Lesson No. 8
Simone with her doeling, Corabelle, just an hour old. She also gave birth to a buck, Flash.
I HAVE increasing respect for those who find time to write every day. Rumor has it, by writing you keep your language skills honed and have less of a chance of developing dementia in your later years of life. I just can't find the time to blog every day or even every week....actually, it has now stretched into months since I've chronicled the happenings here on QQR. I fear my brain may just go to mush when I become an octogenarian...hell, before then, in my fifties.
So much has happened since last I wrote. Kidding season has come and gone, and we're planning for this upcoming breeding season. End of March, Simone delivered a buck and doe. Three days later, Zazz delivered four buck kids. Zazz adopted a Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade look prior to kidding. To her credit, she never went off her feed and stayed good humored through it all. Like her mother, Simone's doeling, Corabelle, was black with perfect lines, but no waddles. She went to live with some lovely people in Sebastapol. For a first freshener, Simone acted like she'd been having kids for a decade. She required no assistance, and was the best mother. Honestly, this was a bit of a surprise to us. She's such a little princess, John feared she'd drop her kids, give a sigh of "thank God that's over", and walk off. Both kids inherited Simone's sweet disposition and a natural love of people. Poor Zazz had the misfortune of raising four very aggressive bucklings; however, in her usual unflappable way, she persevered until I was the one who couldn't stand it any longer. After a day of banding and shots, the "boys" went to live in the far pasture where they will stay until harvest time. Although Simone has a nice udder and is currently giving 8+ pounds of milk per day, it is a true shame she is a first freshener and yet fully unproven in her long-term production. Her buckling is as beautiful and good tempered. I still have pangs of guilt for banding him, as I believe he would have been an excellent sire with full faith his prodigy would have been an asset to the Oberhasli breed. Perhaps next year.
Kidding season brought excitement, worry and exhaustion. I'm so glad we only have the two does and they kidded close together. When I was young, my parents and I planned all our births as close together as possible. I can't tell you how many subzero Michigan nights I sat waiting on a doe to deliver. Even with a heat lamp, there was a real fear of frozen kids. March and April in Michigan can still feel like the dead of winter, and there aren't many does who can get their kids cleaned, up and nursing before a good chill claims a newborn. I have a friend who has 20+ does and staggers the births from January until July. He's semi-retired and loves having a near constant flow of kids. Although I love having newborns on the property, I don't think I could cope. Zazz decided to have her kids on the coldest day in April, and quads was more work than any mother should have to manage alone. By the time she was done, John and I were about done in. Her last would not have survived had we not been present. With a little tough love, a syringe full of John's sister's pure maple syrup from New Hampshire, a shot of BoSe, and lots of encouragement to nurse, the little guy lived. Who knew maple syrup could cure anoxic brain damage. Sorry, nurse humor....
--from Joe, July 28, 2012
So much has happened since last I wrote. Kidding season has come and gone, and we're planning for this upcoming breeding season. End of March, Simone delivered a buck and doe. Three days later, Zazz delivered four buck kids. Zazz adopted a Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade look prior to kidding. To her credit, she never went off her feed and stayed good humored through it all. Like her mother, Simone's doeling, Corabelle, was black with perfect lines, but no waddles. She went to live with some lovely people in Sebastapol. For a first freshener, Simone acted like she'd been having kids for a decade. She required no assistance, and was the best mother. Honestly, this was a bit of a surprise to us. She's such a little princess, John feared she'd drop her kids, give a sigh of "thank God that's over", and walk off. Both kids inherited Simone's sweet disposition and a natural love of people. Poor Zazz had the misfortune of raising four very aggressive bucklings; however, in her usual unflappable way, she persevered until I was the one who couldn't stand it any longer. After a day of banding and shots, the "boys" went to live in the far pasture where they will stay until harvest time. Although Simone has a nice udder and is currently giving 8+ pounds of milk per day, it is a true shame she is a first freshener and yet fully unproven in her long-term production. Her buckling is as beautiful and good tempered. I still have pangs of guilt for banding him, as I believe he would have been an excellent sire with full faith his prodigy would have been an asset to the Oberhasli breed. Perhaps next year.
Kidding season brought excitement, worry and exhaustion. I'm so glad we only have the two does and they kidded close together. When I was young, my parents and I planned all our births as close together as possible. I can't tell you how many subzero Michigan nights I sat waiting on a doe to deliver. Even with a heat lamp, there was a real fear of frozen kids. March and April in Michigan can still feel like the dead of winter, and there aren't many does who can get their kids cleaned, up and nursing before a good chill claims a newborn. I have a friend who has 20+ does and staggers the births from January until July. He's semi-retired and loves having a near constant flow of kids. Although I love having newborns on the property, I don't think I could cope. Zazz decided to have her kids on the coldest day in April, and quads was more work than any mother should have to manage alone. By the time she was done, John and I were about done in. Her last would not have survived had we not been present. With a little tough love, a syringe full of John's sister's pure maple syrup from New Hampshire, a shot of BoSe, and lots of encouragement to nurse, the little guy lived. Who knew maple syrup could cure anoxic brain damage. Sorry, nurse humor....
--from Joe, July 28, 2012
Lesson No. 7
Not exactly a Betty Grable portrait of Zazz...
A MAN at work asked me how and when my day started. I launched into my list of morning chores, abbreviated now that the goats are dry and hugely pregnant, and how after my commute over the mountain, I start my day at the "cash factory." He made a little grunt, looked up from his iPhone and exclaimed I did more before 6 a.m. than he does all day. I wasn't sure if I was to feel sorry for him or me.
I often find myself in the awkward position of defending our life here on QQR. "Why don't you have a TV?" "Isn't the life you lead for the retired or those who've decided to escape the rat race altogether?" "How does it make any sense to keep a foot in a world of self-sufficiency and the other in the 'outside world' of corporate America? How do you justify the duality?" "How could that much work be any fun?"
Joy is a funny thing. It's an intangible that can come from innumerable sources or from nowhere at all. Defined: "The emotion evoked by well-being, success, or good fortune or by the prospect of possessing what one desires; delight." But, can joy also come form not having what one desires? Is there joy in deprivation, unencumbered-ness, the absence of comforts? One man's comfort is another man's waste of time, money and precious resources. The woman I consider my "mother" was 53 when she died. Although she didn't give me life, she taught me how to be a good person, and without her direction, I wouldn't have become a man people can admire and respect. Her name was JoEllyn. She was a fourth-grade school teacher, a mother, and a multitude of other things that made the world a better place for her having shared it with us. At 53, her life was just getting good; she was planning for retirement, she bought a sailboat, had gone blond and joined a speed dating club. It had become, "her time." I know you're wondering where this is going and what the heck does it have to do with raising goats and chickens. After I was over the exhaustion of sharing JoEllyn's last few weeks of life, I made myself a promise. I promised I would never ever do another thing that didn't bring me joy.
The guy with iPhone may never understand how I can get up at 4:30 on a cold January morning and be humming while I'm snuggled to the side of warm goat while rhythmically filling a pail full of possibilities. The part of the equation he doesn't understand is that it brings me joy. No, we don't buy "hothouse tomatoes" because John can take a seed he's saved from the previous year and nurture it into 20 lbs. of the sweetest red orbs you've ever sliced on toast and smeared with mayo. If that isn't pure bliss, I sure don't know what is. In the absence of watching TV, we've learned to talk, be friends and look forward to more than the next episode of "American Idol." I find absolute delight in my friendship with John. No, we don't have everything we'd like to have, but it isn't that we can't afford things -- we just question the need. Out of not finding the need, we've become creative in the enjoyment of making what we have better. Sandpaper and paint are a good bit less expensive than new cabinets. When we look around at the things we've done; we find ourselves joyful and full of delight.
We're doing this now because if we don't we might regret not having baby goats to laugh at or nutty salad to enjoy. There is so much more joy in "doing" than in standing by and watching. Sure I can stop at the store on the way home, but where's the fun in that? I can give the nice checkout girl a dollar for a thing, but she can never sell me the joy of the experience of making it myself and sharing with it with those I love.
