give for a Writer's Hut, even if we didn't write?  Since it is beyond imagining for most of us, we read instead.  For by reading, though you are being crawled upon and called and craved, you can have that small space for yourself, even if it is only in the confines of your own mind.  Your hut can be in any geographical location, any period of history.  It is portable.  It is easily accessible.  It is inexpensive.  It is available.

I am not a feminist.  I have no desire to be one.  But I am jealous for the freedom that men are granted by their women, wishing I had someone who would grant them to me.  I was thinking of moving my computer desk back into the Common Space of the house, to transform my "office" into a storage space.  The freezer is in here now and it hums and clicks and accelerates.  My Office is defined by nothing but my computer, my desk and my bookcase.  Until Today.  Today I claim My Writer's Hut.  I shall guard it jealously.  I shall buy a comfy wing chair and a small table and a lamp.  I shall decorate it and have tea in it and I will paint on the door that this is MINE.  It won't separate me from the bustle of my house, nor the distractions of the everyday life.  But I am staking firmer claim to my own time, which is what that space really represents. I am taking back a bit of me for myself.

Name Change

I am going to change Nutmeg's name.  I'm not sure what, yet, but I know it will have some hint of rejection in it.  Oh, Nutmeg, what is it in you that brings out stress in people that don't even own you, let alone the person who does?  Okay, I  don't count, because I'm self-admittedly Stressed By the Very Act of Living.  But what about the lady who was stressed by the possibility of owning a 'small' goat and canceled her purchase the very day before her pickup?  And what about the dear woman who was in love with the goat but had a nine week old baby and was going to try to do both anyway and then realized at 3 AM that she was insane?  And the woman who wants to trade me three pygmies for her to make her life easier?  Well, okay, that might work for her, but certainly not for me! 

I've started talking myself into accepting that Nutmeg might stay.  Welcome to my Internal Monologue: 

"Nutmeg may end up staying, you know."
"Yeah, but I could probably handle Nutmeg once the boys are gone this Saturday."
"Yeah, but she nags you with her bleating all the time and you have Post Traumatic Bleating Syndrome."
"Well, I could wear earplugs or take anti-PTBS medication."
"This just proves you're nuts."
"But on Fox they were talking about the increased costs of food, including milk.  I could milk her, you know."
"You're just trying to make it work."
"Well, yeah.  Duh."
"I'm not talking to you until your attitude improves, young lady." 

So, at that point I stopped talking to myself.  I'm back to square one with a giant Nutmeg sitting on it. 

Do You Have the Number for Temper-Pedic?

This post was scheduled to appear last week, but then for some reason remained as a "draft" in my Editors Box.  But it's so cute it still has to be seen: 

Strange sleeping positions have taken over the little chicks.

 

It's either really cute or really weird.  I can't decide which.

Policy Override

I have a policy regarding The Sun.  The Sun is good, but it's rays are bad for my pale skin.  I try not to be outside in the Danger Hours between 10 AM and 3 PM, or if I am, to be very careful.  I cannot use sunscreen because I am highly allergic to one of it's basic ingredients, and if I ignore this fact I will end up either at the doctor's office or the hospital needing a crash course of Steroids.  It's not pretty, folks.  So, little pale skin me takes special care. 

My husband, on the other hand, pays no mind to the sun's rays.  He was so dark skinned when my daughter was young that she thought he was African American, and he was often mistaken my Hispanics for being Hispanic.  So it never occurs to him that it might not be good to be out in the sun.  And Willing Helper that I am, sometimes he sucks me right up into this delusional belief and the next thing I know I've been out in the sun all afternoon and my face is as red as a tomato.

Today was a case in point.  Although he wants to cut the rabbit population down to two (ha-ha!), he spent the day digging holes and cutting posts and getting everything ready for putting up some new fencing for them.  We scavenged about half of the fencing we have and some parts of it are really ratty looking, so I don't blame him.  I am the Gofer, getting the wheelbarrow, the shovels, picks, hoes, hoses, cold drinks, holding levels and lines and even shoveling a little concrete.  I am the clean up crew.  I am the one who burns and I am out there longer than him because my policy was overridden and I didn't even notice until it was too late. 

Hopefully it is too early in the year for any appreciable damage.  It's still March.  How bad can it be? 

