2 Good Reasons to Get Your Hands Dirty

This month's issue of World  Ark, Heifer International's magazine, featured a great article on farmers of the world, "Sorry to Eat and Run, But . . ." by J. Malcolm Garcia.  In it, he compares American farmers to farmers in the rest of the world. 

"Subsisitence agriculture, where small farmers grow their own food to feed their families, remains common in developing countries.  The typical subsistence farm includes a variety of crops and animals the family needs to feed and clothe themselves during the year.  Planting decisions are made with an eye toward family needs for the coming year rather than market prices. 

"Roughly 65 percent of sub-Saharan Africa's population relies on subsistence farming.  For instance, 86 percent of Ugandans earn a living through subsistence farming; 85 percent of Angolians also rely on subsistence farming.  Most of the economies of Lesotho, Malawi, Zambia, and Rwanda are also based on subsistence farming."

In the U.S., however, most farms are growing one or two crops, and they're doing it LARGE scale.  "Today, fewer American farmers feed more people than ever before in the history of food production.   . . . And, virtually none of these farmers feeds his or her own family with homegrown crops."

So, even the most successful farmers in the U.S. are not growing to feed their own families.  They have to head to the store to do that.  "Nearly 80 cents of each dollar Americans spend for food goes to pay for marketing services -- processing, packaging, transportation, storage and advertising.  . . . All of these costs are associated with getting food into the most convenient form and packaging, sending it to the most convenient location at the most convenient time, and then convincing us to buy it.  As consumers, we pay far more for the conveniance of our food than for the food itself."

I don't know about you, but I like the idea of being a citizen of the world, connected even to those who are 1/2 a world away.  It's difficult as Americans who have every modern convenience at our fingertips to relate to those in developing countries.  What do we have in common?  What do we share?  Well, lots of things, but one is this:  the land.  We forget that we depend on the land, and most Americans don't act like we need it.  But, the simple act of digging a hole and planting a seed serves to connect us more with the world at large. 

The article encourages, "Gardens are a teacher.  . . . Gardens reconnect us to where food comes from.  People do it to get their hands dirty.  We've taken the tactile experience out of our environment [here in the U.S.].  Convenience has replaced feeling.  We garden because it feels great.  It's very natural."

And, isn't it true?  It seems that we Americans are always conjuring ways to get back to nature:  camping, hunting, fishing, kayaking, gardening.  There's something in us that wants to be there.  And why not?  We were created there.  God didn't speak forth a high-rise apartment building and then create Adam on the 58th floor.  He formed him out of the earth itself and brought him to life in a garden.

What my garden looks like today -- some things are still kickin' despite the drought!

So, this post may seem rambling, but here's what I take from this article -- two good reasons to get your hands dirty and grow something in your own backyard.
1.  It's what most people on this earth that we call home do.  Everyday.  Do it to be in tune with the rest of humanity and to better understand those who seem so distant.
2.  It's what we're meant to do.  It's not a coincidence that you feel more alive floating the river than you do in an office building.  You can create your own nature and "get back" to it in your own yard, everyday.

Let's Get One Thing Straight

I put forth great effort to feed my family well.  I feed and milk a dairy goat daily to be able to provide us fresh milk, cheese, and yogurt. I scramble up antobiotic-free backyard eggs for breakfast and serve them with fresh-squeezed juices.  I try to avoid super-processed foods and grow what I can in the backyard. 

That said . . . when there's a funnel cake within sniffing distance, all bets are off!

Apparently, it runs in our family.  Here, Girl 1 is wolfing down the remaining powdered sugar. 

Anyway, this funnel cake weakness actually got me thinking about something.  We moms a lot of time suffer from something I call "Mom Guilt."  We all want to be the best moms we can be, but we all have different gifts.  I may do lots of things really well, but when I see other moms doing something "better," I suffer a twinge of guilt as I think, "why can't I be more like that?"  Admit it, you know what I'm talking about.  For you it may be that mom friend who possesses more patience than you think is humanly possible or the one who always squats down and speaks to her children on their level in a calm, even tone, or the one who's taught her 2-year-old to recognize all her letters and numbers, or the one who  . . . I could go on and on. 

I don't want to cause anyone any mom guilt.  So, let it be known that while I post a lot about my successes when it comes to feeding my family better and eating locally produced food, there are maybe just as many failures that I'm not broadcasting for all to see. 

In fact, learning to be more mindful about our food and where its coming from is a journey.  I doubt anyone has ever just woken up one day and thrown out all their Doritos and frozen chicken nuggets before heading to the sale barn to purchase their own goats and chickens, completely trading in one lifestyle for another.  It's a process.  I may be further along the journey than some, but I still have days when I backslide . . . I just don't normally blog about them.

Just so that you don't think we're all wearing organic cotton clothing all the time and eating only foods generated in our own backyard for every meal, let me just recount today for you.

Our small town is celebrating its Watermelon Festival today, so we headed out to Main Street for the parade, at which my children caught approximately 5 pounds of candy that is now sitting on my kitchen counter.  It will, of course, magically disappear overnight, but today, they all indulged.

Following the parade, we discovered that we'd parked in such a bad spot that there was no way in the world we were going to be moving our car anytime soon, and my kids bellies were telling them it was time to eat.  Sonic was within walking distance.  Yep, we did.  We ate Sonic for lunch.  Wait . . . it gets worse.  Girl 2 took a big 'ole bite of her hot dog (made of who knows what), let out a big sigh, and proclaimed "Sonic makes the best food!"   Ahhh!

Following Sonic, we headed to the park, where the festivities were taking place and the kiddos had icecream (not the homemade goats milk frozen yogurt from our freezer at home, but the lard-based soft-serve swirl).

I brought the two youngest kids home (they apparently came down off their sugar highs in the car and both fell asleep in the 2 miles we traveled to get home) where they had naps and dinner before we headed back to the park where the aforementioned funnel cake inhalation went down.