The unfortunate thing about growing older is that those we love age along with us. If you're like me, one who enjoys the accumulated wisdom of those older than you, the process seems accelerated. Naturally this can't literally be the case, but one day you wake up and someone you've just had lunch with has died, or the phone rings and you hear your father has been diagnosed with end-stage cancer. Both of these have become true for us. This past Friday, our friend Howard passed away. He was only 69 when he died, and unfortunately, his last few months were not physically comfortable. We had the great fortune to host Howard for a couple of days a few months prior to his death. Below is a recounting of his summer trip (his last column, it turns out, for The Huffington Post, where he was an arts critic and blogger), in which he mentions his time with us. While here, Howard remarked on his past and recent experiences and the great joy he'd found through his life. His was a life more about saying "yes, and" than about finding reasons to decline. At the time of Howard's visit to QQR, he was jaundiced, bloated and walked with great effort, and although I believe he knew his time was limited, he was able to punctuate his retelling of his life by saying: "I am the luckiest man in the world." Because Howard sought his bliss and shared his passion and joy with the world, we too were lucky.
Follow the links for Howard's obits: New York Times, New York Daily News, Hollywood Reporter.
The lesson I learned this week was only one: Joy is a funny thing. Constantly seek it, hold it, and never let anyone or any situation take it away from you. You never know when the ride will be over. To borrow a phrase from Howard: " I thank you for your indulgence."
Howard Kissel, Blogger, Cultural Tourist
The Huffington Post
"How I Spent My Summer Vacation"
(Posted: 02/21/2012 8:22 am)
Yes, I know. You're supposed to write about your summer vacation just after you take it.
But what better time to recall the golden days of summer than on one of the coldest days of winter? It's as if you stored these memories precisely to warm you up when things are bleak.
I went to California last summer to join my high school classmates who were gathering at Yosemite National Park. I missed our 50th reunion the year before because I was in the hospital. I graduated from Shorewood High School, in Milwaukee, in 1960. Our class had less than 200 and we were surprisingly close. I have maintained ties with several of my classmates but this would be an opportunity to see others. About 30 of us came to this reunion. What was amazing was how quickly you recognized old friends despite the decades and how easily it was to resume relationships.
As for Yosemite, there is no way one can be prepared for its grandeur. Many years ago I interviewed the photographer Ansel Adams, whose photographs of its mountains are the image most of us carry around, especially if we have never been there. At the time I said his images conveyed what the earth must have been like the day after Creation. The Real Thing only reinforced this sense of Nature Unspoiled -- magnificent, overpowering, sublime. How miraculous, one thinks, that so many miles of inspiration have been preserved.
Before joining my classmates in Eden -- our youth together seems another kind of Eden -- I visited my late wife's cousin Taffy and her husband George Davis in Oakland. Shortly after my arrival Taffy, an accomplished classical pianist and teacher, took me downtown -- a fairly placid pre-Occupation downtown -- to sit in on a jazz class she takes. I was heartened to think that there is a jazz school thriving in a major city, quite an extensive one at that.
It seems another instance of the domestication of what was once a wild child. Many years ago I did a story about American jazz for "W," my then-employer. Many of the older jazz musicians I talked to were a bit miffed at having to perform in concert halls before respectful well-dressed audiences. They missed the hubbub of the clubs where they got their start, where their music could not necessarily be heard above the chatter of the patrons. An exception was the dazzling violinist Stephane Grappelli, who never got over the fact that people would make small talk while his idol, Art Tatum, was playing.
The teacher of the jazz class had been born in Hungary. Yet when he sat at the piano he owned it. There was never a question that jazz, however American its origins, did not belong to him. By comparison, the students, though all very talented, had a kind of reticence about their playing, as if it were not part of their native birthright.
Taffy, George and I had dinner at Chez Panisse, which is a short drive from their oasis of a home in Oakland. Only then did I fully get the "message" of Alice Waters. I had not gotten it in her first cookbook 35 years ago because, it struck me at the time, there was too much prose, not enough lists of ingredients, especially odd ingredients that might make a basic dish taste unusual.
That was because the gospel she was spreading was that of learning to cook each ingredient to get the maximum taste out of it. This can only be done by understanding the nature of the ingredient, not by joining it with some clever seasoning. God knows how many pieces of salmon I have enjoyed in my life, but none brought out the full flavor of the fish as powerfully as the king salmon at Chez Panisse. (The second tastiest piece of salmon in my experience was 52 years ago, when my family and I visited Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco -- but I loved that hunk of salmon with what I now see as "false consciousness," because it tasted as hearty as good steak.)
After Yosemite I spend some time in Middletown, CA, a small town an hour and a half north of San Francisco, where John Sullivan, one of the best editors I worked with at the New York Daily News, lives with his partner Joe Tryon. They raise chickens and goats and I had several meals with the fresh eggs, cheese and milk that are "grown" in their backyard.
On our way to San Francisco John and I stopped at Sam's Holey Cow! Diner in Monte Rio, CA, where I had the Juicy Lucy Burger, where the cheese is enclosed in the meat and oozes out, a different approach to cuisine than Alice Waters', but in its own way just as satisfying.
I spent one day in San Francisco as a tourist. I enjoyed yummy lamb chops at John's Grill, a landmark restaurant associated with Sam Spade, the detective played by Humphrey Bogart in "The Maltese Falcon." According to the menu, he too favored the lamb chops. John's is a reminder that restaurants years ago were often very self-consciously men's places, if only because restaurants downtown catered to a largely businessman clientele. The hardwood walls and old-fashioned light fixtures suggested a masculine esthetic you don't see much back home. (Even Keene's Chophouse, despite the pipes of historic clients on the ceiling, is more genteel than virile.)
For my day as a tourist I stayed at the Fairmont, one of America's grandest hotels, which opened a year after the earthquake of 1906. The lobby has a majestic quality. It is ornate in the manner of the Gilded Age, with lofty ceilings, marble pillars and walls, elegant palms, but the effect is tasteful and oddly soothing.
My last night in the West I spent at the San Francisco Opera, which was producing a refreshing version of "Das Rheingold," directed by Francesca Zambello, which I wrote about at the time. The next morning I had perfectly poached eggs in my room, looking out over the city coated in morning gold.
On this bitterly cold day these memories bring back the warmth of friendship, familial love and the wonders of the American West. Since much of the year after that was spent in and out of the hospital, these memories have special poignancy. I wish I were one of those people who, as the years go by, continue looking forward. Alas, I'm not. I thank you for your indulgence.
I often find myself in the awkward position of defending our life here on QQR. "Why don't you have a TV?" "Isn't the life you lead for the retired or those who've decided to escape the rat race altogether?" "How does it make any sense to keep a foot in a world of self-sufficiency and the other in the 'outside world' of corporate America? How do you justify the duality?" "How could that much work be any fun?"
Joy is a funny thing. It's an intangible that can come from innumerable sources or from nowhere at all. Defined: "The emotion evoked by well-being, success, or good fortune or by the prospect of possessing what one desires; delight." But, can joy also come form not having what one desires? Is there joy in deprivation, unencumbered-ness, the absence of comforts? One man's comfort is another man's waste of time, money and precious resources. The woman I consider my "mother" was 53 when she died. Although she didn't give me life, she taught me how to be a good person, and without her direction, I wouldn't have become a man people can admire and respect. Her name was JoEllyn. She was a fourth-grade school teacher, a mother, and a multitude of other things that made the world a better place for her having shared it with us. At 53, her life was just getting good; she was planning for retirement, she bought a sailboat, had gone blond and joined a speed dating club. It had become, "her time." I know you're wondering where this is going and what the heck does it have to do with raising goats and chickens. After I was over the exhaustion of sharing JoEllyn's last few weeks of life, I made myself a promise. I promised I would never ever do another thing that didn't bring me joy.
The guy with iPhone may never understand how I can get up at 4:30 on a cold January morning and be humming while I'm snuggled to the side of warm goat while rhythmically filling a pail full of possibilities. The part of the equation he doesn't understand is that it brings me joy. No, we don't buy "hothouse tomatoes" because John can take a seed he's saved from the previous year and nurture it into 20 lbs. of the sweetest red orbs you've ever sliced on toast and smeared with mayo. If that isn't pure bliss, I sure don't know what is. In the absence of watching TV, we've learned to talk, be friends and look forward to more than the next episode of "American Idol." I find absolute delight in my friendship with John. No, we don't have everything we'd like to have, but it isn't that we can't afford things -- we just question the need. Out of not finding the need, we've become creative in the enjoyment of making what we have better. Sandpaper and paint are a good bit less expensive than new cabinets. When we look around at the things we've done; we find ourselves joyful and full of delight.
We're doing this now because if we don't we might regret not having baby goats to laugh at or nutty salad to enjoy. There is so much more joy in "doing" than in standing by and watching. Sure I can stop at the store on the way home, but where's the fun in that? I can give the nice checkout girl a dollar for a thing, but she can never sell me the joy of the experience of making it myself and sharing with it with those I love.