Freezer Baby

We are happy to announce that as of today we are the proud parents of a bouncing baby freezer!  We saw her online at the Sears website and put her on layaway.  (Yes, Sears does layaway, even on appliances!)  Today they called to tell us that she was there and ready for pickup.  We hopped in the truck and went to get her.  Thank goodness she is not a heavy baby, weighing only about 73 pounds.  We were able to get her off the truck and into the house with no difficulty.  She is now sitting in the office, which is where she will live.  It's a strange place for a freezer, I suppose, but our kitchen is too small for her, I won't have her in the Living Room/Dining Room Area, and she doesn't lock so she can't go outside.  She'll be an House Freezer. 

I know you're dying for pictures! 

As you can see, she is a chest type freezer. 

She is rather utilitarian looking on the inside, but I like that.  It means she's just a practical hardworking gal!

We want only the best for our little girl, so we have carefully planned for her future.  I foresee rabbits and chickens and vegetables lining up, just pining to spend time with our little one.  What a fortunate family we are to have found such a special appliance! 

If Jimmy Cagney Was A Chicken

"Top of the World, Ma!"

Daddy's Girl

This is Daddy's little girl.  She is very comfortable on his arm. 

She fell asleep so Daddy tucked her into bed.  'Night, little chick!

Things I Like About This Picture

Six little chicks all lined up for dinner. 
I love that I caught all of them standing on top of the feeder, facing the same direction. 
I love the way the light shines out through the holes in the laundry basket, making a pretty pattern on the floor. 
I love the way the line of yellow chicks is broken unexpectedly by the one dark chick. 
You'd almost think I planned the whole thing, but it was just a fortunate shot. 

Babies Day Out

The weather was so warm today I took the chicks outside to introduce them to the Big World.  We stretched a roll of fencing out to make them their own pen and let them play all day.  Nutmeg tried to eat them through the fence, which is the same response she had to the rabbits when I walked them past her.  Naughty Nutmeg!

It's hard to believe they are all the same age, just different breeds and purposes. 

These two are chick buddies.  The little Americauna in the back will only eat if she is next to her pal. 

Nothing more fun than squishing wood chips between your toes!

The Cornish Rock Cross are surprisingly social birds; they sing to each other all day and night.  They also seem to have developed bonds with us and will follow us around like a little parade as we walk around in the pen. 

We put a small chest freezer on layaway at Sears to accommodate the future fate of our little chicken companions, as well as some rabbits.  A worthwhile investment as we take our meat-producing situation more seriously.

Last Layers

In my quest for finding my footing again, I have made many changes.  Some of them were easy and immediately rewarding, like turning off the news channels.  Some of them have taken longer to bear fruit, like trying to improve the quality of my sleep.  There is one last change that was the hardest to make on one hand, and yet inevitable on the other.  I am going to preface this change by telling a story: 

When we lived in Rising Sun, Maryland we had friends that were Dairy Farmers.  They had over 100 acres, most of which was used to grow feed corn or soybeans for the cows.  The cows were milked twice a day and could not be left alone for long, so the family never went much of anywhere.  The Husband always thought that his son would take over the farm, and the son seemed so inclined, until he received an invitation to go to Brooklyn Bethel, an opportunity to volunteer in furthering the interests of God's Kingdom.  He went for the limited amount of time which the invitation involved and then came back home.  He was invited again, and then came back home.  His father began to worry.  What would he do with the farm if his son was invited to stay permanently?  He could sell it to the Amish, who would take good care of it, and let him live in the main house until he died.  But he couldn't quite make his peace with that idea.  So, seemingly out of the blue, he sold all his dairy cows and bought beef cows.  With his work load reduced in such a drastic manner, he and his wife can manage the farm without worry, allowing the son to follow his goals for a long time. 

And we now return to the matter at hand.  My drastic change.  With chickens and rabbits I am calm and content.  The goats have brought me joy and excitement and much opportunity to learn.  So, I've decided to sell my family....no, wait, can't do that.  Right.  Nutmeg and her babies will be going to new homes this weekend.  It was something I had tossed around earlier in the blog, I think, but to actually be doing it is a drastic measure.  I think that the goats, while an experience I would never regret, were my tipping point.  And so they must go to a woman who milks her goats (for Nutmeg) and a family that wants pet goats (for the wethers). 

The other night Amy F.'s husband came by to pick up a butchered rabbit and I gave away my book "Raising Small Livestock".  I've found my niche and climbed inside and I'm not getting anything bigger than a chicken.  I want to thank all of you who have taken the goat journey with me.  I want to thank Mrs. G for helping me to fulfill a dream that I've had.  I think if I ever attain complete Sanity I will want a goat herd again.  But that's for another time. 

