The Rare Moments

When the children were little, the Wife feared they would "never" grow up...and they did.  Now we are at the stage where they are leaving the house; now the Wife wonders if we will "never" be together again. This year, because of Dear Farmer and the Wife's anniversary, all the children made the effort and arranged lives to be together for a full 24 hours! God answered our prayer, and there was peace among all of them for our blissful moments together...and the Wife cherished this in her heart.

The Wife clearly remembers her grandmother, the Amazing Farm-Wife, saying much the same things...
She was 90 at the time...so, it must be a "mom-thing".

These are the ebbs and flow of life. Children graduate from sippy cups(the inventor of which, should have received some sort of award!) to coffee mugs. The arrows, that were once jammed inside our very cramped quiver, are shot out. Wrangling them to all come home at one time, doesn't often happen.  It's the rare moments that help us to look back and be thankful for all the craziness of the past with fondness.
Those little ridiculous trials-the child who refused to eat potatoes, the dishwasher that never quite worked right, or the dustpan that was forever cracked-they weren't that big of a deal after all.
Probably didn't need to stress over the unplanned haircut, or the marker on his face.

Enjoy those rare moments...cherish them in your heart...

Old Chimney's and New Lumber

The "falling-down" farmhouse has (for the last ten or so years) been in a journey towards a cave-in. Remarkably, when the residents of the house re-shingled in 1993, they removed the top of the remaining chimney(the old kitchen chimney had been removed approx.1965) from the old living room fireplace...but just the top.  When the furnace replaced the old fireplace(approx.1965, also) the old fireplace was boarded up and abandoned, left to crumble behind paneling.  Crumble it did. After fifty  years of crumbling...the cave-in was fast approaching....unless an intrepid Farmer were to step in and rescue the farmhouse.  Insert Dear Farmer.

Dear Farmer will tell you, "I'm just a farmer." And while that is true, if you aren't already aware of what farmers do, let us clue you in to the job-description.

Farmer (n.): able to do electrical(both residential and industrial), welding, construction building, plumbing, mechanic, meteorologist, agricultural botanist, animal husbandry professional, customer relations, salesman.

Thankfully, Dear Farmer has learnt to do all of those well.  He's stayed at the top of his game where building is involved...and the "falling-down" farmhouse is kinda like a hobby(that we happen to live in). So when we noted how much the slope of the house had increased over the past two years we also came to cross road: fix it, or start building a new house...this year.
Try as the Wife did, she could not finagle the new house this year.  Dear Farmer has too much experience to just let the relic of a farmhouse die....
guess we're fixing it.
The plan was to chisel out the bricks and toss them out the windows to the ground below...from the attic first, then the second floor, then the living room...until all the bricks are out.  The chisel workers would be Dear Farmer, the Shadow, and the littlest Shadow. The toss-er would be the Pied Piper.  The stacker on the ground level would be the Keeper of the Flame.  The Farmer's Daughters would be in there somewhere doing whatever was needed.
Dear Farmer was preparing to begin the work process as the family was all out of the house(thoughtful preparation works better when no one is around to tap on his shoulder, tug on his pant-leg, pester him with questions, and move his tools to remote locations).  Dear Farmer chiseled at a brick to test the amount of work this would require...the brick needed no chisel.  The mortar simply blew off...scary how little work this would require. Now, as near as we can figure...the farmhouse was built approx.1900-1910.  So it stands to reason, the chimney was put in place at the same time. Which leads us to place the brick and mortar age at approx. 108-118 years old. Ouch! No wonder the mortar is non-existent and the bricks are crumbling!
Dear Farmer did the entire chimney by himself(with a couple moments of help from the Haus Frau Farmer's Daughter), in a couple hours. Three stories of brick, neatly stacked, outside of the house.
The rest of the family arrived home to a surprise! I am sure the relief and pleasure were evident on all the faces when we saw the bricks stacked and the job done.  The boys didn't have to do any of it, Dear Farmer didn't have to have multiple hands helping, and the girls didn't have too much mess to clean up!
Easy-cheesy-lemon-squeezie!

Dear Farmer was all excited to show the Wife what had been accomplished! "Come on! Come see!", he said as he ushered her into the house, upstairs to the attic door.  He opened the attic door(which the Wife has had to admit, just might be her one weakness to sentimentality towards the "falling-down" farmhouse)  to show her the work accomplished from the top-down.  The Wife, happy(but not really that excited about walking over and around decayed rodent carcasses), dutifully admired the work done, the lack of work required, and the empty hole that descended to the basement.
All the things that could be done with a ready made hole in the floor came to her mind: a dumb-waiter, a laundry shoot, a fireman's pole...all possibilities!
Alas, Dear Farmer looked at his Wife(almost pitifully) and told her it was getting covered up and nothing would happen with it.  Then he descended into the basement to jack the middle of the house up a full five inches.
The Wife noticed something else, while up in the attic...the house was built with true 2x4s.  Not like the lumber turned out today that isn't actually 2inches x 4inches, but rather 1.5inches x 3.5inches.
Those 2x4s are perfectly squared together, beautiful!  Add that beautifully constructed attic to the hand-dug basement complete with logs for the support posts...yeah, I guess I can see why Dear Farmer wanted to save this "falling-down" farmhouse a bit longer.
It just seems a shame that we have to add new lumber to it...lumber that's has a name that's not true to it's size. Lumber that was purchased at a box store, not a lumber mill.