The unfortunate thing about growing older is that those we love age along with us. If you're like me, one who enjoys the accumulated wisdom of those older than you, the process seems accelerated. Naturally this can't literally be the case, but one day you wake up and someone you've just had lunch with has died, or the phone rings and you hear your father has been diagnosed with end-stage cancer. Both of these have become true for us. This past Friday, our friend Howard passed away. He was only 69 when he died, and unfortunately, his last few months were not physically comfortable. We had the great fortune to host Howard for a couple of days a few months prior to his death. Below is a recounting of his summer trip (his last column, it turns out, for The Huffington Post, where he was an arts critic and blogger), in which he mentions his time with us. While here, Howard remarked on his past and recent experiences and the great joy he'd found through his life. His was a life more about saying "yes, and" than about finding reasons to decline. At the time of Howard's visit to QQR, he was jaundiced, bloated and walked with great effort, and although I believe he knew his time was limited, he was able to punctuate his retelling of his life by saying: "I am the luckiest man in the world." Because Howard sought his bliss and shared his passion and joy with the world, we too were lucky.
Follow the links for Howard's obits: New York Times, New York Daily News, Hollywood Reporter.
The lesson I learned this week was only one: Joy is a funny thing. Constantly seek it, hold it, and never let anyone or any situation take it away from you. You never know when the ride will be over. To borrow a phrase from Howard: " I thank you for your indulgence."
Howard Kissel, Blogger, Cultural Tourist
The Huffington Post
"How I Spent My Summer Vacation"
(Posted: 02/21/2012 8:22 am)
Yes, I know. You're supposed to write about your summer vacation just after you take it.
But what better time to recall the golden days of summer than on one of the coldest days of winter? It's as if you stored these memories precisely to warm you up when things are bleak.
I went to California last summer to join my high school classmates who were gathering at Yosemite National Park. I missed our 50th reunion the year before because I was in the hospital. I graduated from Shorewood High School, in Milwaukee, in 1960. Our class had less than 200 and we were surprisingly close. I have maintained ties with several of my classmates but this would be an opportunity to see others. About 30 of us came to this reunion. What was amazing was how quickly you recognized old friends despite the decades and how easily it was to resume relationships.
As for Yosemite, there is no way one can be prepared for its grandeur. Many years ago I interviewed the photographer Ansel Adams, whose photographs of its mountains are the image most of us carry around, especially if we have never been there. At the time I said his images conveyed what the earth must have been like the day after Creation. The Real Thing only reinforced this sense of Nature Unspoiled -- magnificent, overpowering, sublime. How miraculous, one thinks, that so many miles of inspiration have been preserved.
Before joining my classmates in Eden -- our youth together seems another kind of Eden -- I visited my late wife's cousin Taffy and her husband George Davis in Oakland. Shortly after my arrival Taffy, an accomplished classical pianist and teacher, took me downtown -- a fairly placid pre-Occupation downtown -- to sit in on a jazz class she takes. I was heartened to think that there is a jazz school thriving in a major city, quite an extensive one at that.
It seems another instance of the domestication of what was once a wild child. Many years ago I did a story about American jazz for "W," my then-employer. Many of the older jazz musicians I talked to were a bit miffed at having to perform in concert halls before respectful well-dressed audiences. They missed the hubbub of the clubs where they got their start, where their music could not necessarily be heard above the chatter of the patrons. An exception was the dazzling violinist Stephane Grappelli, who never got over the fact that people would make small talk while his idol, Art Tatum, was playing.
The teacher of the jazz class had been born in Hungary. Yet when he sat at the piano he owned it. There was never a question that jazz, however American its origins, did not belong to him. By comparison, the students, though all very talented, had a kind of reticence about their playing, as if it were not part of their native birthright.
Taffy, George and I had dinner at Chez Panisse, which is a short drive from their oasis of a home in Oakland. Only then did I fully get the "message" of Alice Waters. I had not gotten it in her first cookbook 35 years ago because, it struck me at the time, there was too much prose, not enough lists of ingredients, especially odd ingredients that might make a basic dish taste unusual.
That was because the gospel she was spreading was that of learning to cook each ingredient to get the maximum taste out of it. This can only be done by understanding the nature of the ingredient, not by joining it with some clever seasoning. God knows how many pieces of salmon I have enjoyed in my life, but none brought out the full flavor of the fish as powerfully as the king salmon at Chez Panisse. (The second tastiest piece of salmon in my experience was 52 years ago, when my family and I visited Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco -- but I loved that hunk of salmon with what I now see as "false consciousness," because it tasted as hearty as good steak.)
After Yosemite I spend some time in Middletown, CA, a small town an hour and a half north of San Francisco, where John Sullivan, one of the best editors I worked with at the New York Daily News, lives with his partner Joe Tryon. They raise chickens and goats and I had several meals with the fresh eggs, cheese and milk that are "grown" in their backyard.
On our way to San Francisco John and I stopped at Sam's Holey Cow! Diner in Monte Rio, CA, where I had the Juicy Lucy Burger, where the cheese is enclosed in the meat and oozes out, a different approach to cuisine than Alice Waters', but in its own way just as satisfying.
I spent one day in San Francisco as a tourist. I enjoyed yummy lamb chops at John's Grill, a landmark restaurant associated with Sam Spade, the detective played by Humphrey Bogart in "The Maltese Falcon." According to the menu, he too favored the lamb chops. John's is a reminder that restaurants years ago were often very self-consciously men's places, if only because restaurants downtown catered to a largely businessman clientele. The hardwood walls and old-fashioned light fixtures suggested a masculine esthetic you don't see much back home. (Even Keene's Chophouse, despite the pipes of historic clients on the ceiling, is more genteel than virile.)
For my day as a tourist I stayed at the Fairmont, one of America's grandest hotels, which opened a year after the earthquake of 1906. The lobby has a majestic quality. It is ornate in the manner of the Gilded Age, with lofty ceilings, marble pillars and walls, elegant palms, but the effect is tasteful and oddly soothing.
My last night in the West I spent at the San Francisco Opera, which was producing a refreshing version of "Das Rheingold," directed by Francesca Zambello, which I wrote about at the time. The next morning I had perfectly poached eggs in my room, looking out over the city coated in morning gold.
On this bitterly cold day these memories bring back the warmth of friendship, familial love and the wonders of the American West. Since much of the year after that was spent in and out of the hospital, these memories have special poignancy. I wish I were one of those people who, as the years go by, continue looking forward. Alas, I'm not. I thank you for your indulgence.
Lesson No. 6
A cloudy sky silhouettes the digger pines and oaks. (Photo by Irene Sclavenitis)
NEWS ITEM: Cancer breakthrough -- scientists discover harmless bacteria in soil kills cancer tumors
Seriously now, how many of our parents told us to go outside and play in the dirt? Although they may have just wanted a moment to themselves, the advantage was that we did in fact get exposed to the wonderful things naturally present in sunshine, creek water, and dare I say, in eating a mud pie. Although you thought your big sister was just being cruel, she was actually bolstering your immune system.
We recently put 300 pounds of broiler chickens in the freezer. We affectionately call them "The Dumpties" as in Humpty. When those little darlings arrive, they are the cutest little things on two feet. It's amazing to me how something so tiny can travel hundreds of miles in a box, packed with dozens of their brethren, only a day old, and still seem so happy to be alive. Ignorance is truly bliss. Because I will always love having babies on the ranch, every year, I suffer from situational dementia in forgetting these adorable little critters will grow to be over 10 pounds apiece and produce what seems to be an endless stream of poop. Oh yes, now I remember ... pounds and pounds of poop. By the time 30 of them are 4 weeks old, they are consuming over 20 pounds of food and five gallons of water a day. They are estimated to have a conversion rate of 4 pounds of feed to 1 pound of meat. My unscientific mind would lead me to surmise this leaves 3 pounds left to end up as poop.
We have tried multiple ways of raising meat birds. The little guys seem so fragile when they arrive; chirping yellow puffs with bright eyes and crayon orange legs. The first year they lived inside the house until they were a month old. I thought peat moss was the best medium on which to raise them. It was soft, absorbent, and came in a convenient bag. That was four years ago, and we're still cleaning brown dust off the tops of cupboards, doors and out of obscure corners many rooms away from the pantry in which they lived. Hmm, what next. Shredded paper; nope got too water soaked. Straw; naw, it matted, held moister and grew flies. How about just putting the little guys right on the ground? Eureka! The little peeps loved it. They dug, scratched, found little things to eat, but best of all, they simply incorporated their poop into the dirt. All it took was moving their pen around. This was also the first year we didn't lose a single bird. All my previous years efforts to keep them as clean as possible and protect them from the "dirty world" was nothing more than a father's need to keep them safe. It turns out, I should have made them play outside.