PS.  I wrote a song parody about getting rid of the goats to the tune of the Brady Bunch.  It wasn't that good, and the tone wasn't right, but you are welcome to imagine your own version of what I would have said.  It is hard to find good rhymes for insane, I'm afraid. 

No News Is Good News

The last horrible panic attack I had was in 2005.  It was during and after Hurricane's Wilma, Katrina, and Rita.  It was during and after the Bird Flu Crisis.  It was miserable.  The weight of the world seemed to hinge on my every decision.  What if we made bad decisions?  Who knows what would happen?  Perhaps we were simply moving from the frying pan into the fire! 

With the patient and loving support of my husband and my daughter, I lived through that period of panic and anxiety.  It stands as a touchstone for me now of Excessive Worry.  I worried myself sick in mind and body.  I'm really good at that.  It's one of my strengths. 

I think that this last month will stand as another Monument To Angst.  Beginning with the bodily damage I needlessly inflicted upon myself, building up steam with the Chaos of the Middle East, culminating with the Japanese Quake, Tsunami and Nuclear Fright:  it is a Perfect Storm of disasters, both natural and man made. 

I have worked myself up into a ridiculous state.  It's not that I don't trust in Jehovah.  I do.  And I will 'roll my burden upon Jehovah himself' as soon as I'm done with it.  I know, I know.  That's not the way to do it.  My burden became so big that I couldn't even roll it anymore.  It was such a huge Mountain Of Mental Distress that it literally squashed me.  It was not a pretty picture. 

But today, after bombing the crawlspace for stinkbugs and spending a few hours away from the house and the television, Ronny and I came home feeling a little lighter.  He realized that part of my problem was the Constant Application of Hysteria by the news media.  So, he prescribed the blocking of all news channels, except Sports News, of course, because I am not really consumed with worry over the NFL strike. 

We officially blocked them at 5 PM Eastern Standard Time.  The cloud of melancholy and dread that had enveloped me like Joe Btfsplk has lifted.  I am at peace.  The mood in the whole house is gentle and calm.  My husband is my hero:  he saved my sanity today. 

Technical Difficulties

"There is nothing wrong with your computer. Do not attempt to adjust the monitor. We are controlling transmission. If we wish to make it louder, we will bring up the volume. If we wish to make it softer, we will tune it to a whisper. We will control the horizontal. We will control the vertical. We can roll the image, make it flutter. We can change the focus to a soft blur or sharpen it to crystal clarity. For the next hour, sit quietly and we will control all that you see and hear. We repeat: there is nothing wrong with your computer. You are about to participate in a great adventure. You are about to experience the awe and mystery which reaches from the inner mind to... The Outer Limits. "


This is by way of announcement that the writer of Good Enough Farm is experiencing some difficulties.  Of a technical nature.  Of the inner mind.  I've been feeling very stressed since my fall about a month ago, and thought it was just related to the difficulties it presented in daily functioning.  But the rib is virtually pain free, the ankle has a lovely lump still but is fully operative.  The mind, however, is another thing.  Tears lurk behind my eyes taunting me.  I just want to sit down and say "I can't do it anymore!"  really loud and obnoxious like a child having a tantrum.  I am quite deliberately stripping away the layers of  "extra" in my life, hoping to find the tipping point and balance it there.  I haven't found it yet.  I've been here before, feeling overwhelmed by just the thought of what each day involves even if it is just laundry and dishes and sad dinners of fish sticks and french fries.  I did try; I made broccoli in an attempt to look like I cared. 

So, if the posts fall to the wayside for a bit, know that it's not you.  It's me.  The awe and mystery of the Inner Mind are totally overrated. 

Epitaph

What will be written on my husbands tombstone:

"I gotta get up at four."

If your a trucker's wife, or a pilot's wife, you get it.  If not, be glad. 

In The Fort

When I was a child and things would upset me, there were places I would go to achieve some sense of calm and control.  It might be a particular couch down in the basement with a little round red corduroy pillow on it.  I would cry and rub my face on the pillow, so much I rubbed it bare in spots.  (My sister Cara alleges it was my snot pillow, but I will not dignify that with a reply.)  It might be the world of my own imagination, to which I would escape.  It might be The Fort at the back of our yard.  Unlike many forts, this was not in a tree.  This was just three and a half logs placed in such a way that the logs marked out the "walls" of the fort, and left room for a "doorway".  It was shaded and protected by a lovely mulberry tree whose berries were the subject of many outdoor activities.  We used those berries for making mulberry mud pies, staining our fingers purple as we squished the tiny, ripe orbs which made up each berry.  It was a refuge from all that I did not like or understand. 