Yep, file this day under parental failure on the food front.  So, go ahead and cross me off that list of moms who cause you Mom Guilt.  It's not a list I'd want to be on anyway!

Whew!  It feels good to get that off my chest.  Now, tune back in later this week when I'll be posting, hopefully, about a food success rather than a failure!

Pondering Chicken

After reading this section of The Accidental Farmers by Tim Young, I felt a little naive because I'd never considered this:
"Most people are quite unaware that for every laying hen, which by definition is female, a male was hatched out.  The male, having the misfortune of belonging to a laying breed, has neither the ability to lay eggs nor the ability to gain weight quickly and efficiently as meat birds do.  Thus, his life concludes on the day it begins as more often than not he is ground up alive."

Surely, I think, he could at least serve as a meat chicken, commonly referred to as a broiler.  But no commercial farmer is interested in filling a chicken house full of a laying breed when they could be growing the genetically engineered hulk of a chicken that reach maturity in half the time:

"His body has been re-programmed by humans to do very unnatural things.  Like for instance to grow so remarkably fast that his legs would fail, by design, before he reached fifty days of age.  Not that he will live that long, as most broilers are bred to grow from that yellow fuzzy cotton ball of a chick to almost five pounds in about thirty-nine days, at which time they are 'harvested' for our chicken sandwiches.  That's if an industrial breed chicken lives to thirty-nine days.  Up to thirty percent of them do not, as heart attacks and respiratory problem from the rate of growth run rampant."

It's feels good to know that the chicken I ate last night was a heritage breed, not altered to grow at an abnormal rate, who lived out its life pecking away at bugs and grass and taking dust baths in my backyard.  He must have been "happy," in so much as chickens are happy.  And, that makes me happy.

Not keen on slaughtering your own chicken in your backyard?  Look for "pastured" and "organic" labels on the chicken you buy at the grocery store.  While other labels are out there, it's the "organic" label that is actually managed by the USDA and means that the processor is held to pretty rigorous standards regarding humane treatment of the chicken, how it's fed, and how it's slaughtered.

Food Crisis Averted!

Everyday around 9:30am, my kids get a "fruit snack" to tide them over until lunch.  This fruit snack is exactly what it sounds like -- they are free to have whatever type of fruit we have on hand.  Today, though, they started asking for their favorites.

Bananas?  All out.

Grapes?  Finished them yesterday.

Apples?  Sorry.

Peaches?  I'll put them on the grocery list.

Strawberries?  We ate the last ones at breakfast.

Watermelon?  Yes!  Hallelujah, we do have watermelon!

And, so we all ate watermelon.

You see, this past week was Stay-cation around here, and that meant that we all wanted to get to do fun things.  Trip to the grocery store didn't make the list of fun things we wanted to do. 

My kids have finally learned not to whine "I'm starving!" since everytime they do, I remind them that because they ate yesterday and the day before that, they are not starving; they may, however, be hungry.  Starving is all too real a thing for many and, thus, not a word for us to be loosely throwing around because snack time is a little later than we'd like.  BUT, if we didn't get to the store quickly, it was gonna get that bad! 

Evidence that I played during Stay-cation.  See how little is written on the all-important planner?  See how few horizontal lines are crossing off the things to be done?

For comparison's sake, here's a non-stay-cation week from this summer.  See all the items representing my productivity?  See all the horizontal lines, proving that these things actually got done?

So, today, as John is back at work, we made the requisite grocery run and are now restocked.  And it's not just the humans who are happy about it.

The chickens get to dine on watermelon rind and celery and strawberry tops.

Cocoa Puff gets the chunk at the bottom of the celery (is there a technical term for this?) and the inside pieces.

And, Dexter gets the tortilla left over from lunch while we were out running our errands (I hope John doesn't read this post; he'll hate that he missed out on lunch at our favorite spot!).

I've discovered that in an effort to avoid highly processed foods, fruits have become a go-to food for us.  Perhaps an orchard should be the next thing added to our little homestead, then we can avoid near crises such as these!  ;)

Ahhh, Home.

We live our lives on a 12-hour leash around here.  We are free to roam just as far as we like each day so long as we are home for both the AM and PM milkings.  Today, we stretched that leash to its max by following our 5:30AM milking with a trip to Memphis for a visit to the zoo and some back-to-school shopping before loading back up and heading home, pulling into town right at 5:30PM, just in time to drop Girl 1 off at ballet class and get home for milking.

We always love the zoo and try to make the most of our membership by getting there every couple of months.  We especially love the farm area (funny, huh?).  Today, the gorilla and sea lions were especially fun, too.  After the zoo, though, we headed for the nearest mall to pick up the items I'd determined that the girls needed before school starts.  We don't live anywhere near a mall, so it seemed prudent to take advantage of being so near one today.  Oddly, though, today's shopping experience left me reeling.  I was reminded of yet another excerpt from Kristin Kimball's The Dirty Life:

"As much as you transform the land by farming, farming transforms you.  It seeps into your skin along with the dirt that abides permanently in the creases of your thickened hands, the beds of your nails.  It asks so much of your body that if you're not careful it can wreck you as surely as any vice by the time you're fifty, when you wake up and find yourself with ruined knees and dysfunctional shoulders, deaf from the constant clank and rattle of your machinery, and broke to boot.  But farming takes root in you and crowds out other endeavors, makes them seem paltry.  Your acres become a world.  And maybe you realize that it is beyond those acres or in your distant past, back in the realm of TiVo and cubicles, of take-out food and central heat and air, in that country where discomfort has nearly disappeared, that you were deprived.  Deprived of the pleasure of desire, of effort and difficulty and meaningful accomplishment.  A farm asks, and if you don't give enough, the primordial forces of death and wildness will overrun you.  So naturally you give, and then you give some more, and then you give to the point of breaking, and then and only then it gives back so bountifully it overfills not only your root cellar but also that parched and weedy little patch we call the soul."

