Old Fangled

This may sound a little silly, but there is an old, old tool which I have wanted to try using for years. I admired its simple elegance, its utilitarian strength, and the fact that it had served humanity without fail for centuries. I had never tried one before though, or even held one for that matter, simply because I didn't have one of my own. 

The name of this old relic of our agricultural past is the 'scythe'; the world's first lawnmower.

Handheld, this cunning little invention was used for making hay, cutting the grain crops, tidying around the cottage, and possibly even the occasional need for fending off unwanted visitors. I don't even remember when or where I first saw/heard about this thing known as a scythe, but I was fascinated. 

I started reading up more on scythes as the seasons fell away into years... I watched Youtubes about them, found yellowed antique books with pictures of farmers with their scythes, and told myself that some day I would have to get one for myself. Even though I really wasn't sure in the end how to even work the contraption. 

And then of course something akin to reality sank in. Why on earth was I so captivated by this tool? Why, of all things, should I be interested in something that cuts grass?? I couldn't answer myself, except for the seemingly irrelevant explanation that I am an "old fangled" person. You hear of "new fangled" contraptions all the time, and that term was once applied to the Tin Lizzie automobile when it was first invented. So if there's a "new fangled" in this world, then does that mean that there can be an "old fangled"? If not, then I am hereby officially creating the term. Your welcome. I coined the term one rainy afternoon while scribbling away at one of my book proposals (that, um, still hasn't been proposed due to a busy schedule and a fear of actually doing it). In the midst of doing long handed notes being crazily jotted down on lined paper, the idea of 'old fangled' came upon me like a spring sunrise. It was just there. I think I was writing about goats, so I'm not sure how the idea for said term was suddenly thought up, but it came anyway. I turned a new sheet of paper and in big, bold letters I wrote, 'Old Fangled'. It would someday be a book title, I hoped and dreamed. And still hope and dream it yet. But for now it's a term that I use for myself. 

Some things just feel right to people (most would call them "convictions") and to this farm girl, doing things the old fashioned way just sits right with me. There's something about returning to the ways of old that feel correct. It's in my blood, I guess. It's a primal and feral thing that only a few select can understand as well. We are strange birds who are happy with wood instead of steel, clay instead of plastic, and the sound of hooves on asphalt instead of rubber tires. We're a happy lot though. 

So when I was informed at work this morning that one of our jobs required using a scythe, my old fangled self did an inner squeal of glee. Seriously?? I get to use a scythe today? For real and truly?? 

I picked up one of the two scythes available and felt a moment of hesitation as I realized that I had NO idea what I was doing with this thing. How hard can this be though? I mean, all we're doing is cutting down vegetation, right? And if you just whack at the plants hard enough then they're bound to get cut, right? My first few swings were clumsy and awkward; like trying to dance a completely new dance with someone whom you don't know very well (or not at all). My hands gripped the old, worn wood; if this was a waltz, then I was confusing the movements with a polka. Then there's always that moment when I have to tell myself to relax and just let the learning come as it pleases. I have this insane fear of not doing something right, right away. Learning curves are not something I consciously allow myself, but know that there's no way around them. The result is feeling like a failure and a dunce before my time. You would think that I would stop doing that to myself seeing as I've identified the problem. Some things can't be changed. Or at least not changed quickly.

My body began warming up, and I found myself getting to know this dance partner known as the scythe. I was having a strange deja vu moment as I caught on to the rhythm required. I think I've done this before... I hadn't though, but the feeling was there, and the feeling is there for others that I've seen as I've taught them other old fangled arts such as milking a goat, spinning yarn, or making cheese. There's something oddly familiar when we return to the heritage of our past and re-learn the secrets of our ancestors. 

My friend, and the day's working partner, went and found a whetstone so that I could sharpen the blades of our scythes. This I did know how to do. Goodness, I have dulled so many knives in the past from using a whetstone improperly that I despaired of ever learning. But this learning curve too, I passed and with flying colors. Moving briskly, my palm sized whetstone made metallic 'shlick, shlick, schlick', noises as I carefully took metal off the long, curved blade. First use the rough side and get a nice burr on the edge; yep, just like that. Now flip over to the fine side of the stone and finish it off. See the gleam? 

Sharpening the scythe made a world of difference. Suddenly the dance steps made sense. I found a sweet rhythm and the methodical movements were made all the more enjoyable by seeing the big windrow of brush that I was creating in my wake. It required no fuel, no oil, and no noise, but here I was working merrily away with an old, old tool. It felt right.  

I put the scythe away with a bit of reluctance. The clock had struck 12 'o' clock for this Cinderella; the magic of the moment was broken and over. I had to come out of the past and back into the present. The memory remained though and I came to a conclusion this afternoon: I need one of these old fangled things for myself. 

I could use a weed eater instead. I could use the lawn mower. I could use some nasty, chemical spray on the weeds. I could use a cow to graze the grass down. I could let it grow and not even deal with it.

But I want to use a scythe because I am an old fangled person. And sometimes you just have to go with a gut instinct on these things. This I know to be true.

Well Played

I Laughed, and Laughed.

'Thank You' to my good friend (you know who you are) for introducing me to Jostie Flicks. :)

Pigs vs. Farm Girl. Who'll Win?

I think I finally have the pigs contained. I think.