As an adult, I no longer have a physical fort to which I can retreat when things seem to be more than I can handle.  Although I can be comforted and find peace when I go out with my animals or work in the yard, there is no where to go to be isolated from the tremors of this world that shake us into a state of anxiety and fearfulness. 

So, where can I go when the world is too big for me? 

The year text for Jehovah's Witnesses is "Take Refuge in the Name of Jehovah."   Jehovah God must become my refuge.  My Tower to which I run and am given protection.  May He conceal me in the shadow of his wings.  For what can I do to save anyone?  What can I do to heal and help those left devastated and dying?  It is too big for me.  All I can do is hand it to Jehovah in confidence that he will comfort those in need.  That he will right all the wrongs. 

That's where I am today:  in The Spiritual Fort, leaning back against the sturdy logs, looking up at the sky through the green leaves and bright purple berries.  The sky is blue and calm, with light, wispy clouds high up.  My tears have dried upon my cheeks and my anxious heart has been made still.  I think I'll stay here awhile. 

Why No One Does It That Way

One bleached and scrubbed bucket full of rabbit soaking in salt water

I had previously posted my intentions to make rabbit sausage using the rabbit intestine for casing.  Most people use sheep or pig intestine for casing, according to what I've read.  But I'm always off in left field somewhere, so why not in this matter as well? 

So, following the butchering last night, I set aside the intestines of the rabbits and tried to gently clean them without gagging or vomiting.  I straightened out all the kinks, gently loosening the silvery stuff that bound them all together is a zig-zag.  I squeezed the end of the gut first, emptying it of it's contents and everything was fine.  But the second I moved above the end the tissue was just too thin.  I could see that it is thin to allow room for expansion as the gut fills.  It's too thin to withstand the handling that would be entailed in stuffing it for a sausage.  I see now why no one does it that way.  I see now when Big Joey sends us homemade sausage from his pigs why it's always Patty Sausage. 

So, no rabbit link sausage, but rabbit patty sausage.  I can do that.  Anyone know where to get the little butcher bags for holding sausage?  I see an Internet adventure ahead. 

The Peeps and The Stinker

Once upon a time there were several lovely peeps living happily in a laundry basket

 

 

 

 

 

Until a nasty Mr. Stinkbug landed right in the middle of the picture!  

He flew into the food bowl and the poor little peeps cried, "Hey, Mr. Stinkbug, stop stinking up our food!"

 

One Brave Little Peep grabbed him to teach him a lesson, and then all the peeps wanted in on the action!

Once Mr. Stinkbug had been picked into oblivion, Peace and Harmony Ruled once again.  That's Peace on the Left and Harmony on the right.  The End.

Rabbit Rampage

The bunny butchering turned into just over two braces of rabbit.  Four adult males, one adult female.  I would feel bad about decimating the "colony", except that I know there are six babies in the baby side of the burrow, and six preteens on the other side.  So I'm still seven behind, if that makes any sense. 

I waited for you, you craiglist rabbit breeders.  I waited and waited and finally I said "Enough."  Minus the three promised rabbits, that still leaves me two for our family.  And in a few months I'll get to do the whole thing all over again. 

This is post butchering, people.  I just looked out and there are more....

One Bad Apple

I really wanted to post pictures of the Great Stinkbug Episode that the new chicks enjoyed today, but instead I am forced to post that One Bad Apple can Spoil the Whole Bunch, Girl.  Or in this case, One Male Rabbit can Impregnate the Whole Bunch, Girl. 

I had been finding bits of rabbit fluff all around, meaning someone was getting ready to give birth.   I chalked it all up to the male I sold recently that we had found in with the girls and figured, well, at least it will be over with soon and I have rabbits on craigslist.  But today as I surveyed my domain through the dining room window I noticed some funny business in the Female Pen.  "He's schtupping (this being the present participle of schtup) my girls!" I shouted.  Again, like Farmer McGreggor, I ran out in my chore boots, jammies and hoodie, armed only with a sense of righteous anger, blocked the rabbit hole with a brick and caught my man!  "No more schtupping for you, my friend.  I hope you enjoyed it, because it's the last thing you will remember!," I lectured the relaxed rabbit as I carried him to what has become My Rabbit Station. 