I know enough about farming to know that I'm no farmer.  But, I have come to live close enough to the earth lately that my toenails look like the fingernails she describes.  Also, I'm realizing that this life we are living is changing me.  It's hard to pinpoint or even describe the changes in words.  But, I know that I feel so much more alive building a goat shed with my husband or tending my garden or milking my goat or making my soap than I did today at the mall.  In fact, the mall sent me into a bit of a panic attack, if I'm being honest.  I'm not sure what it all means, but I know that I was sure glad to be home and drink in the smell of the pile of tomatoes waiting to be canned when we opened the backdoor. 

Death: Just the Other Side of Life?

We had more chicken death here in our little backyard farm today.  But, this death wasn't intentional.  Usually, when John moves the chicken tractor, the chickens, who've grown accustomed to the routine, move right along with him, eager to discover their fresh ground.  Today, however, as John moved the tractor in the rain, one of the chickens failed to scurry along with the rest and found herself underneath the weight of the tractor.  Besides crushing her internal organs, it also pulled off a foot, and she had to be put out of her misery quickly.  John and I were both pretty shaken up about it.

The chicken was a Dominique (perhaps the black and white one pictured here).

 

The incident reminded me of a section of The Dirty Life I read recently:
"I had a boyfriend once who liked to gamble, and I'd ride on the back of his motorcycle through the Holland Tunnel and along the Jersey coast to Atlantic City.  Sitting at the table, watching the cards being dealt, I heard a man say that the difference between an amateur and a pro is that the pro doesn't have an emotional reaction to losing anymore. It's just the other side of winning.  I guess I'm a farmer now, because I'm used to loss like this, to death of all kinds, and to rot.  It's just the other side of life.  It is your first big horse and all he meant to you, and it is also his bones and skin breaking down in the compost pile, almost ready to be spread on the fields."

I guess by this definition, I am not a farmer yet.  I'm not accustomed to death of any kind.  When my zucchini vines grew so frail that they were no longer worth the water I was putting on them each morning, I mourned the loss even as I uprooted them and drug them to the compost pile.  And, when I slit the throat of my first meat chicken, I had to take a few cleansing breaths and fight the urge to close my eyes as I made the cut.  

Still, today was somehow different.  Worse still than all of those other deaths.  This chicken wasn't intended to be meat.  She was intended to be a part of our laying flock -- a pet, really.  The way she died was not a part of our plan.  The fact that clouds of "what-could-I-have-done-differently?" and "it-wasn't-supposed-to-happen-like-this" are following us around today is evidence that we haven't yet become accustomed to the death that is inevitable in this new lifestyle of ours. 

"Nobody Ever Gets Killed at Our House"

I'll be the first to admit that there are several things about our family that make us weird.  Of course there are nicer ways to say it.  We're eccentric or unique.  But, let's just call it what it is.  I won't enumerate these items that set us apart, but I will say that one of the biggies has got to be that we do not own a television. 

Like most big changes we make in our lives, this one was made gradually.  We didn't wake up one day and throw out the Tivo and haul our flatscreens to the curb.  We just gradually watched less and less.  Then, we were just using our giant dinosaur of a television to watch the occasional DVD and figured we could just as easily watch it on our computer. At that point, the only good reason I could think of for keeping it around was so that our kids wouldn't get mocked at school for being weird.  I love my kids, and they may hate me for this, but I've decided I want them to be weird.  In my nearly 10 years as a teacher, I've encounterd a lot of teenagers.  And, believe me, normal is pretty scary.  So, out went the TV.  This left us kind of scratching our heads when it came to how to arrange the living room.  What were we supposed to point the furniture at? 

Now, that's not to say that we don't still watch a show on occasion.  We do have a computer that we can pop a DVD into, or pull up the feed for the FC Dallas game, or watch a commercial-free PBS show via Netflix.  But, ALL of our viewing is intentional.  We never plop down on the couch with a remote and wonder what might be on.  If we plop down, it's to watch a particular thing, and lately we really don't plop down very often.  We stay pretty busy around here.  And, we read a lot in the evenings, too. 

Consider this quote by Barbara Kingsolver (have I mentioned that I love Barbara Kingsolver?):

"The advantages of raising kids without commercial TV seem obvious, and yet I know plenty of parents who express dismay as their children demand sugar-frosted sugar for breakfast, then expensive name-brand clothing, then the right to dress up as hookers not for Halloween but for school.  Hello?  Anyone who feels powerless against the screaming voice of materialistic youth culture should remember that power comes out of those two little holes in the wall.  The plug is detachable.  Human young are not born with the knowledge that wearing somebody's name in huge letters on a T-shirt is a thrilling privilege for which they should pay eighty dollars. It takes years of careful instruction to arrive at that piece of logic."
I do find that my kids are SUPER sensitive to advertising.  And, I sometimes wonder whether that may be because they've not had a chance to become numb to it.  I know that even when kids aren't actively "wanting" what the commercial is advertising, they're still receiving messages about what it means to be cool, what they need to be happy, or what success looks like.  But, my kids haven't gotten a chance to reach the passive indoctrination phase.  Once, when the kids were watching TV while at a relative's house, they came running into the room telling me how much I needed the wallet that they'd just seen advertised.  "Mom, you can even run over it with your car, and it won't break!"

But the messages received from the ads are not my greatest concern.  I worry that the content of the shows that are frequently on even during the daytime may desensitize my kiddos to violence, egocentrism, crude language, etc.  In Jodo Picoult's novel 19 Minutes, a teen who's a serious player of violent video games shoots up his high school.  The connection she's trying to make is obvious . . . and worrisome. 