Although our ranch life was pretty wonderful in 2011, many of those we love have had a tough time. It is a sad reality that as we age, those around us do also. The "C" word -- cancer -- found more than a few of our friends and family, and others lost the battle to reinvent themselves as they struggled with job loss, care of an ailing spouse or parent, or diminished retirement plans. I'm afraid the stress of these times may be wearing away at the veneer of society. This Christmas, while working to hand out food boxes, a woman hit me on purpose with her car, TWICE. I was directing traffic so the children could safely pick up donated toys; however, after picking up her food box, having a direct route was more important to this woman than the safety of little children as they ran into the street in their excitement over Christmas toys. I wasn't injured, but I had to leave as I'd lost nearly all my Christmas spirit.
I guess my hit-and-run friend had never heard of the "Pork chop theory": "In this tough economic environment, it's natural to be competitive, and it's hard to be happy for someone when they get a prize -- a promotion, a raise, a bonus -- and you don't. When I have that feeling, I rely on the 'pork chop theory.' The pork chop theory is based on the premise that if you put one pork chop in the pan and turn the heat on high, the pork chop will burn. If you put two pork chops in the pan, however, and turn the heat on high, they will feed off the fat of one another. It's the ultimate in giving, sharing and developing mutually beneficial partnerships and relationships. It's not about competition; it's about sharing the fat, sharing the love."
-- Virginia Willis, author of "Basic to Brilliant, Y'All: 150 Refined Southern Recipes and Ways to Dress Them Up for
Company"
It is bitterly cold here this am (26 degrees F), with a heavy frost from the light mist we got yesterday. Alas, no significant precipitation to report. It's very disconcerting. I may just have to forgo pasture grass this year, as I'm sure the seeds have sprouted and desiccated into oblivion. The dry weather is a mixed blessing. Although I worry about the perennials, the days are sunny, warm and nothing short of breathtaking, filled with glorious sunrises and sunsets, mist on the mountain tops, and fog which glows in the valleys. I guess this is why we live in California.
As we move into a New Year, no matter what or how you will be celebrating, please include a moment to celebrate that uniquely human ability to love.
John and I wish you a Blessed New Year!!! Whether you’re Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Shinto, Buddhist, Hindu, Wiccan, Agnostic, or Atheist… you are loved… so don’t forget to love in return. The biggest gift you can give to “yourself” is to forget about your needs and think about others. Remember to stay in touch with your heart and let it be touched by others because it’s in giving that you will receive…. it’s in loving, that you will be loved, and it’s in understanding that you will be understood.
The crisp winter air is saturated with peace, love, and light. Open a window in your home and a place in your heart so the winds of hope and joy may fill you.
Here’s to you and that gentle breath within you.
All the very best in the coming year,
Joe, John, Gertie, Ella, Simone, Zazz and "The Girls"
--from Joe, Jan. 3, 2012
Seriously now, how many of our parents told us to go outside and play in the dirt? Although they may have just wanted a moment to themselves, the advantage was that we did in fact get exposed to the wonderful things naturally present in sunshine, creek water, and dare I say, in eating a mud pie. Although you thought your big sister was just being cruel, she was actually bolstering your immune system.
We recently put 300 pounds of broiler chickens in the freezer. We affectionately call them "The Dumpties" as in Humpty. When those little darlings arrive, they are the cutest little things on two feet. It's amazing to me how something so tiny can travel hundreds of miles in a box, packed with dozens of their brethren, only a day old, and still seem so happy to be alive. Ignorance is truly bliss. Because I will always love having babies on the ranch, every year, I suffer from situational dementia in forgetting these adorable little critters will grow to be over 10 pounds apiece and produce what seems to be an endless stream of poop. Oh yes, now I remember ... pounds and pounds of poop. By the time 30 of them are 4 weeks old, they are consuming over 20 pounds of food and five gallons of water a day. They are estimated to have a conversion rate of 4 pounds of feed to 1 pound of meat. My unscientific mind would lead me to surmise this leaves 3 pounds left to end up as poop.
We have tried multiple ways of raising meat birds. The little guys seem so fragile when they arrive; chirping yellow puffs with bright eyes and crayon orange legs. The first year they lived inside the house until they were a month old. I thought peat moss was the best medium on which to raise them. It was soft, absorbent, and came in a convenient bag. That was four years ago, and we're still cleaning brown dust off the tops of cupboards, doors and out of obscure corners many rooms away from the pantry in which they lived. Hmm, what next. Shredded paper; nope got too water soaked. Straw; naw, it matted, held moister and grew flies. How about just putting the little guys right on the ground? Eureka! The little peeps loved it. They dug, scratched, found little things to eat, but best of all, they simply incorporated their poop into the dirt. All it took was moving their pen around. This was also the first year we didn't lose a single bird. All my previous years efforts to keep them as clean as possible and protect them from the "dirty world" was nothing more than a father's need to keep them safe. It turns out, I should have made them play outside.
Although our ranch life was pretty wonderful in 2011, many of those we love have had a tough time. It is a sad reality that as we age, those around us do also. The "C" word -- cancer -- found more than a few of our friends and family, and others lost the battle to reinvent themselves as they struggled with job loss, care of an ailing spouse or parent, or diminished retirement plans. I'm afraid the stress of these times may be wearing away at the veneer of society. This Christmas, while working to hand out food boxes, a woman hit me on purpose with her car, TWICE. I was directing traffic so the children could safely pick up donated toys; however, after picking up her food box, having a direct route was more important to this woman than the safety of little children as they ran into the street in their excitement over Christmas toys. I wasn't injured, but I had to leave as I'd lost nearly all my Christmas spirit.
I guess my hit-and-run friend had never heard of the "Pork chop theory": "In this tough economic environment, it's natural to be competitive, and it's hard to be happy for someone when they get a prize -- a promotion, a raise, a bonus -- and you don't. When I have that feeling, I rely on the 'pork chop theory.' The pork chop theory is based on the premise that if you put one pork chop in the pan and turn the heat on high, the pork chop will burn. If you put two pork chops in the pan, however, and turn the heat on high, they will feed off the fat of one another. It's the ultimate in giving, sharing and developing mutually beneficial partnerships and relationships. It's not about competition; it's about sharing the fat, sharing the love."
-- Virginia Willis, author of "Basic to Brilliant, Y'All: 150 Refined Southern Recipes and Ways to Dress Them Up for
Company"
It is bitterly cold here this am (26 degrees F), with a heavy frost from the light mist we got yesterday. Alas, no significant precipitation to report. It's very disconcerting. I may just have to forgo pasture grass this year, as I'm sure the seeds have sprouted and desiccated into oblivion. The dry weather is a mixed blessing. Although I worry about the perennials, the days are sunny, warm and nothing short of breathtaking, filled with glorious sunrises and sunsets, mist on the mountain tops, and fog which glows in the valleys. I guess this is why we live in California.
As we move into a New Year, no matter what or how you will be celebrating, please include a moment to celebrate that uniquely human ability to love.
John and I wish you a Blessed New Year!!! Whether you’re Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Shinto, Buddhist, Hindu, Wiccan, Agnostic, or Atheist… you are loved… so don’t forget to love in return. The biggest gift you can give to “yourself” is to forget about your needs and think about others. Remember to stay in touch with your heart and let it be touched by others because it’s in giving that you will receive…. it’s in loving, that you will be loved, and it’s in understanding that you will be understood.
The crisp winter air is saturated with peace, love, and light. Open a window in your home and a place in your heart so the winds of hope and joy may fill you.
Here’s to you and that gentle breath within you.
All the very best in the coming year,
Joe, John, Gertie, Ella, Simone, Zazz and "The Girls"
--from Joe, Jan. 3, 2012
Lesson No. 5
WE ARE deep into fall, an accelerated one to be sure. This week, we had a real hoarfrost, beautiful crystalline swirls covering steel pipes and windshields and anything out in the open. Unfortunately, it also meant that even frost-hardy plants got nipped: our marigolds are toast, and the mums even look a tad stunned. So we'll shut off the hoses, lest some freeze crack them (not to mention burst the pipes). The cover is now back on the greenhouse and cold crops are going in. Although we'll miss the abundance of the summer, we're looking forward to bunches of spinach, lettuces and chard. Turning over the compost pile, to decompose in the winter rains, will yield soft, rich-smelling dirt in the spring to start the process anew.