Instead of striking a blow on the back of the head, which is standard butchering procedure, I used a pumped up BB rifle and it took the fight out of him.  I finished him off to bleed him, and he's there still.  Since I'm all charged up I may take all the bucks out today, except for Mr. Bunny.  I've got three people I have semi-promised rabbits to, and I really wanted to try the rabbit sausage, so today might be the day to get it done.  I wanted a sunny day, but maybe a "pissy" day is just as good. 

The voice of my mother that lives in my head is telling me I should not use the word "Pissy."  She says it is unladylike. 

Sorry, Ma.

I Swear This Is The Last One!

The continuing story of The Chicken in the Flowerpot comes to an end here.  I swear.  I promise that unless I come up with another strange permutation of the theme that I am done.  Finis.  30.*

*-30- is a old newspaper "code" for "end of story."  When my Dad died, The Air Force Times ran a lovely editorial on him entitled "Thirty". 

Good Enough For Peeps

Today was the day the Cornish Rock Cross Chicks were supposed to arrive at Tractor Supply.  So while we were out 'running boss-like errands'* we swung by just in case they really were there.  And they were!  Ronny was with me for the first time, and he approved the purchase of 5 CRX pullets (if my sexing skills are good) and he picked out one Americauna pullet because he misses the two RIR's we sold.  I've never seen a man so sentimental over poultry!  I have explained that these CRX birds are for MEAT, not strange romantic attachments.  He claims to understand.  We'll see.

The Famous Tractor Supply version of the Happy Meal Box

Chicken Nuggets, in pre-production phase

It's Good Enough for now....

I will openly admit that I would liked to have been better prepared for the arrival of peeps.  I should have had a brooder box--but the rabbits are living in it.  I should have had pine shavings--but I just used it in the chicken coop and I'm all out.  I should have had a proper waterer and feeder--but the rabbits are using those, too.  And if you've learned anything about me at all, you know I'm certainly not going to spend money on buying these things when what I have around the house is good enough.  No siree, Bob! 

The time is fast approaching when I am going to have to find a small chest freezer I can keep outside for my homestead harvests.  Craigslist, here I come!

*what Squidward tells Spongebob when he sneaks out instead of being in charge of the Crusty Crab.

New Month's Resolutions

I resolve to be a better blog hostess and make a reply to comments that people take the time to make on my blog.

I resolve to make actual strides toward the raised bed garden I have said I wanted for the last two years and then done nothing about having.

I resolve to use the next sunny and warmish day to butcher me some rabbits and make rabbit sausage using their intestines for casing.  (This is both a resolution and a challenge to myself.  How homesteady can I really be?)

I resolve to rake up enough stones from the front and back areas of the house that we can put down seed and actually have a little patch of grass.

I resolve to pay more attention.  To everything.  I'm turning over a new leaf.  No more dizz brain for me!  I'm 50 years old and it's time I grew up.  Instead of acting like a "juvenile", as Ronny says so fondly, I'm going to start acting at least the age of my oldest child.  I promise.  Pinky swear.  And spit on the palm of my hand.  Oh, no, I think I've gone backward!

So much for resolutions.... 

Lazy or Unmotivated?

I got up at 8:45 this morning and went out in the rain in my jammies and a hoodie to care for the needs of my animals.  The rabbits were very affectionate this morning for some bizarre reason--Mr. Bunny practically crawled up my leg he was so happy to see me!  Goats were all sad in their little house; they barely even got excited over their scoop of sweet feed!  Chickens took one look at the rain and went back to bed.  But Mrs. Duck was in her element today.  Her only problem seemed to be that there were so many puddles and she only had one bill.

I went to the meeting where I heard an excellent talk on the subject of The Great Tribulation and Armageddon.  To say that you feel better after a talk on that subject might be strange, but I feel really good about the future right now.  I came home, made lunch and haven't done a darn thing since.

Is it the rain?  The gloomy sky?  A slight lack of sleep?  Am I lazy or just unmotivated?  Is there a difference?

I think I'll pay a visit to the inside of my eyelids and we can discuss the matter.  I'll let you know what we decide.