More Kingsolver: 

"'Nobody ever gets killed at our house,' begins a song by Charlie King, and it continues with a litany of other horrors-- 'no one gets shot at, run over, or stabbed, / nobody goes up in flames" -- that you'd surely agree you wouldn't want to see in your house, either, until you realize he's discussing what routinely happens on the screen that most people happily host in their living rooms.  Maybe you have one in yours, and maybe you don't, but I'm with Charlie.  People are very rarely getting killed at our house, and I'm trying to keep it that way."

Trying is definitely the key word.  It is a constant battle, especially now, when it's nearly too hot outside to play during daylight hours  . . . and the kids need some way to burn that pent up energy so they just start picking on each other relentlously.  We've been heading to the pool a lot because they're happy there, and it's a way to burn some energy without getting too hot.  But on days when we can't make it to the pool?  It sure is tempting to let them turn on a Netflix show and just zone out (peacefully) for a few minutes . . . or hours.  Shielding them from excessive TV and encouraging them to live actively rather than passively is a battle I'm determined to fight, though, for all of our sakes.  I guess they might spend their adult lives on the sofa, mindlessly making up for lost time.  But, I prefer to think they'll thank me one day.  :)

Thoughts?  Comments?  Have you made similar efforts yourself?  As always, I'd love to hear from you!

Media Fasting

I've never been much of a news monger.  And lately, as I've been spending more and more time in our backyard, I've been extremely cut-off from the goings on of the world.  In fact, the other day, John was reading me an excerpt from an article about a recent fundraiser for Mitt Romney, and I remarked, "So, I guess that means Romney won the Republican nomination.  I forget this is an election year."  I know that sounds ridiculous, but I'm seriously that disconnected! 

We don't own a television, so I'm not watching any news.  We get a local paper, which I use for the grocery sales papers.  I rarely listen to the radio.  The bloggers I read are much more into heirloom tomatoes than pop culture or politics.  In fact, one blogger at Root Simple, recently wrote an article describing his year of intentional media fasting:
"At the beginning of my media fast, I was concerned that I would somehow lose touch with reality, with important details of what's going on in the world.  In fact, some news does reach me, filtered through conversations with friends and family.   . . . But the torrent of irrelevant details on the scandals, murders, wars, and political intrigue of modern life no longer cross the threshold of my consciousness.

"Yes, as citizens of whatever country we find ourselves in, we have a duty to be engaged in political change.  But I believe that most of us are better off focusing on politics at the local level where our voices can actually make a difference."

I acknowledge that it isn't advisable for everyone to live this way.  In fact, if my husband weren't so news literate, I might not feel comfortable being so illiterate myself.  But, as it is, I trust that if something were seriously important he would let me know about it.  And, admittedly, to cut myself off from daily news isn't a challenge for me.  When I was still teaching AP Language to high schoolers, it would've been irresponsible of me to cut myself off like this.  After all, my students depended on me to prepare them for the current events essay section of their exam.  But, unlike my husband, who pores over a plethora of political musings on his iPad each evening, I found it work to stay abreast of things.  Thankfully, the chickens and goats seem to be as apolitical as I am, so they're just fine with my being so out of the loop.

Don't get me wrong -- I'm no hermit.   I've not cut myself off from fellow bloggers who inform my decisions and workings on our little farm.  I have subscriptions to Runner's World, Adoptive Family, Real Simple, and Mother Earth News, all of which I find captivating.  I've not cut myself off from Facebook, which allows me to communicate with friends and family.  But, the love life of Katie Holmes (I'm pretty sure I saw her face on a tabloid in the checkout line today) doesn't take up any of my mental energy.
 
Just this week, as I was contemplating (in the wake of the Romney realization) just how disconnected I am, I decided to pick up the local paper and have a little read.  The first article I saw described how a teen who was being held on suspicion of murder of another teen had hung himself with a bedsheet in his jail cell.   

And Philippians 4:8 came quickly to mind:
"And now, dear brothers and sisters, one final thing. Fix your thoughts on what is true, and honorable, and right, and pure, and lovely, and admirable. Think about things that are excellent and worthy of praise."

I think I could've done without that news story.  Without clutter like that, I find that my world is much more peaceful and more full.  My mind is more filled with the things that immediately concern me or that I can do something about.  I'm able to expend more mental energy in praise of God and His workings and less in worry and fear.  It's during my morning runs that I do most of my undisturbed thinking.  And it's then that I've noticed how much lighter I seem to be lately.  I can think through issues our family is dealing with, the things I need to get accomplished, and spend some time in prayer for those who I love most.   But, I don't get bogged down in thought during my runs.  I find that I'm pretty clear-headed without all the other junk occupying my mind.

Yes, there are definitely times when I feel completely lost in a conversation.  The Bachelorette, who's she?  When a news topic arises while I am among family and friends, though I can't contribute, I can take the opportunity to listen (something I should probably do more anyway).  

Could a media fast (even a short trial one) benefit you, too?

Sleeping in the Guest Room

I've never been a violent person.  I've even sent my son to timeout recently for holding his fingers like a gun and pointing them at the cat.  But, I admit, when these dad-gum adolescent roosters finally figured out how to properly crow and began doing so at 4:00am every day, I started graphically envisioning their slaughter day.  Because of the heat, John has them positioned in the yard so that they'll get some shade during the hottest part of the day.   Unfortunately, that shade is provided by our house, specifically, our bedroom.  So, that 4:00am crowing is happening right outside our bedroom window.  We've actually started sleeping in the guest room (again).  But, hopefully, this will all come to an end this weekend. We've ordered the last of the supplies we'll need for butchering day, and, if they arrive in time, we'll be butchering our first round of chickens (definitely including those roosters) Saturday!