Otherwise, the unusual cold is not entirely unwelcome. As Garrison Keillor says, it concentrates the mind. Projects suddenly assume new focus, and the imperative to finish work begun long ago impels you forward. The earlier sunset also encourages one to get out earlier and "make hay while the sun shines." Although spring often gets the most credit for new beginnings, the onset of winter encourages us to prepare for the births; it's a time to sharpen tools, and to focus on stocking the freezer for when fresh won't be available. The "boys" (aka meat goats) are now old and big enough to be butchered. Our experience with taking the sheep to the slaughterhouse was such that we've decided it's less stressful, for all parties, if we use a traveling abattoir. Although the slaughterhouse to which we delivered our sheep last year was clean and quiet, the trip was grueling for the animals (whom we named Lorena and William). Two hours in the back of a truck left them wide-eyed and exhausted, only to be pulled, frightened, onto a concrete floor and ultimately separated from one another. Although the butcher dispatched them humanely, it didn't bring them to an end which we felt good about. We'd taken such great care to ensure they were well fed and led a relatively stress free life; it seemed antithetical to have them spend their last few hours in fear.
Before the butcher arrived, we opened a hole in the fence to create a gate through which he could carry the carcases outside of the view of the other goats. I know this may seem a bit extreme in our anthropomorphizing, but again, it's about us feeling good about the care of our animals and the minimization of stress. When I was a young man, I was the butcher. I would don a coat I knew wouldn't matter if it got smeared with blood, load the gun, and make sure my father's bowie knife was sharp. There was no option to refuse the duty. My parents and I had an agreement. If I was going to keep animals, I had to be prepared to dispatch them, butcher, and process the meat for the family. One winter, my parents decided to make a present of one of our young does to my uncle. My uncle had lost his job and his family needed the meat. Nana was a young doe who was born with a cleft palate. It had been doubtful if she would live at all, let alone grow to any serviceable size. Her mother had rejected her, so drop by drop, I nursed her every two hours for the first few days. She never could take a bottle, but somehow I got enough in her to not only keep her alive, but for her to grow and romp with the other babies. Her name came from the only noise she could make without a roof in her mouth to form the usual baby goat sounds. City folk are so very curious about we who raise and eat our animals. I can't count how many times we've been asked: "Do you kill and eat them?" when we share stories of our life on QQR. I knew Nana would eventually need to "go" as she couldn't be bred and wouldn't even make an attractive pet for someone. I wasn't part of the discussion during which Nana was chosen to be the goat which would leave with my uncle, and I didn't question when they told me to butcher and wrap her for them. My uncle wasn't going to pass up the opportunity to watch. Being raised in the city, he'd never seen an animal die, so with great curiosity and masculine enthusiasm he followed me to the barn. "How you gonna do it?... Do they scream?...What happens after you shoot her?... Can I slit her throat?" Nana ran to me, I put a rope around her neck and lead her out to the furthest gate from the barn. I don't remember answering any of the uncle's questions or even speaking. Unfortunately, Nana wasn't stunned after I shot her, so she did scream... over and over until her eyes glazed after I slit her throat. I normally would have gotten the wheelbarrow to haul an animal into butcher, but I carried Nana in my arms to the little room we used to butcher. She was small enough, I didn't need to hang her, so skinned and butchered her on the table. I think I actually forgot my uncle was there until I looked up to find him standing across from me. When I met his gaze, I found his face to be pale and blank. This was man who towered over me, easily 6-feet-4, 250 pounds, and whom I'd seen lift an engine by hand out of a car. In a voice no louder than a whisper he uttered: "You're a cruel little fucker". He walked off, and I continued my job.
When the butcher came today, it was all over in a matter of minutes. There was no stressful two-hour ride, no concrete floors, they weren't separated from one another, and the butcher promised them "everything was going to all right" as he dispatched them quickly. We felt like we kept the promise to them of a good life and death.
The things I learned this week:
1. I care more about things than I pretend to.
2. You can make and keep promises to animals.
3. I love to brag about how smart my goats are to be able to open gates and turn the lights on and off.
4. It stops being cute when a goat can open a gate and turn the lights on and off.
5. Life is so very precious and should never be taken for granted. If you pray, always remember to give thanks and to pray for wisdom.
Thanks for stopping by.
--from Joe, Nov. 16, 2011
Otherwise, the unusual cold is not entirely unwelcome. As Garrison Keillor says, it concentrates the mind. Projects suddenly assume new focus, and the imperative to finish work begun long ago impels you forward. The earlier sunset also encourages one to get out earlier and "make hay while the sun shines." Although spring often gets the most credit for new beginnings, the onset of winter encourages us to prepare for the births; it's a time to sharpen tools, and to focus on stocking the freezer for when fresh won't be available. The "boys" (aka meat goats) are now old and big enough to be butchered. Our experience with taking the sheep to the slaughterhouse was such that we've decided it's less stressful, for all parties, if we use a traveling abattoir. Although the slaughterhouse to which we delivered our sheep last year was clean and quiet, the trip was grueling for the animals (whom we named Lorena and William). Two hours in the back of a truck left them wide-eyed and exhausted, only to be pulled, frightened, onto a concrete floor and ultimately separated from one another. Although the butcher dispatched them humanely, it didn't bring them to an end which we felt good about. We'd taken such great care to ensure they were well fed and led a relatively stress free life; it seemed antithetical to have them spend their last few hours in fear.
Before the butcher arrived, we opened a hole in the fence to create a gate through which he could carry the carcases outside of the view of the other goats. I know this may seem a bit extreme in our anthropomorphizing, but again, it's about us feeling good about the care of our animals and the minimization of stress. When I was a young man, I was the butcher. I would don a coat I knew wouldn't matter if it got smeared with blood, load the gun, and make sure my father's bowie knife was sharp. There was no option to refuse the duty. My parents and I had an agreement. If I was going to keep animals, I had to be prepared to dispatch them, butcher, and process the meat for the family. One winter, my parents decided to make a present of one of our young does to my uncle. My uncle had lost his job and his family needed the meat. Nana was a young doe who was born with a cleft palate. It had been doubtful if she would live at all, let alone grow to any serviceable size. Her mother had rejected her, so drop by drop, I nursed her every two hours for the first few days. She never could take a bottle, but somehow I got enough in her to not only keep her alive, but for her to grow and romp with the other babies. Her name came from the only noise she could make without a roof in her mouth to form the usual baby goat sounds. City folk are so very curious about we who raise and eat our animals. I can't count how many times we've been asked: "Do you kill and eat them?" when we share stories of our life on QQR. I knew Nana would eventually need to "go" as she couldn't be bred and wouldn't even make an attractive pet for someone. I wasn't part of the discussion during which Nana was chosen to be the goat which would leave with my uncle, and I didn't question when they told me to butcher and wrap her for them. My uncle wasn't going to pass up the opportunity to watch. Being raised in the city, he'd never seen an animal die, so with great curiosity and masculine enthusiasm he followed me to the barn. "How you gonna do it?... Do they scream?...What happens after you shoot her?... Can I slit her throat?" Nana ran to me, I put a rope around her neck and lead her out to the furthest gate from the barn. I don't remember answering any of the uncle's questions or even speaking. Unfortunately, Nana wasn't stunned after I shot her, so she did scream... over and over until her eyes glazed after I slit her throat. I normally would have gotten the wheelbarrow to haul an animal into butcher, but I carried Nana in my arms to the little room we used to butcher. She was small enough, I didn't need to hang her, so skinned and butchered her on the table. I think I actually forgot my uncle was there until I looked up to find him standing across from me. When I met his gaze, I found his face to be pale and blank. This was man who towered over me, easily 6-feet-4, 250 pounds, and whom I'd seen lift an engine by hand out of a car. In a voice no louder than a whisper he uttered: "You're a cruel little fucker". He walked off, and I continued my job.
When the butcher came today, it was all over in a matter of minutes. There was no stressful two-hour ride, no concrete floors, they weren't separated from one another, and the butcher promised them "everything was going to all right" as he dispatched them quickly. We felt like we kept the promise to them of a good life and death.
