Waves of Usefulness

Our house guests have returned home now, and the house is quiet again, which is both nice and a little sad. Hanging with those crazy nephews of mine lets me be the nutty-fun auntie that chases and spoils the little maniacs until we all pass out. Good times!

But now that they're back home and I've mostly recovered from the cold and sinus infection that we all passed around, I finally find myself with a teensy bit of unscheduled time to knock out some more of our honey-do projects and even play outside a little. As my manic energy tends to do, my get-up-and-go has been coming in waves. I work my tail off on something on Sunday, then sleep and snarf down antihistamines and tylenol all day Monday. I don't seem to have a second gear.

Yesterday was my coma-nap day, therefore today is supposed to be a go out and kill it day. Meh.

I'm back to morning goat duty, after a generous hiatus afforded me by my darling husband, on account of my killer stomach bug and the time required for me to bounce crawl my way back to normal. Goat patrol, as we call it, really takes it out of me. Today I had to hike up the hill and back no less than four times (because of something that somebody did/didn't do who will be hearing about it tonight, I promise you.) These old bones can't go from zero to sixty like that! So now I'm taking my well-earned ease with a homemade frappuccino and pondering my next move. Put a few more plants in the garden? Take Spike for a walk on the leash to eat down some Scotch Broom? Take a nap in my lawn chair with a Diana Gabaldon book? Nah, No effing way and hells yes!

Today's wave was short but fast moving. I think I'm back to the trough. :)

P.S. - Look for my a Granola Giveaway coming up very soon, in honor of my 200th post!

Sweet Baby Violet

About 3 days old


She has her Papa's blue eyes and frosted ears.


Checking out the hay wagon with her Mama, Gertie


Hiding behind the shed


Mid-sproing!


Gert & Vi

The Gert-a-nator Gives Birth

FINALLY!

She toyed with us for days. A little nesting behavior here, an over inflated udder there, and nada. I had a sinking feeling that she was going to save her labor until I was home alone with all four kids (nephews are here) and no one to help either wrangle kids or stimulate babies. And she almost did, that Turkey!


My girls, chillin' with Gertie, waiting on some baby action.

Bill went up the hill to check on Gert one last time before bed last night and discovered the baby, just delivered. He came down to the house and got me. We waited there for another 30 minutes or so, watching to see if another was coming. Nope, just the one. She was awfully fat for having had just one little peanut in there! I'm sort of relieved that it was just one though, as this is Gert's first, and she's an "older mother" as goats go (four or five by the vet's guesstimate), leaving me feeling a little leery of her instinct/ability to mother her babe. So far so good, with the exception of the baby escaping by accident by walking right through the fence. She's tiny!

So here she is, our as yet to be named baby girl -


About 20 minutes old.

We're not sure yet whether or not we're keeping her. A lot of things depend on whether or not Gertie ends up being a good milker. Let's hope that she's at least better than our other Nigerian Dwarf.


Who, me? I'm straight-up DELIGHTFUL.

So our littlest Mama became a mom on Mother's Day - just barely. Now I'm off to share the good news with proud Papa Scout's owner. :)

We're still pondering about what to name her. Any suggestions?


Happy Mother's Day from Gertie & Baby Girl!

Bracing For Impact

My brother and sister-in-law and their two beautiful little boys are coming out to ye olde farm for a visit next week. These will be the first extended-stay guests that we've had in the new house, and therefore call for the first ever deep-cleaning of the new, 85 year-old house.

If I didn't hate well water before today (I did), I super, mega officially hate it now. I have to use scary chemicals that I abhor to get the gnarly rusty drip marks off of the bottom of my tub. We condition our water, but apparently enough iron remains that over the space of six months, it can accumulate enough to look like you've been showering in orange kool-aid.

I'm also going to use a little tax-return moolah to spring for a proper vacuum. I've been told that the Dyson pet hair model is the way to go. We don't have hairy indoor pets, but we do have a house full of individuals with eastern European genetics, so the pet hair function may come in handy after all. I am both scared and nerdily curious to see what and how much junk this thing pulls out of my carpets.

In addition to the sprucing up, I need to review my child-proofing. My nephews, God love them, will wait for the second you turn your back to take a pair of scissors to their socks (the 5 year old), draw on your Harley-Davidson with a sharpie (also the 5 year old) or attempt to fly, Batman-style off of the second floor balcony, using a sheet as his cape (come to think of it, that was the 5 year old too). Maybe I just need to hog-tie the big one and the little one and I will just hang out and snuggle?

So I'm in a bit of a nesting frenzy this week. I know that I'm going to drive myself (and by extension, Bill) nuts sweating the details right up until the minute that our guests arrive, but once the initial impression of the place is gelled in their minds, I instantly stop caring about the Martha details and just let it all go and enjoy their company. I'm really looking forward to our two families of four being one noisy herd of eight for a few weeks.

I especially like hanging with my nephews. I grew up in an all-girl house, and only having daughters myself, have sort of missed out on the boy experience. They are NUTS, and I love them for it. Maybe I can channel the energy of the 5-year old, aka, Sir Yaps A Lot, Mr. Sharpie, Doomed Batman, in a fruitful direction? What are the child labor laws in Washington state concerning kindergartners milking goats?

Nah, I'd better not. Knowing him, he'd probably sneak some scissors up there and give Spike an unflattering haircut.


No one looks good in The Rachel. No one.

Be Poo to Your School (My 200th Post!)