Countryside Magazine

In the last issue of Countryside Magazine there was a advert at the end for the next issue.  It requested submissions for their next issue on "raising rabbits for fun and food."  I said to myself, 'what is more fun than a rabbit colony that provides food?'  So I buckled down, overcame a severe case of smart alek syndrome, and wrote a submission.  I've been trying to email it to Amy F for her personal information, but my email just refuses to send it.  :(  So, I'm trying to blog it instead.  That way if Countryside doesn't print it, all the invaluable and clever information condensed into my masterpiece of an article won't be lost to the yearning masses.  

Classic California breed, although at least three of the offspring have had no black markings. 

"Last summer I bought a breeding pair of California rabbits from a local farm.  I intended to hutch raise them, this being the normal course of action, but my husband had other ideas.  The result has been a modified colony situation.  The rabbits live in a pen where the hutch serves as their feeding station.  They have dug a "hole", which has an entrance and an exit, and this is where all the babies have been born.  They don't get trotted out until they are about a month old.  At this point they are caught and sexed.  Males go over the fence into the Buck Bunny pen which is identical to the Female Bunny pen with the exception of a burrow.  The males seem to live happily together, but this bears watching as I have heard that they will fight over females.  But, since the females are in a different pen I am hopeful that this will not occur"

Rabbits large and small come out of here.  If you want to sleep, just sit here and count them. 

This is the "birthing" end of the burrow. 

"We feed the rabbits Nutrena Naturewise rabbit pellets, fresh water twice a day, occasional treats of rabbit or apple.  They get straw under the hutches and in several places around the pen for either eating or lining a nest or whatever they want. We use an old chicken feeder to hold the food, and a gallon chicken waterer.

They have their own assigned area for defecation, and this just needs to be shoveled up and composted or used straight on the garden.

We have used welded wire fencing for the pen, then 4 foot high 1 inch gauge chicken wire goes all around the bottom of the fence to keep the little ones in.  We have not had any rabbits burrow out.  They are happy in their pen and if one somehow gets out, maybe under our feet when we enter or exit, they will sit by the gate and wait to be let back in.

When it came time to butcher, I followed an excellent tutorial from Polyface Farms apprentices.  I am saving my skins in the freezer until I get enough to work with.  At that point I am going to try to preserve them and make a lining for a blanket."

Time to "Man Up"!  Requires a heavy striking object for stunning, a sharp knife, some clothesline.  That's it.

Preserved the fur for later use. 

Cut up for cooking.  Soak it for a few days in a pot in salt water.  Slow Cook Rabbit for Best Results

"Well, that's how we do things at Good Enough Farm with our rabbits.  Anyone with questions can feel free to visit my blog at http://goodenoughfarm.blogspot.com or email me at laurachickenboots@google.com. 

Sincerely,
Laura Little "

I just realized as I copied and pasted here that I muffed the email address!  I fixed it here, but it's still wrong in the article I mailed off.  Bummer.  Oh, well, nobody's perfect.  Not even me.

So, the moral of the story is:  Raise your rabbits in hutches, people!  The rabbits may like to be free, but you could do the same sort of thing in a rabbit tractor, or a hutch with ground access where the ground in covered with hardware cloth.  Other than that, there's easy to raise, a little difficult to kill, delicious to eat.

Trucker's Life, uh, I mean Wife

I made reference earlier to a midnight adventure during Allison's visit.  This is how it started: 

Ronny went to work at noon, much earlier than his usual 6 PM run to Newton.  He was offered a new Automatic Tractor to drive or an old beat up Manual.  He said to himself, "I don't want to do anything new today.  I'll just stick with the Manual so nothing goes wrong."  At 3:30 PM he called me to say that the truck was broken down in Charlottesville so he would be home when he could.  Company policy dictates that the driver stay with the truck, so he did.  At 11:30 PM he called me to say that the Tow Truck carrying both the Tractor and himself was heading into Lynchburg and could I meet him at Truck Enterprises on Pleasant Valley Road?

Because I am a Trucker's Wife, I hopped in the truck and off I went, leaving Allison to watch Craig. I hate driving at night.  I don't recognize anything.  I might as well be driving in a foreign country,  yet here I am at midnight driving around looking for the flashing lights of a Tow Truck on Pleasant Valley Road. 

Mission Accomplished!  I picked him up and fantasized about snuggling under the covers in my bed. 