Don't forget to comment on Monday's post in order to get entered into the drawing for your very own copy of The Backyard Homestead!  You have until Friday to comment.  :)

The Man Who Quit Money by Mark Sundeen

From the Amazon book description:  In 2000, Daniel Suelo left his life savings-all thirty dollars of it-in a phone booth. He has lived without money-and with a newfound sense of freedom and security-ever since.
The Man Who Quit Money is an account of how one man learned to live, sanely and happily, without earning, receiving, or spending a single cent. Suelo doesn't pay taxes, or accept food stamps or welfare. He lives in caves in the Utah canyonlands, forages wild foods and gourmet discards. He no longer even carries an I.D. Yet he manages to amply fulfill not only the basic human needs-for shelter, food, and warmth-but, to an enviable degree, the universal desires for companionship, purpose, and spiritual engagement. In retracing the surprising path and guiding philosophy that led Suelo into this way of life, Sundeen raises provocative and riveting questions about the decisions we all make, by default or by design, about how we live-and how we might live better.

To say that I enjoyed this book would be an understatement.  I'd recommend it to anyone.  I will warn you, though, that it will challenge you.  So, if you're quite complacent with the way you view the world and its workings, you may just want to avoid this one.  So, if you don't run out and buy it, at least humor me and check out the excepts below.  These are from the final portion of the book wherein Sundeen ponders what it is we Americans have to learn from folks like Suelo.

The author is writing about his own journey and recalling when he began reusing baggies and carrying reusable bags with him to the grocery store . . .

But here was the problem:  although these actions made sense, they didn't make me feel any less anxious, or more free.  How many times have I stood at the kitchen sink paralyzed by a plastic baggie?  If it were clean, having held, say, a sandwich, I'd simply rinse and resuse it.  But this one is smeared with mustard and rancid cheese and even a bit of mold.  My instinct is to throw it away.  But as we have learned, there is not such place as "away."  This plastic bag, if it doesn't end up clogging the intestines of some albatross or dolphin, will swirl at sea for decades, and even after it breaks down into tiny pieces, it will never fully decompose:  its toxic petrochemicals will haunt us forever.

But then I think:  That's ridiculous.  It's just one baggie.  And the washing of it will not only be a singularly unpleasant use of my time, but won't I be using precious water to wash it?  And burning natural gas to heat that water.  Not to mention the resource depletion and damage represented by the soap.  And by now I've already wasted five rminutes thinking about this, time that could have been better spent picking up plastic bags along the river. 

So I chuck the thing in the trash, but the next day at breakfast it's still there, peering up at me accusingly.  And the gears of my mind spin. Eventually, one day in the future, I'm going to need a plastic sandwich baggie.  And when I do, I'm going to buy a box of them, thus giviny my hard-earned money to the Ziploc corporation, or whoever, who doubtlessly engages in all sorts of toxic practices to manufacture these things -- I imagine a factory spewing brown sludge into a river, somewhere in the Rust Belt, or maybe China.  And I'll also be enabling my box of baggies to be hauled across the nation on gas-guzzling trucks that grind up the taxpayer-funded highways, which carve through the habitat of grizzles and moose and antelope, driving them toward extinction, and so on. 

Finally, I had to ask a therapist about this, and he said, "Why don't you try going outside and growing something?"

I guess I love this excerpt so much because I've experienced this "baggie moment" myself.  In fact, in moments like this, I almost envy those who've never given a second-thought to the environment or the impact their choices make on it.  But, what I love here is how the therapist redirects that "guilt" and asks him to do something about it.  Because it's true, when I carry my reusable bags to the grocery store and see the bazillion plastic bags being loaded full of groceries in every other checkout lane, I wonder how much of a difference I can really be making.  But, when I plant my garden, I know I'm doing something positive.  And, it directly impacts me and my entirely family.

And for all of you who are engaging in the struggle:

This whole project of changing the world is hard work.  And as much as we seek a balance, straddling the line between individualism and community isn't a recipe for freedom.  It's the opposite.  When you try to balance the anxiety of maintaining wealth (savings, mortgages, insurance) with the anxiety of being an ethical person (eating local food, lunching with hobos, reusing baggies, withholding taxes), you don't free yourself from either.  You end up with twice the anxiety. It's sort of like going on a diet.  Unless you're willing to go all in -- run six miles a day and eat only fish and broccoli -- you'll never have those sculpted abs you see in magazines.  But neither will you have the unabashed joy of scarfing double-frosted chocolate cake.  Instead you nibble away at half a piece, your enjoyment negated by your guilt that you couldn't refuse it altogether.

Forks Over Knives

I've been really enjoying some of the food/farming related documentaries available on Netflix's instant viewing.  Two that I've enjoyed are Forks Over Knives and Fresh (if you, like me, can't seem to get enough of good 'ole Joel Salatin, be sure to check out the latter :). 

But, I thought I'd share with you a couple of tidbits I gleaned from my viewing of the former.  

-- Americans are carrying an average of 23 extra pounds.

-- 40% of us are obese.

-- The average American consumes 147 lbs. of sugar per year.

--  1 in 3 people will be diagnosed with diabetes at some point during their lifetime.

These are staggering statistics.  The movie also provides a unique look at why we're facing this health crisis in the US.  And, interestingly, it doesn't place the blame on the individual.  In fact, the movie claims that we the people are the victims.  I'm not going to give it away though.  Just watch the movie.  ;)

A Prayer of Thanksgiving

Yesterday, God granted us rain!

  It worked out that I was able to do my afternoon, backyard chores during the gentle rain, and it was such a blessing to feel that sweet wetness on my skin!  The garden already looks happier.  I set out to find a prayer in thanksgiving for rain.  My search turned up many prayers requesting rain and not a one specifically thanking God for answering the prayer.  There's a lesson for us in there.

There is rain in those clouds!



Rain drops on our tomatoes

For anyone who may have not yet received their long-awaited rain, here's a beautiful Catholic prayer I found in my search:

O God, in Whom we live and move, and have our being, grant us rain, in due abundance, that, being sufficiently helped with temporal, we may the more confidently seek after eternal gifts. Through Christ, our Lord.  Amen.


And, if you, like us, have experienced that long-awaited end to the drought, maybe you'd like to join with me in this simple prayer of thanksgiving . . .