I'm not a PTA Mom. Does that surprise you? Yeah, it doesn't really surprise anyone. I love my kids' school and volunteer there regularly, but I'm just not leadership material. I fall asleep in meetings, I'm bad at making tough decisions and I don't do politics, on any scale.

And so I look for other ways to contribute. This year I will not only be working at our school's annual plant sale, I'll be contributing goods for the sale. You know, seedlings, flowers, veggie starts, animal poop... did I lose you on that last one?

I'd been sort of marinating on this idea for a while now, but I hesitated to throw it out there, lest I sound like a complete yokel-dork. I mustered up the courage to ask the garden gals if they would be interested in my poo (words that I never thought I'd hear myself say, I assure you), and was very enthusiastically received by them. It was a nice feeling, knowing that I am not the only granola poo-coveter in town. You've heard me go on about it before, but allow me to remind you that critter poo, bunny poop in particular is magic. It's dry, it doesn't burn your plants, it has very little odor and the bunnies make it like it's going out of style.

Which is why, come Friday night, My friend Melinda and I will be filling and attempting to "jazz up" little bags of bunny, goat and chicken poop for sale on Saturday. I'm trying to think of some snappy wording for the bags. I've heard people refer to rabbit poop as "Bunny Marbles" or "Cocoa Puffs", but I'm looking for something more exciting and original. All Natural Doo Drops? Compost Thunder? Or in the case if goat poop, which looks exactly like a whole coffee bean, Magic Beans? Crappaccino?

I can't wait to see if my critter poo sells like hotcakes or just gets completely ignored. I certainly hope it goes well, lest I have to carry my unsold doodles back home in shame. It'd really be something if my doo revenue was enough to score something cool for the school gardens. You see that peach tree over there? Bought and paid for with goat turds, my friend!

Yes indeed, I may never be PTA Treasurer material, but I betcha a pitchfork that folks will remember the crazy crap peddling lady for years to come. And thus my legacy to the children of Olympia begins.

Today's the day! I think...

I've put it off for much too long now, milking day is here.

I'm trying to psych myself up for this ordeal and commitment by trying to downplay the fact that milking dairy animals every day without fail is an ordeal and commitment. I'm sure that someday I will find the whole process of miking my goats peaceful and fulfilling, as ancient poets and shepherds have written and sung of it throughout history, but at the moment it is still awkward and stressful for everyone involved. I'm clumsy, and my mama goats' patience runs thin with me mighty quickly. But regardless, it's go time.

Part of the source of my stress surrounding milking is the equipment issue. Do you have any idea how many odds and ends you need to properly, sanitarily extract and use your goat milk? Pails, strip cups, filters, brushes, washing water, a hanging milk scale, udder wipes, teat dip, etc., etc. It's a whole heck of a lot of stuff to haul up the hill and back, especially for a gravitationally-challenged gal like myself. One slip on that East Bay clay and I'm covered in milk, iodine and mud.

My means of mentally skirting the awkward equipment/fall hazard issue is to drive everything up the hill in the cart of our little tractor. Driving the tractor will also be a first for me. I'm about 5 miles out of my comfort zone right now.

Today, if I live to tell, shall be a real litmus test of my farm-girl skillz. If I don't get kicked in the head, end up wearing warm milk, crash a tractor or lose a limb, I'm going to chalk it up as a win.

We have a Farrrmerrr doon!

Sorry for the radio silence, I've been laid up this past week with a rousing case of dysentery that I can blame on either an incompetent food service worker or my chickens, the mystery remains.

The culprit was Campylobacter, and let me tell you, a week with this evil little bug in your belly is a fast and effective method for weight loss! And headaches, muscle pain, scorching fever... and lots of other little goodies who's descriptions I will spare you.

The lesson to be taken away from this little tango with toxins is -

A) Handle your food safely. Campylobacter bacteria, according to several sources I've read recently, can be found in upwards of 70% of grocery store chicken samples. So it's there already, and it's your job to kill it by cooking your meat thoroughly and by cleaning your kitchen surfaces and utensils adequately. Campylobacter is actually killed fairly easily, particularly by our stomach acid. But in folks like me, who take acid-reducing medication, the castle doors have essentially been flung wide open to receive the invaders.

B) Handle your livestock carefully. Most populations of live chickens (and other animals - cats, dogs, cattle, etc.) carry Campylobacter in their gut, and are asymptomatic. So even if they're not sick, they can still get you sick. We're pretty intense hand washers over here, but it only takes a few little bacteria to take you out.

I half-suspect that my infection came from caring for a sick little chick (who died of a bloody flux) in my home. I'm a softy. I couldn't leave her outside all by her poor lonesome to die, so we brought her in in a laundry basket and attempted to ply her with fresh grass and electrolyte-infused water to bring her back around to health, but it didn't work. Somewhere during the process, I must have inhaled or swallowed a bacteria, and that was that.

Here we are a week later, and I'm still recovering. The muscle pain, headache and cramps were like nothing I've ever felt before in my life! The doc told me that the toxins were in my blood, muscles and even the tissue surrounding my brain, which is why they had to give me a blue whale-sized dose of dilaudid to knock me out.

I'd long known that the perils of farming are many, but hadn't thought to include among them bacterial assassination attempts. I always figured that when something happened to me, it'd be more like me chopping off a toe with an ax, or having my nose broken by a flying goat hoof, but I guess you can't plan these things. All in good time, all in good time....