The things I learned this week:
1. I care more about things than I pretend to.
2. You can make and keep promises to animals.
3. I love to brag about how smart my goats are to be able to open gates and turn the lights on and off.
4. It stops being cute when a goat can open a gate and turn the lights on and off.
5. Life is so very precious and should never be taken for granted. If you pray, always remember to give thanks and to pray for wisdom.
Thanks for stopping by.
--from Joe, Nov. 16, 2011
Lesson No. 4
Adonis, aka Donny, visited our does early in November of 2011.
IT'S THE FIRST day of November and I'm struck with wisdom from my parents. I remember being bored one summer day and remarking that time seemed to be be crawling along some winding path without end. Both my parents laughed and counseled me that a day would come when things would happen in a blink and I would wonder "where the time had gone." Time... this human construct, pulled from our imaginations so we can mark the passing of a day in our lives. Carl Sagan once remarked that if a time line was constructed starting with the creation of the Earth and ending with today, there would not be a space small enough on it to mark our individual existences. Although I'm enjoying my accumulated years, I miss the feeling of a long summer, which is now gracefully giving way to a gentle autumn filled with warm days, cool nights and all the colors and smells of the year coming to an end.
With the first frost and shortened days, goats usually begin their heat cycles and the physiological phenomena that will lead to babies in the spring. Although I'm so very excited about the possibility of first kids here on QQR, I found myself filled with mixed emotions at the thought of breeding Zazz and Simone. When I get home from work, I call out "where's my mama Zazz and my baby girl Simone?" I am always rewarded with calls from the goat yard. Even at nearly 100 lbs, Simone still tries to crawl in my lap and kisses my ears and neck. She will always be my baby girl and me her goat daddy. Although, or maybe because, I was nearly brought to tears with her refusal to take a nipple and lost sleep when she tore her face, I love her as I would a human child. I know realistically, life on a farm is fragile and temporary; however, for now, she is my baby and I will protect and love her. As the time grew closer to breeding season, the thought of exposing her to a buck became painful.
Our goat mentor, David, suggested a buck owned by a very nice woman in Kelseyville, Calif., named Myra. David liked the lines of this Oberhasli buck, had seen his mother and felt his characteristics would complement Simone's and improve Zazz's shortcomings. Zass's udder is wonderful to milk, but her back attachment is a little weak. Normally, does are taken to the buck, bred that same day and returned to their home. Unfortunately, Simone, being new at this, was completely secretive about her first heat. I was fearful I would miss her next cycle and would either miss breeding her altogether or have babies very late in the spring. Myra consented to letting me borrow her buck so he would be on hand when Simone came into her heat next. On Oct. 30, Adonis came to visit the girls. He's known as Donny for short, and since he's only 18 months old, Donny seems to fit him better. Amazingly, Simone was in standing heat the day Donny arrived. For about four hours, my little baby girl couldn't get enough of her new friend. My fears of her being traumatized were completely unfounded, and like the father of the bride, I began to wonder if my little girl would ever want to crawl in my lap again.
It's been a few days since Simone and Donny became friends; since that time, Zazz has also come into heat. She was hysterical in her approach to entertaining Donny. In her typical "I can't be bothered" approach to life, she woke-up one morning walked over to Donny, wagged her tail, and it was all over in a matter of seconds. She went about her day with the same sleepy expression she always wears: cool, calm and completely lovable. If she were human, I would have expected to hear; "Hey, hey let's not mess my hair or make this an all day thing... I have a nail appointment at 10 o'clock." I couldn't help but chuckle at how nonchalant she was. Poor Donny was expecting more enthusiasm, but alas, he had to settle with eating alfalfa and looking about for more energetic partners.
So it begins, the next generation on QQR. Hopefully, the girls will settle with kids due the end of March. The baby meat birds are growing like weeds, the new pullets are laying the most adorable little eggs, and we're about to put in the onions, garlic and greens as winter crops. Winter tends to signal the end of the year, but for now, the autumn is giving us hope that will carry us through the cold wet months to find new life on the other side. Today, I'm about to burst with anticipation. We'll see how I feel when the snows start, but for now, it's a really nice feeling.
Things I've learned over the last few weeks:
1. I'm not as strong as I was in my thirties.
2. There is joy to be had in asking for help because I'm not as strong as I was.
3. When I don't ask for help, I'm depriving others of the joy of helping me.
4. When I fall in the barn, it's like the tree in the forest, it hurts just as much if no one is there to hear you fall.
Thanks for stopping by, stay warm and even if you don't have a religion, try to seek the divine. It's worth the warmth you'll kindle on the inside.
-- from Joe, Nov. 1, 2011
With the first frost and shortened days, goats usually begin their heat cycles and the physiological phenomena that will lead to babies in the spring. Although I'm so very excited about the possibility of first kids here on QQR, I found myself filled with mixed emotions at the thought of breeding Zazz and Simone. When I get home from work, I call out "where's my mama Zazz and my baby girl Simone?" I am always rewarded with calls from the goat yard. Even at nearly 100 lbs, Simone still tries to crawl in my lap and kisses my ears and neck. She will always be my baby girl and me her goat daddy. Although, or maybe because, I was nearly brought to tears with her refusal to take a nipple and lost sleep when she tore her face, I love her as I would a human child. I know realistically, life on a farm is fragile and temporary; however, for now, she is my baby and I will protect and love her. As the time grew closer to breeding season, the thought of exposing her to a buck became painful.
Our goat mentor, David, suggested a buck owned by a very nice woman in Kelseyville, Calif., named Myra. David liked the lines of this Oberhasli buck, had seen his mother and felt his characteristics would complement Simone's and improve Zazz's shortcomings. Zass's udder is wonderful to milk, but her back attachment is a little weak. Normally, does are taken to the buck, bred that same day and returned to their home. Unfortunately, Simone, being new at this, was completely secretive about her first heat. I was fearful I would miss her next cycle and would either miss breeding her altogether or have babies very late in the spring. Myra consented to letting me borrow her buck so he would be on hand when Simone came into her heat next. On Oct. 30, Adonis came to visit the girls. He's known as Donny for short, and since he's only 18 months old, Donny seems to fit him better. Amazingly, Simone was in standing heat the day Donny arrived. For about four hours, my little baby girl couldn't get enough of her new friend. My fears of her being traumatized were completely unfounded, and like the father of the bride, I began to wonder if my little girl would ever want to crawl in my lap again.
It's been a few days since Simone and Donny became friends; since that time, Zazz has also come into heat. She was hysterical in her approach to entertaining Donny. In her typical "I can't be bothered" approach to life, she woke-up one morning walked over to Donny, wagged her tail, and it was all over in a matter of seconds. She went about her day with the same sleepy expression she always wears: cool, calm and completely lovable. If she were human, I would have expected to hear; "Hey, hey let's not mess my hair or make this an all day thing... I have a nail appointment at 10 o'clock." I couldn't help but chuckle at how nonchalant she was. Poor Donny was expecting more enthusiasm, but alas, he had to settle with eating alfalfa and looking about for more energetic partners.
So it begins, the next generation on QQR. Hopefully, the girls will settle with kids due the end of March. The baby meat birds are growing like weeds, the new pullets are laying the most adorable little eggs, and we're about to put in the onions, garlic and greens as winter crops. Winter tends to signal the end of the year, but for now, the autumn is giving us hope that will carry us through the cold wet months to find new life on the other side. Today, I'm about to burst with anticipation. We'll see how I feel when the snows start, but for now, it's a really nice feeling.
Things I've learned over the last few weeks:
1. I'm not as strong as I was in my thirties.
2. There is joy to be had in asking for help because I'm not as strong as I was.
3. When I don't ask for help, I'm depriving others of the joy of helping me.
4. When I fall in the barn, it's like the tree in the forest, it hurts just as much if no one is there to hear you fall.
Thanks for stopping by, stay warm and even if you don't have a religion, try to seek the divine. It's worth the warmth you'll kindle on the inside.
-- from Joe, Nov. 1, 2011
Lesson No. 3
Showing how is the essence of being a good teacher.
BEING A Capricorn and loving goats as I do, I was delighted to discover a word just for me. The second meaning describes me after a day cleaning stalls. The third I grew out of some 20 years ago:
hircine
PRONUNCIATION: (HUHR-syn, -sin)
MEANING (adjective):
1. Of or relating to a goat.
2. Having a strong odor.
3. Lustful; lewd.
ETYMOLOGY: From Latin hircus (goat). Earliest documented use: 1656.