Thank you, Lord, for the rain you sent in answer to our fervent prayer -- for the salvation it provided parts of your creation.
Thank you that you never stop providing. 
Thank you for keeping us ever mindful of our dependence upon you. 
Thank you for the many lessons you teach us through the workings of your creation, if only we have eyes to see and ears to hear you in it.  Amen.

Please Send Rain!

To say that the ground is dry is an understatement.  The burn ban means there were no fireworks here to celebrate the Fourth.  The school marquee is requesting that residents do a rain dance.  Our pastor spent a significant portion of his Pastoral Prayer requesting rain from above.  I even washed my car (which I never do) in hopes that doing so would bring on the rain.

 Despite daily watering, my potted plants are about to give out, and the vegetable garden is dangerously dry.  The "pastured" chickens are basically being moved from one dry, crusty patch of earth to another each day.  And the goats are taking dust baths as their once beautiful pasture is turning brown.
Our water bill, which came today, was more than double our average amount.  In short, the rain is needed. 

Last summer, then-7-year-old Girl 1 and I sang Nichole Nordeman's "Gratitude" as a special in church.  I've been singing the first verse in my head all week:

Send some rain
Would You send some rain?
'Cause the earth is dry
And needs to drink again.
And the sun is high,
And we are sinking in the shade.

Would You send a cloud,
Thunder long and loud?
Let the sky grow black and send some mercy down.
Surely You can see that we are thirsty and afraid.

This much of the song is easy to sing -- a petition for God to mercifully meet our needs.  It's the part that follows that is more difficult to take. . .

Or, maybe not.
Not today.
Maybe You'll provide in other ways.
And, if that's the case.
We'll give thanks to You with gratitude
For lessons learned in how to thirst for You.
How to bless the very sun that warms our face,
If you never send us rain.

Much more difficult, huh?  Many of us are okay with God telling us to "wait" for the rain in our lives (be it literal or figurative).  But, can we thank Him even if His answer is just plain "no"?  if He has plans for us that just don't include the merciful rain that we think we need?

So, I continue to offer my whispered pleas for rain (among other things) as I go about my quiet, morning chores outside, knowing that He hears each word.  But, even as aI pray, I do so acknowledging that no matter how He may choose to answer, He is due all praise.

The Power of Choice

A couple months back, Little Boy and I accompanied Girl 1 on a class field trip to a local museum.  One of my favorite exhibits was on rural southern life during the Great Depression.  The tour guide asked the kids to imagine they lived on a farm during that time period and explained that they'd be responsible for milking the family cow, helping in the garden, and helping mom to make things like bread and soap.  All of this sounds so very familiar.  Interesting. 
The guide asked the kids if they knew what was used to make soap.  Girl 1 proudly raised her hand and said, "Milk!"  The guide didn't like that answer and corrected her with "Animal Fat."  Girl 1 winced.  But, she may have more experience with soap making than the tour guide, and at our house, we make lard-free soap that uses our goat milk.  Anyway, it got me to thinking that Girl 1 knows the answer to questions like that because a lot of what we do around here looks a lot like life then. 

There is, however, one very important difference:  CHOICE.

Ahh.  The power of choice. 

On days when John and I run in the morning, our routine looks like this:
5:15  alarm goes off
5:20  John leaves the house for his run while I milk the goat and process the milk
6:10  John tends to the chickens and goats while I hit the road for my run
7:00  we all sit down to breakfast together

And, even when we don't run, that alarm goes off at 5:15.  And, I don't hate it.  In fact, I really enjoy those quiet, early-morning milkings.  But, then, unlike the farmers "back in the day,"  I've made the choice to live like this.

The museum guide explained to us that, though  much work was involved in living on the farm during the Great Depression, those folks were actually quite fortunate as compared to their city-dwelling neighbors because they had means to support themselves through their farming lifestyles.  They had the skills necessary to "get by" in rough times.  They did have milk.  They did not have choice.  Is it any wonder that as the economy improved and technological advances offered a more leisurely lifestyle, our predecessors grasped the opportunity to, say, purchase sliced bread from the market?

If John and I should decide that 5:20AM milkings are not to our liking, we could quit it.  The goat would quit producing milk, and I could go right back to buying our milk at the grocery store.  If my zucchini plants don't produce or get eaten up by squash bugs, I can still have my stir fry.  It's just a grocery-store trip away.  Should I decide that baking our own bread is just too inconvenient, I can just add it to my shopping list.
And, isn't it true that choice is often closely linked to our enjoyment of an activity?  The kids love to do chores around here, so long as they feel they are the ones choosing to do them rather than being told to do them.  We get that warm, fuzzy feeling when we volunteer for a good cause because we CHOSE to do something good for someone else. 

As I teach myself to do things that my ancestors did as a matter of necessity, I recognize that choice is what separates us.  I am quite thankful for that gift.

Eggs: Pastured vs. Free Range

So, are the eggs you're eating from chickens that are Pastured?  Or, are they labeled Free Range?  Why should you even care?  Mother Earth News has a great little article that decodes some of these terms.  First, though, let's establish why you should even care about these labels. Consider this excerpt from the article:

"Conventional egg production — that is to say, the vast majority of egg production in the United States — is not a pretty business. Laying hens are crammed five or six to a cage in stacked rows of cages designed for automated feeding, watering and egg-collecting. As many as 100,000 birds can be confined in a single warehouse, each bird with less than 67 square inches, about two-thirds the size of a sheet of paper, to call its own. The crowded conditions lead to cannibalism and other destructive behavior, so the birds’ beaks are cut off at an early age, a procedure that could be likened to cutting off a child’s finger tips, in terms of its impact on the animals’ dexterity and sensory experience. The industry favors windowless warehouses with prolonged artificial light to stimulate maximum egg-laying. When egg production drops off, food is withheld as a way of sending the birds into a forced molt followed by another round of egg laying before being disposed of.