"We have to go into Lynchburg to pick up the car at work so I can drop it off at the mechanic's.  Okay?"  This Truckers Wife shut up and said  "Sure" while slipping into a soporific stupor.  I sat in sleepy silence as we took some convoluted back way to Flowers Bakery.  I slid over into the driver's seat to follow him to the mechanics, remembering suddenly all the years I worked at night and drove home in a sort of half awake/half asleep condition.  Car dropped off, check.  Slide back over into passenger seat, check.  Check out, check. 

There is nothing so fine as your own bed at 1 AM.  My husband, the Trucker, says so, and this Trucker's Wife Agrees. 

I'm signing off now because it's midnight and he just called to say he wants dinner when he gets home.  It's a Trucker's Life. 

Messenger Bag

It seems that if you are a Student of the Bible you have heavy bags to carry.  For Craig this seems to be even more the case as he wants everything Large Print.  A Large Print Bible is not without a certain amount of weight.  Add to this the LP Songbook, the LP Congregation Bible Study Book (whatever it may be at any given time) and a sturdy leather folder which acts as a "lap desk" and you have a rather tiresome burden to carry. 

In an attempt to "lighten the load", I purchased a "kit" from the Appomattox Walmart for making a Messenger Bag.  Their fabrics choices left a little to be desired, but now that I have the pattern and directions I can, in future, use any sort of design or texture I want.  I cut out the pieces this afternoon and sewed it up without too much stress.  So, here it is:

The little owls were acceptable to Craig's sense of manliness, thank God!

It is reversible, in theory, but the seams are not folded  so I wouldn't reverse it myself.  

All in all, a good result for a minimal amount of effort.  And for those of you who insist on calling it a "man-purse", don't do it within hearing distance of Craig.  He's still working on his Christian personality, and I can't guarantee the reaction. 

For Jordana

Jordana at Nigerian Meadows Farm Diary  blogged about one of her hens laying eggs in a flowerpot.  I made a comment about my need to see said chicken in said flowerpot.  Since the elusive image um, eluded her, she settled for posting a drawing of a chicken in a flowerpot.  While this is a lovely gesture, my OCD will not let me be.  I have no flowerpots, however, only a watering pot and none of my chickens lack enough dignity to set on it.  So, I did the best I could to soothe my mental clamorings for flowerpots and chickens. 

I promise I'm done with the peeps for a while.  We ate most of them anyway, and I need to find a monster before I can enact my next idea.....

Peep Tea Party

Last year, in the wide blue skies that are the internet, I found a lovely little picture of a peep tea party.  I have wanted to make my own version ever since.  My peep preference runs to pink, and the addition of some new peep characters added a little to the interest factor.  I only wish I had had a proper table for them with a lace table cloth and flowers.  Ah, well, maybe next year!

As they discussed Barnyard Ethics over a cup of Constant Comment, Mrs. Peep felt her eyelids begin to droop...

"My name is Mrs. Nesbitt!"

footnote:  Although I do not celebrate Easter, I do not let this hinder me from my enjoyment of marshmallow peeps, especially as they age.  There is nothing quite like a stale peep to lift the spirit!  Hide yours now, and enjoy this summer.

Oberhasli

Devoted followers of Cinnamon may recall the distant ancestor who was an Oberhasli.  Some Oberhasli markings can be seen in our little man: the dark brown coloring, some white hairs on the head,  black stripe down the backbone, some black on his face, and the recent addition of a dark eye mask. 

Cinnamon has no concept of breeding or lineage, however.  He's just having fun being a goat.  And if one happens to mention the word Oberhasli in his presence, one is subjected to several strange questions:

"What Oberhasli?  Who has what?  Go ober the hasli?  What a hasli?  How I go ober it?  This what you mean?  No, now I under.  Maybe he a hasli ober me?  I confused."  

I think Cinnamon is not the only one confused.  I know Mollie is....

First Impressions

My daughter, Allison, has come down/over/up for a visit.  We spent yesterday afternoon picking up some of her favorite foods at the Appomattox Walmart, then vegged for the rest of the night.  There was a slight midnight adventure which I will detail in a different post.  But she had yet to meet my goats, so this afternoon I forced her to come out and play with them.

They seemed to take an instant liking to her.  Some goats can be terribly standoffish, snobby even!  But my little boys are just so gregarious!  She insists they only liked the taste of her jeans and her hair and accused them of trying to eat her fingers.  (She can be very dainty sometimes.)  I think it went well, however.

"Give me a kiss, beautiful!"