USAGE: "The showgirls, all looking to be in their early 20s, came out and posed next to the hircine and bearded Billy Gibbons and Dusty Hill, the guitarist and the bassist."
--Peter Watrous, "America's Pulse as Taken by ZZ Top"; The New York Times: June 8, 1994
One of the reasons we started this site was to be a source for those who were looking for clarity in the sea of misinformation regarding this thing we're calling the "hobby farm." I'm not entirely sure that getting up at 5 a.m. to milk and feed our livestock prior to going to my "real job" qualifies as a hobby; but hey, I guess even knitting can bring sweat to a brow with robust pearling.
Last weekend, we had visitors come for a class on cheese- and yogurt-making (we bartered knowledge for wine); however, it turned into so much more. When I was a boy, I had the good fortune of having parents who had been raised on a farm, returned to the farm after other careers and passed their love for animals and the land down to me. My brothers weren't born with the same need to feel the warmth of an animal or to punch holes in the land to release its abundance. They couldn't wait to escape into a world other than the one in which they'd been born. I was reminded this weekend how blessed I've been. There is a new generation of folks born with the thirst to raise their own food, care for their own animals and cultivate an independence from the grocery store, factory farms and "big box" lifestyle; however, there are few to offer them hands-on knowledge or experience. Unlike myself, they seem to have been born into the wrong family and the culture in which they were raised neither fostered nor supported their need to "return" to a way of life other than one which has an accompanying iPhone application. There are innumerable websites and books on homesteading, hobby farming, animal husbandry and the like; however, try to find someone who'll let you trim a hoof, cut mozzarella curd, or show you how to turn compost. Don't get me wrong, here in California, there are entire weekend classes on how to "make compost." My grandfather would have died laughing if he knew people were paying $450 for a weekend class on how to turn shit and garbage into "garden gold." He would also have been very sad these people didn't have their own grandfathers to show them how to use the business end of a pitch fork just to know the value in it.
My weekend students had purchased two goats. They'd done the homework and had chosen animals that were well bred and possessed great potential for future generations. Unfortunately, along with the goats came no practical knowledge on how to care for them. Neither the person who sold them the animals nor all the books and blogs out there offered them the practical knowledge and experience necessary to successfully provide proper care. They knew that hoof care was important, but were afraid to attempt it themselves. Their animals were due for vaccinations; however, they were prepared to pay a vet $125 for the "visit fee" just to step foot on their property. As for the cheese-making, they knew they wanted to make their own dairy products; however, they'd never had a proper discussion about safe milk-handling. A two-hour class turned into a full day of sharing, encouragement, and clarification. Although exhausting, the past weekend is exactly the reason we started this site. My love for animals partly comes from my confidence in knowing their needs are met to the extent they're healthy, strong and beautiful. I want them to be a reflection of my concern for their well-being and efforts in care. These are not values you can find on a website. You learn this from a patient and knowledgeable teacher who's willing to let you practice without judgment.
No matter what you do or where you live, my guess it that you also have an opportunity to be a mentor. Whatever gift you have, there is someone who would love to have you show them that little secret that no blog holds. Try to think of your knowledge as a gift rather than a commodity. If we're going to return to a village mentality, we need stand-ins for my grandfather. Even if it's nothing more than making poop into soil, let a hungry soul follow you around for a few hours. When they bring you the zucchini they grew from the dirt they've made, it'll be the best damn zucchini on the planet, as its seeds will grow into a legacy.
Things I learned this week:
1. Don't forget to zip your fly when you go into the goat yard. ... gives a whole new meaning to a hair pull.
2. Jealousy is not strictly a human trait. ... if you bite me while I'm petting your sister, negative attention is still better than no attention at all.
3. Like most grown men, goats can sneeze, burp and fart ... all at the same time.
I love this quote:
"Said a hunted fox followed by twenty horsemen and a pack of twenty hounds, 'Of course they will kill me. But how poor and how stupid they must be. Surely it would not be worthwhile for twenty foxes riding on twenty asses and accompanied by twenty wolves to chase and kill one man.' " --Khalil Gibran, mystic, poet, and artist (1883-1931)
Thanks for stopping by. Per my grandfather: Be safe and don't take any wooden nickles.
--from Joe, Aug. 3, 2011
hircine
PRONUNCIATION: (HUHR-syn, -sin)
MEANING (adjective):
1. Of or relating to a goat.
2. Having a strong odor.
3. Lustful; lewd.
ETYMOLOGY: From Latin hircus (goat). Earliest documented use: 1656.
USAGE: "The showgirls, all looking to be in their early 20s, came out and posed next to the hircine and bearded Billy Gibbons and Dusty Hill, the guitarist and the bassist."
--Peter Watrous, "America's Pulse as Taken by ZZ Top"; The New York Times: June 8, 1994
One of the reasons we started this site was to be a source for those who were looking for clarity in the sea of misinformation regarding this thing we're calling the "hobby farm." I'm not entirely sure that getting up at 5 a.m. to milk and feed our livestock prior to going to my "real job" qualifies as a hobby; but hey, I guess even knitting can bring sweat to a brow with robust pearling.
Last weekend, we had visitors come for a class on cheese- and yogurt-making (we bartered knowledge for wine); however, it turned into so much more. When I was a boy, I had the good fortune of having parents who had been raised on a farm, returned to the farm after other careers and passed their love for animals and the land down to me. My brothers weren't born with the same need to feel the warmth of an animal or to punch holes in the land to release its abundance. They couldn't wait to escape into a world other than the one in which they'd been born. I was reminded this weekend how blessed I've been. There is a new generation of folks born with the thirst to raise their own food, care for their own animals and cultivate an independence from the grocery store, factory farms and "big box" lifestyle; however, there are few to offer them hands-on knowledge or experience. Unlike myself, they seem to have been born into the wrong family and the culture in which they were raised neither fostered nor supported their need to "return" to a way of life other than one which has an accompanying iPhone application. There are innumerable websites and books on homesteading, hobby farming, animal husbandry and the like; however, try to find someone who'll let you trim a hoof, cut mozzarella curd, or show you how to turn compost. Don't get me wrong, here in California, there are entire weekend classes on how to "make compost." My grandfather would have died laughing if he knew people were paying $450 for a weekend class on how to turn shit and garbage into "garden gold." He would also have been very sad these people didn't have their own grandfathers to show them how to use the business end of a pitch fork just to know the value in it.
My weekend students had purchased two goats. They'd done the homework and had chosen animals that were well bred and possessed great potential for future generations. Unfortunately, along with the goats came no practical knowledge on how to care for them. Neither the person who sold them the animals nor all the books and blogs out there offered them the practical knowledge and experience necessary to successfully provide proper care. They knew that hoof care was important, but were afraid to attempt it themselves. Their animals were due for vaccinations; however, they were prepared to pay a vet $125 for the "visit fee" just to step foot on their property. As for the cheese-making, they knew they wanted to make their own dairy products; however, they'd never had a proper discussion about safe milk-handling. A two-hour class turned into a full day of sharing, encouragement, and clarification. Although exhausting, the past weekend is exactly the reason we started this site. My love for animals partly comes from my confidence in knowing their needs are met to the extent they're healthy, strong and beautiful. I want them to be a reflection of my concern for their well-being and efforts in care. These are not values you can find on a website. You learn this from a patient and knowledgeable teacher who's willing to let you practice without judgment.
No matter what you do or where you live, my guess it that you also have an opportunity to be a mentor. Whatever gift you have, there is someone who would love to have you show them that little secret that no blog holds. Try to think of your knowledge as a gift rather than a commodity. If we're going to return to a village mentality, we need stand-ins for my grandfather. Even if it's nothing more than making poop into soil, let a hungry soul follow you around for a few hours. When they bring you the zucchini they grew from the dirt they've made, it'll be the best damn zucchini on the planet, as its seeds will grow into a legacy.
Things I learned this week:
1. Don't forget to zip your fly when you go into the goat yard. ... gives a whole new meaning to a hair pull.
2. Jealousy is not strictly a human trait. ... if you bite me while I'm petting your sister, negative attention is still better than no attention at all.
3. Like most grown men, goats can sneeze, burp and fart ... all at the same time.
I love this quote:
"Said a hunted fox followed by twenty horsemen and a pack of twenty hounds, 'Of course they will kill me. But how poor and how stupid they must be. Surely it would not be worthwhile for twenty foxes riding on twenty asses and accompanied by twenty wolves to chase and kill one man.' " --Khalil Gibran, mystic, poet, and artist (1883-1931)
Thanks for stopping by. Per my grandfather: Be safe and don't take any wooden nickles.