The adoption of practices like these has paralleled the spread of salmonella as a bacterial contaminant in eggs — the reason you’re cautioned not to eat raw cookie dough or Caesar dressing anymore. Crowded conditions, genetic uniformity and the widespread use of antibiotics in industrial agriculture favor the development of new and potentially more devastating pathogens."

Convinced?  Okay.  Let's define some of those labels you'll see on supermarket cartons. 

1.  Cage-free.  This is a popular one right now.  This basically means that the chickens are not kept in tiny cages their entire lives and are instead allowed to move about in large warehouses.  They are probably not allowed any fresh air or outdoor access.

2.  Free Range.  Originally intended to mean what it sounds like it should mean, this term has become a bit corrupted over the past few years.  These chickens are allowed some outdoor access.  However, that outdoor space may not be pasture.  It may be dirt floor or even concrete. 

3.  Pastured.  This term has arisen recently (since the term free range has become so abused).  Free Range was originally intended to mean that chickens were allowed access to fresh air AND fresh grassy ground.  Since, producers have come to use free range to simply mean access to any type of outdoor space, the term pastured has come into play.  A pastured chicken has access to all the grass, weeds, insects, and worms that make her eggs or meat more nutritious and safe for us to consume.  Pastured chickens may be truly free to roam anywhere their little chicken hearts desire, or they may be penned in some way to protect them from predators and moved frequently to fresh patches of ground (as they are at our house).

So, pastured chickens are also free range, but a free range chicken may not be pastured.  Follow?

Now, it should be stated that NONE of these 3 terms is actually regulated by any food authority.  That is, of course, why some terms become corrupted and new ones arise to fill in the gaps. 

What about Certified Organic eggs?  Well, at least someone is regulating the use of this term!  The USDA makes sure that eggs bearing this label come from chickens who've been fed an organic, vegetarian feed, are antibiotic-free and cage-free, and allowed at least some access to fresh air (how much time spent in and the conditions of the outdoor space are still "hotly debated").  These chickens may have been debeaked or starved in order to force them into molting.

So, if you aren't able to maintain your own pastured flock in your backyard, I'd advise you to look for the Pastured label first!  You'll know whether it's the real deal by the color of the yolk.  Eggs from truly pastured hens will be bright orange in color and have an excellent taste that you'll recognize as different from it's lackluster competitors.

For the Love of Barbara . . .

If you haven't already picked up on this, I'm reading through an essay collection by Barbara Kingsolver right now in all my free time (read with sarcasm).  Anyway, I'm loving her, and I'm sure you do, too.  So, here's a good excerpt for today:

"Of all the ways we consume, food is a sensible one to attend to.  Eating is a genuine need, continuous from our first day to our last, amounting over time to our most significant statement of what we are made of and what we have chosen to make of our connection to home ground.  We can hardly choose not to eat, but we have to choose how and choices can have astounding consequences.  Consider this:  The average food item set before a U.S. consumer traveled 1,300 miles to get there.  If Mr. Average eats ten or so items a day (and most of us eat more), in a year's time his food will have conquered 5 million miles by land, sea, and air. Picture a truck loaded with apples and oranges and iceberg lettuce rumbling to the moon and back ten times a year, all just for you.  Multiply that by the number of Americans who like to eat -- picture that flotilla of 285 million trucks on their way to the moon -- and tell me you don't think it's time to revise this scenario."

Good Help Is Hard to Find

Those who know me, know that I've got 3 adorable rugrats running around here.  The older two are in school most of the year while Little Boy is my constant sidekick.  Now, though, we are all at home for summer break.  Together.  All day.  And I'm trying desperately to redirect them every time I hear, "Mom, can we watch a show?"  My aversion to television is a whole other post altogether, though, and not the point of this post.  What was the point of this post again?

Oh, yeah.  The point is, that I've got a whole lot of farm/household chores to get done around here and lots of "helpers" right now.  Let me explain why "helpers" needs to be in quotation marks.  ?Take this morning, for example . . .

Girl 1 decided this morning that she would like to earn an extra quarter by cleaning out the goat pen while I weed the strawberry patch.  Great!  Go to it!  Meanwhile, Girl 2 would like to help me weed the strawberry patch, only she can't find her gloves.  "Mom, will you help me find my weeding gloves?"  I find the weeding gloves by the swingset, where Little Boy would like a push, or two, or 100.  I return to the strawberry patch, gloves in tow, just in time to hear that Girl 1 needs help wrestling the hose into the goat pen.  I help her finish up the goat pen cleanout only to return to the berry patch and find that "weeding" to a 5-year-old apparently means uprooting every living thing.  Oh, well.  Little Boy would like a snack.  Everyone would like some water.  Looks like we're headed back inside, and the strawberry plants that survived their run-in with a 5-year-old still haven't been properly weeded. 

Sometimes, it would be easy to get frustrated with them because they don't get the work done as smoothly, quickly, or efficiently as I could do it.  But, then I remember, my 7-year-old asked me if she could clean the poo from the goat pen.  My 5-year-old asked me if she could help pull weeds.  So what if it takes twice (or maybe 5 times) longer to get the job done?  My kids are learning the value of work.  They enjoy seeing the finished product of a job well done.  They are learning what it means to be part of a team. 

And, if we're patient about teaching them how to do these things, one day, Girl 1 really will be able to clean out the pen all by herself.  And, I'll be able to trust that Girl 2 knows the difference between Bermuda grass and strawberry vine.  In fact, last week, I mused to my husband that for the first time ever, the kids and I actually cleaned the entire house faster than I usually do it on my own.  Seriously.  Now, it's taken us awhile to get to this.  For example, there was the time that I refilled the dusting spray bottle, put Girl 2 to work in the living room then came back to find the bottle empty again and all surfaces with standing liquid.  And, sure we've had a few mirrors that looked worse after they were cleaned than before.  But, now, here we are -- cleaning faster as a team than I can do it as an individual and having fun as we do it. 