In it's hay-day I am sure the "falling-down" farmhouse was quite the modern home to behold.
Dear Farmer sees it...the Wife has to close her eyes to see it...and when the Wife closes her eyes she still sees the remnants of an old chimney, and the cost of new lumber.

Country Boys Go To Town

The Keeper of The Flame, The Pied Piper, and The Farmer's Shadow have all spent exactly four full weeks in town over the last eight weeks.  They had no choice, they were told to get in the car~so they went.  We are blessed to spend time in a town that desperately wants to be a suburb, but its not yet found a city to belong to. The town once resided in the country, and it seems to think it still does...but now that we live in a true country setting(okay, we think it is...we have to drive 40 minutes to get to a WalMart and our nearest neighbor is a mile away as the crow flies, isn't that true country?) we kinda chuckle.  This is a town.  A bonafide, curb-enhanced, paved, town.  Complete with two gas stations and four restaurants.

For boys who have only grown up in the country, and on a farm...coming into town is different.

First of all: no peeing outside. This is an actual issue.  Country boys are used to watering the tires.  Even some country girls can do it (I heard tell). But in town they will have NONE of it! So zip up those pants and wait until you're inside.

Secondly: Please don't flush the toilet for fun.  In town you have to pay for that water going out, and the water coming in!  

Safe-fun only: My country boys tend to be the knife tossing, hatchet wielding, hole digging kinda boys.  But in town...well...the police aren't so happy about eight year old knife throwing boys.  Especially when they think the best targets are the trees in the front yard, next to the road...

And though we have lived in a recreation of the WWI trench wars...we don't want to go back, so please leave the turf in place now.

"What CAN we do?" , they ask after the Wife has shot down any hope they had for outdoor fun.

"How about you build a fort with sticks for pine cones? You could make an obstacle course and time each other running through it. OR fold laundry!"

"What's the fun in any of that?", they ask.

I have no answer for them.

An hour later the Wife found this in the back yard....

Its definitely big enough for pine cones, a large dog, or an eight, ten and twelve year old...but they say they built it for the six, four and two year old (whatever).

And as a side note: this structure is NOT safe! Those logs are all stacked on top of each other. There's no stability at all.  The six, four and two year old did not get to play long in it, before a wall fell down and there were tears. Thankfully no cracked sculls.

"Girl" chores: we aren't gender neutral around here.  There are specific "boy" chores and "girl" chores on our farm. The boys do the hard work and heavy labor.  Basically, the nasty stuff the Wife doesn't want to have to do again.  Like cleaning the barn, stacking hay, and trimming goat feet. What on earth do boys do in town?  The Keeper of the Flame has cut the grass(which is the size of a postage stamp) twice! And I fear it's not going to come back it's so trimmed! The garbage has gone out of every room...hourly, every day, just to give the Pied Piper some work to do!  In a final act of desperation, the Wife gave the Farmer's Shadow a "girl" chore: unloading the dishwasher.  The poor boy, he's a sweetheart, he did it, but he nearly cried as he began putting away silverware.  The other two hid-I'm not sure if they were concerned that they might have to help, or just felt the Shadow's shame.  Since then, they have been folding laundry, loading dishwashers, washing pots and pans, vacuuming and sweeping. The house has never been so clean with ten people in it!

Country boys in town find trees to climb-usually in front of some poor lady who never heard of tree climbing children, or maybe had only read about them in a book and cannot believe that the Wife would permit her children to climb a tree in a public place.

Country boys end up on the roof of the garage. Or the house. Or have one on the garage roof and one on the house roof and begin sending signals back and forth using mirrors.

Country boys spend a LOT of time at the beach with a net and goggles trying to catch the elusive cat fish they imagine lives under the pier.  They find dead fish and dissect them in front of all the other children on the beach.  They get dark and dark-er tan.  

Country boys say "HI!" to every passer-by, and pet every dog.  They laugh loud and shout to each other when they walk down the sidewalk.

In the end...they will go back to the country and talk all winter about the fun they had.  When they were made to use the bathroom EVERY time they had to "go", when they build forts for little siblings, and they only had to do "girl chores". In the end, it will be a fond memory...when the Country boys went to town.