--from Joe, Aug. 3, 2011
Lesson No. 2
Gemma feeds Simone some choice greens. (Photo by Becca Smith)
SUMMER IS in full swing, but we've dodged a bullet regarding the heat that's oppressing the rest of the nation. QQR was once a walnut orchard, and although many of the walnuts are gone, we have a a handful who've reverted back to their Black Walnut root stock and become wonderful shade trees. One such tree provides shade for both the chickens and "The Boys." Although I'm determined not to get attached to them, it's important they're not afraid of me. I found myself sitting on an upturned bucket beneath the walnut chatting with the little guys. They're growing into adolescents, so they're becoming leggy and loosing the fuzzy hair they wore as kids. Being goats, their natural curiosity trumps their memory of me pulling them from the back of the truck and giving them vaccines. At least, they recognize me as "the food giver," so they're glad to see me. It's not a bad life when you have animal chores, with both beasts and people delighted to see you when you come home from work.
We heard from our goat mentor, David. Simone's mother, Yitta, is on the Oberhasli list as the third highest-milking Oberhasli in the United States for the year 2010. She gave 3,040 lbs. of milk in 305 days. The highest-milking Oberhasli doe milked 3,600 lbs. in 305 days. Second place was 3,150 lbs., and then came Yitta, at No. 3. I can't tell you how attached I am to Simone. She is perhaps the sweetest animal I've ever owned. Our friend Becca came with models to do a photo shoot for her new catalog, www.oberondesign.com (see photo). These beautiful women fell in love with Simone, and she'll be featured prominently in the catalog. The funny thing was, the older model had a mole on her face almost exactly where Simone's scar is. It may sound odd, but it helped me not to feel so bad about her accident, not to focus so much on her scar, and to see what a really beautiful animal she is. She wags her tail every time I pet her. She still goes looking for teats under my arm when I hug her. It's so nice to be a goat daddy.
September is getting here faster than I had anticipated. When we go on vacation at the end of the month, we've talked about Zazz going back to David's to stay. This is turning into a really hard decision. We're very attached to her, and David expressed a willingness to have her stay on at QQR. I'm pretty committed to only having two freshened does at a time. Although we also love Esther, it would easier for us to part with her than Zazz. Zazz has taken to "talking to me" and hugs me with her neck every time I'm near her. She also makes new mother noises at me through the fence. I'm feeling a little like Solomon, but I have to remind myself: The best crop is a cash one, and I still have to keep the animals at a number I can care for them joyfully.
Things I learned this week:
Thanks for stopping by. Animals help me to remember that things of the greatest value are not always held in the hand but kept in the heart.
--from Joe, July 24, 2011
We heard from our goat mentor, David. Simone's mother, Yitta, is on the Oberhasli list as the third highest-milking Oberhasli in the United States for the year 2010. She gave 3,040 lbs. of milk in 305 days. The highest-milking Oberhasli doe milked 3,600 lbs. in 305 days. Second place was 3,150 lbs., and then came Yitta, at No. 3. I can't tell you how attached I am to Simone. She is perhaps the sweetest animal I've ever owned. Our friend Becca came with models to do a photo shoot for her new catalog, www.oberondesign.com (see photo). These beautiful women fell in love with Simone, and she'll be featured prominently in the catalog. The funny thing was, the older model had a mole on her face almost exactly where Simone's scar is. It may sound odd, but it helped me not to feel so bad about her accident, not to focus so much on her scar, and to see what a really beautiful animal she is. She wags her tail every time I pet her. She still goes looking for teats under my arm when I hug her. It's so nice to be a goat daddy.
September is getting here faster than I had anticipated. When we go on vacation at the end of the month, we've talked about Zazz going back to David's to stay. This is turning into a really hard decision. We're very attached to her, and David expressed a willingness to have her stay on at QQR. I'm pretty committed to only having two freshened does at a time. Although we also love Esther, it would easier for us to part with her than Zazz. Zazz has taken to "talking to me" and hugs me with her neck every time I'm near her. She also makes new mother noises at me through the fence. I'm feeling a little like Solomon, but I have to remind myself: The best crop is a cash one, and I still have to keep the animals at a number I can care for them joyfully.
Things I learned this week:
- No matter how tired or bad I feel, goats don't milk themselves. Selfish beasts.... (kidding.)
- Things that were very cute as kids are far less amusing when they're 30 lbs. heavier. (I'm sure the hoof marks will heal.)
- Strangers think goats are cute, and although they've never drunk their milk, they think it's "nasty." (News flash: That wasn't cow's cream I gave you for your coffee.)
- A sweet Labrador can be the best investment you'll ever make. (Unless you're a coyote.)
- People who don't think animals can love or have independent thought have never been hugged by a goat or pulled a kid out of the grain room for the sixteenth time. (Did I mention Simone wags her tail like a puppy when you pet her?)
Thanks for stopping by. Animals help me to remember that things of the greatest value are not always held in the hand but kept in the heart.
--from Joe, July 24, 2011
Lesson No. 1
Zazz used to let a smaller, lighter Esther jump on her back. Both have outgrown this practice.
LIVING ON QQR is a never-ending learning experience. As the seasons change from spring to summer, we are challenged to grow and evolve with the changing foliage, temperature and maturation of the animals. Esther and Simone are now young ladies; both are weaned, and the increased size of their teats gives promise to the first-freshening udders they'll develop with the birth of their kids in February or March of 2012. Although it's months away, we're already excited and planning for their pregnancies and subsequent birth of our first kids here on QQR.
Simone's face continues to heal. She'll be scarred with a small bump where her lip meets her cheek, but she's now able to hold her cud in her mouth. Although her lip will never be perfect, she's a beautiful doeling with all the characteristics of champion dairy goat.
From our goat mentor, David, we've purchased two buck kids. They were castrated prior to coming and will be next year's grass-fed meat. We've decided not to name them individually, so they'll be known as the "The Boys." To maximize the freezer potential (poundage), we took buck kids from a Boer/Nubian cross. Although they are only 2 months old, they're already bigger than our kids. Thy should give us as much or more meat than if we were to raise two sheep.
The other exciting thing is the arrival of 13 new pullet chicks. They're all Rhode Island reds. It saddens me to think this heritage breed is on the watch list (which means they might become endangered as a species), so we've decide to make them our primary laying hen. They're very sweet, durable, and lay medium to large brown eggs. It just isn't spring for us unless we have chicks. They're our perennial signal of warming temperatures and promise of new life.
We've decided to start an ongoing commentary on the things we've learned of late. Some are funny, most are practical, and all are in the vein of "Duh":
Simone's face continues to heal. She'll be scarred with a small bump where her lip meets her cheek, but she's now able to hold her cud in her mouth. Although her lip will never be perfect, she's a beautiful doeling with all the characteristics of champion dairy goat.
From our goat mentor, David, we've purchased two buck kids. They were castrated prior to coming and will be next year's grass-fed meat. We've decided not to name them individually, so they'll be known as the "The Boys." To maximize the freezer potential (poundage), we took buck kids from a Boer/Nubian cross. Although they are only 2 months old, they're already bigger than our kids. Thy should give us as much or more meat than if we were to raise two sheep.
The other exciting thing is the arrival of 13 new pullet chicks. They're all Rhode Island reds. It saddens me to think this heritage breed is on the watch list (which means they might become endangered as a species), so we've decide to make them our primary laying hen. They're very sweet, durable, and lay medium to large brown eggs. It just isn't spring for us unless we have chicks. They're our perennial signal of warming temperatures and promise of new life.
We've decided to start an ongoing commentary on the things we've learned of late. Some are funny, most are practical, and all are in the vein of "Duh":
- Don't walk from the barn with a cup of coffee in the same hand as the milk pail. Can you say "latte"?
- Turn the milk bucket with handle away from the doe's hind feet. You get the picture.
- Before grabbing the hoe, attempt to identify the snake prior to chopping it into rattlesnake paté. We feel really bad about that one. They were garter snakes (which, in the case of immature Western garter snakes, resemble rattlers).
- Chickens practice a scored-earth policy with all plants except poppies. Visualize Mars dotted with poppies.
- Goats like the star thistle on the other side of the fence better than that growing in their pasture. They can be such snots.
- When hay costs $20 a bale, it's amazing how less generous you are with it.
- Garter snakes don't eat baby chickens. Actually, it's the snake who's in danger.