For the sake of honesty, I should reveal that I am the kind of person who would much rather do a job myself so that it will be done up to my standards than delegate, so this type of patient teaching ending in below-par results doesn't come naturally to me.  I am constantly having to remind myself that the ultimate end result is not the result of that individual job --we're working toward something so much bigger -- and that end result is worth my own inward struggle.

  Ultimately, we may not be nearly as productive this summer as just Little Boy and I are during the school year, but we'll be having fun and learning valuable lessons all along the way.

The Pain of Pruning

If you're a regular reader of my blog, you know that I love my Knockout roses.  I love them so much that I hate to take the pruning scissors to them.  In fact, a few years back, I refused to cut them, even when the blooms had dried up.  You know what happened?  They grew spindly and didn't continue to bloom that year.  Then, I learned that when the blooms dry up, it's time to trim them back so that they can bloom again.   And, again.  And, again.   I know this is the case, but it still hurts me to cut back these blooms!

BEFORE

AFTER

While God as gardener of our souls is not a new metaphor, my pruning session was a reminder to me of how God works on us.  When necessary, He prunes us.  As master gardener, He knows how to grow us into the most beautiful versions of ourselves.  Sometimes, He may have to cut parts off.  Other times he may have to add things that he knows will benefit us but that seem stinky to us (like the rabbit poo I dumped all around the roses after their trim today:).  But, He is a careful and loving gardener and loves us far more than I love my roses.  It may pain Him to make the cuts, but He knows the end result, a more beautiful bloom, for His glory.

How Do You Find the Time?

I love getting feedback on my blog.  It lets me know that I'm not just doing this for myself.  Feedback like "I love this new laundry detergent.  Thanks for sharing!" makes my day.  "I made the Spicy Black Bean Soup, and my family loved it!" puts a smile on my face. 

"Your blog makes me feel lazy!" however,  is not on the list of my favorite comments (you know who you are ;).  I definitely don't set out to make anyone feel badly about herself.  Besides, you guys are busy, too, you just may not go through your day with a camera strapped to your neck and thinking about how you could describe what you're doing in a step-by-step process. ;) 

But, an acquaintance posited seriously the other day, "How do you find the time?"  My answer is that we make time for the things that we love to do.  I mean, isn't it true?  If it's of value to us, we'll find the time to work it in. 

So, I choose to find time to make fresh juice every morning, make my own soap, process my own milk, and so on.  But, just to remind you that I'm no superwoman, here's a list of things I haven't made time for lately:

1.  going out for date night (I really do want to have date night with my husband, but we haven't had much luck finding a sitter who will also milk the goat ;) Suggestions?)
2.  reading a novel (I love to read, but it's hard to find the time to sit down with books other than my organic gardening or cheese making books.)
3.  making my kids' lunches for school (I know. I know.  Shame on me.  On the days they have taken their lunches lately, it's been Lunchables thrown into the lunchboxes.  I do resolve, though, to do better about sending wholesome food to school with my kids next year.  It hardly seems worth the effort right now, since they have only one day of school left for the year.)
4.  watching a show or movie during daylight hours
5.  finishing my deep cleaning (I saved my bedroom and bathroom for last and have yet to do it.  I REALLY dislike cleaning, and I lost the momentum.)
6.  getting my hair done (I've got a certain four-letter-word shining brightly at my scalp and am in dire need of a trim.)
7.  painting my nails (it may seem frivolous, but I love to wear my nails painted.  But, since I've had to cut them short so as not to pinch or scratch Razz during milking, it hardly seems worth taking the time to paint the little stubs.)
8.  taking the rabbit for walks (I know. I know. I really should do this everyday.  She is, after all, continuing to get bigger!  I'm starting to think we're living some kind of modern fairy tale about the rabbit that wouldn't stop growing and eventually took over the farm).
9.  sleeping in (that alarm goes off at 5:30am, every day of the week)
10.  getting my phone fixed (I dropped it on a field trip last week and shattered the screen.)

Okay.  There.  A list of 10 things I haven't done.  I could keep going, but then I would start to feel lazy.  ;) 

I'm Expecting . . .

 Yep, I'm expecting . . . God to do something pretty amazing in my local community. (Now, don't be mad about the shameless ploy to get you to click on the link.  I just really wanted everyone to hear about this!)

 Here's a riddle for you:  Who is better poised to minister to the needs of a community than a local church? 

The answer:  THE local church, meaning not one community church but ALL of them, working together toward a common goal.  I am so proud to be a part of  The Bethany Project, a new mission, uniting local churches to minister to the needs of our community.  I love to see churches working together to accomplish God's commandment to love Him by loving others and feel blessed to be serving as our church's representative.

The Bethany Project, founded in honor of Bethany Roebuck Etheridge, seeks to provide love, hope, and care to our community through various missions.  First, we are hosting Hello Baby, which will be held on June 2.  On this day, anyone in need can come to First Baptist Church and stock up on baby items free of charge. Donations to stock the event are being accepted now at all area churches.  Items we are collecting include the following:

new or gently used children's clothing, sizes birth-5T, diapers, diaper bags, baby wipes, baby shampoo, baby powder, baby lotion, etc, baby blankets, crib sheets, baby laundry detergent,  baby bottles (basically anything "baby.")

If you live locally and would like to donate, you can drop off items at a participating church or drop them on my doorstep.  :)  We are accepting donations through May 27th.  If you live further away but would like to be a part of what's going on here, you could make a monetary donation that I could use to fill in the gaps once I see what we need more of before June 2. 

Later this year, The Bethany Project will be hosting missions to provide school supplies and coats to those in need. 

Now, as for the title of this post. . .  (With my right hand in the air,) I do hereby solemnly swear not to title any future blog post with this title unless it bears the exciting news which you would expect to discover therein.  ;)