Culling : to select from a group

The summer is drawing to a close, much as anyone here hates to admit it.  And with the end of summer begins one huge process...culling the herd. Thankfully, in families, we don't often look at the children and think,"Okay, which of you has to go?"...well, maybe sometimes...However, when we look at it from the farming standpoint, we are looking at (brutal honesty) finances and food.  What can we afford over winter, and what do we need to survive.
Occasionally there's the animal that has a personality we just can't part with (check out Intellectual Agrarian about Chickens), but on the general whole, we are pretty balanced in deciding who will stay and who will go.
To make the fun even fun-er, there's also the task of finding another home for the ones we can't bring ourselves to eat, or finding a butcher for the ones we can't wait to eat.
Did you know that poultry processors don't usually process waterfowl?  This means, if you go duck hunting...first find a butcher to take your dead ducks to, or do it yourself.
The Wife had purchased the ducks in hopes for duck eggs for the children allergic to chicken eggs...and it just makes sense that out of the five ducks she purchased from the local farm store-only one of them is female, and refuses to lay an egg with four males constantly at her side. Really, it's okay because we will eat duck.  The Farmer's Daughter, however, isn't going to be around for butchering.  Which leaves the butchering to the HausFrau and DIY Farmer's Daughters. You aren't missing it, they aren't jumping for joy.
Looking at the large animal livestock...culling is always harder.  First there is more than a dozen weeks involved in raising them. Secondly, there is the shear size of the animal.  We have goats and cow that have big brown knowing eyes.  We have a hard time looking into those eyes and thinking that those will be the tacos of tomorrow.  Often we just re-home in exchange for goods or services.  And, it's easy to say, "Let's butcher a six pound bird." Much harder to say, "Let's butcher a 300lb cow."
Regardless of how it happens, this season of culling has to happen.  Three acres simply cannot sustain a large livestock community.
And so, we begin the process of culling the herd.

April Snows Bring May Flowers

April 9,2018
Photo credit: Liane Layhew
no filters,iphone 6

The hunt was on for the daffodils! Everyday we were outside, mostly the Wife, walking the front yard and counting little leaves bursting through the ground. All of the sudden there they were! Fourteen perfectly random daffodils and one tulip. None of us know where the tulip came from, but there it was!
And the day came when one bloomed! And the Wife envisioned fourteen, at least, cheerful  yellow blossoms greeting every passer-by. What the wife did not foresee was the three year old Farmer's Daughter...also knows as "The Ninny-nator". Destroyer of makeup bags, ruin-er of rising bread loaves, picker of flowers...The Ninny-nator.
And the first beautiful yellow daffodil bloomed, the Wife took a picture! And The Ninny-nator Farmer's Daughter picked it.  Running behind the Wife and smiling grandly, she showed it to everyone.  Everyone-crestfallen-said, "No, Ninny.  No picking the pretty yellow flowers."
And the next day a new daffodil bloomed in a different location.  And the family cheered!  And we reminded the Ninny-nator NOT to pick the flower.  And she nodded her head in agreement.  And at about two o'clock in the afternoon-she picked it. And the Wife was sad.  She saw a death to her vision. There would be one flower a day.  One flower...and if a passer-by was there at just the right time, and looked in just the right place, providentially the passer-by would see one lovely, coveted, happy yellow daffodil. That was the reality.  And the Wife sighed-she took the flower from the Ninny-nator, gave her a lecture, but knew the war was lost.  If it wasn't a Ninny-nator who would pick the daffodils...it would be someone or something else.
Flower #3 met it's demise to a Frisbee.  Flowers #4 and #5 to the windstorm.  Flower #6 to the dogs.  Flower #8 went MIA. Flower #9 was too close to home plate in our family kickball game. Flower #10 was under the child climbing the magnolia tree. The tulip hasn't bloomed. We think it has seen the fate of those who went before, and has retreated back underground.
Someday...someday you will drive past our little patch of heaven here out west...and you will be delighted with a field of happy yellow daffodils in spring. Someday...

Daffodil Flower #1, April 25, 2018
Photo credit: Liane Layhew
no filters, iphone 6

We Don't See Any Daffodils Yet.

There has been great discussion in the house about where our daffodils are.  In the fall the little farmer's daughters and the Wife went and bought two bags of yellow daffodil bulbs.  Then we opened the bags and threw the bulbs in the front yard near the ditch...hang on, I know that sounds strange...wherever the bulbs fell, we planted them.  It has a natural effect when they start popping up-like there was never a time there wasn't a daffodil there.
When we lived in Wisconsin we constantly drove past a neighbor who had been doing this for ten or so years-in the spring his front yard was "a bloom!".  The Wife was thinking ahead!!!  If we start now, in ten years...it will look amazing! All winter we have been looking forward to the spring, because of the promise of the daffodils.
Here in lies the problem: the Spring has been hot, cold, hot, cold, hot, cold...everyday is a little different from the day before.  So, on the hot days we are out searching for the daffodils to peek their heads above the ground...and on the cold days we PRAY they will peek their heads above ground quickly!
The Wife has read that daffodils planted in protected areas will rise and bloom earlier than daffodils planted in a field.  I guess here on the plains of Illinois, we would be considered unprotected.
Yellow and happy faces of flowers welcoming everyone who passes by, welcoming all of us home on busy days, welcoming warmer weather for a season, these are reasons we are desperate for daffodils.
Where are they?
Are your daffodils blooming?