Yesterday afternoon, my study work (still plowing through my herbal certification course!) was interrupted by voices shouting, "Caity! The pigs are out! The pigs are out!" I slammed my work book closed and threw it on the bed. I would have to finish studying the differences between alterative herbs, analgesic herbs, and antacid herbs later. I rocketed out of the bedroom and as I looked out the window to the front of the house I saw not only Sausage (the usual troublemaker), but Mike as well. Both calmly trotting past the house to some unknown destination. Darn it. There goes my afternoon. I grabbed a bucket of food scraps from the counter (which was supposed to be their dinner!) and enlisted the closest sibling to help me capture the porkers. I've been working with the pigs as much as I can in the pen, trying to teach them that my presence, and my "pig call" means food. Now was the test. I rattled the bucket of food and called out the oh-so-original call of "Pig, pig!" "Pig, pig!" Mike and Sausage turned around, and wonder of wonders they trotted right up to the bucket. So we made the trek back to their pen with me walking backwards muttering "pig, pig", and one of my sisters following along 10 feet behind to encourage the pigs to keep moving. 

We got back to the pen, and in in karate style I kicked the wall down to their pen so they could get back in. For you see, it's a semi-permanent wall; there's no gate. No nothing. It started out as a corrugated sheet of metal roofing and ended up as a solid wall to keep pigs in a pen. I had no idea how the pigs managed to get out of the pen, but I knew they had to get in somehow. That, and plus it's just fun every now and again to get to kick something as if you are some well trained ninja. Or maybe that's just me...

With the boys back in their designated area, I had to figure out how to KEEP them in there. After some thought, my sister and I pulled out some 4' high woven wire fencing and commenced to hammering the metal weave in the pig pen. If they got out of this then they were Houdinis. Both pigs sat on their haunches like dogs, as they watched us work with our tools. I grinned at their goofiness in between my hammering. Mike eventually got tired of the noise and buried himself beneath a pile of hay. Sausage followed suit shortly after. What a rough life these pigs have.

Having pigs is teaching me how to have a better sense of humor and that's a fact. This was something like the fourth escape I've had, and I always have to tell myself while catching them to just "relax and laugh". I try my best to find the funniness of each situation; it beats getting mad. The pigs make me smile every time I go in the pen and I am loving their quirky personalities. 

But despite the fact that I'm getting better about keeping my temper with escaped bacon, I still have my moments.

Today I was playing my Strumstick and was in the middle of sweeping through 'Alas and Did My Saviour Bleed', when another sister poked her head in the room and said the dreaded words: "Umm, Caity, your pigs are out again." I looked at her, with my right hand suspended on a downward strum and said, "You CAN'T be serious." Turns out she was serious. It still amazes me that this is the second time that the pigs have come up to the house, rather than hightailing it to anywhere else. Yesterday's sequence was repeated: One sister followed 10 feet behind (and in case you're wondering just how many sisters I have, there are 4 of them), while I carried a bucket of food scraps and calling "pig, pig". When we got back to the pig pen, I found the woven wire fencing completely mangled. The pigs apparently tore it down and then jumped over the metal wall. Alright Sausage, I'm impressed with your thinking capabilities. I had no idea what to do now. I couldn't kick the wall down again because the fencing was nailed in place still. I reached down to pick Sausage up, who was dancing at my feet, waiting for food. When my hand touched his body, the chubby little guy surprised me by lunging forward and leaping/scrambling over the metal siding and back into the pen.  Eyebrows raised, I tried it with Mike. Same thing happened. Great, I've got jumping pigs. 

This time, I truly was out of ideas on what to do. And what's more, I was borderline on being down right irate with my escape artist pigs. Can't they just stay put for crying out loud!?!?!? Is this going to become a daily happening??? Maybe suckling pig in the freezer isn't such a bad idea after all?? 

It was time. I needed a hog panel. Sixteen feet long and made of the toughest welded wire at the farm store, I figured it might keep my pigs where they belonged. I had planned on getting this panel BEFORE the pigs ever landed, but it was one of those things that just never happened. Always being put off because of its cumbersome size and the fact that we don't exactly live very close to town. But today was the day. Unless I wanted to be chasing the pigs again tomorrow, we had to do this and we had to do it TODAY. 

At the farm store I made the split second decision to buy a cattle panel instead, which is bigger, but to my dismay I found that you just can't fit a 4.5' tall cattle panel inside a 15-seater van. We tried multiple ways of squishing that fence in there, but it wasn't going. So I went back to plan A, and bought the more expensive hog panel.

When I got back home, I found that the pigs had mangled the fencing yet again, but they were still in their boundary for the moment. I stomped over with my hog panel dragging behind me and told the pigs to move out of the way. I was on a mission. No pigs allowed. 

The panel was up in less than 2 minutes and I shook my head as I wondered why on earth it took me so long to buy this thing. It's taller than the metal siding, and sturdy enough to keep even an ornery heifer at bay. Or a pig with the intelligence of a velociraptor (yes, I've been watching too much Jurassic Park lately...).

My fingers are crossed now that the panel will do the trick. I think I might finally have these pigs contained.

I think.

In Case You Didn't Already Know, My Life Isn't Perfect

 There is a common thread that I hear from people whom I meet, and that is that people assume I have this grand and perfect life out here. Folks read this blog and assume I have my battle plan business plan all written tidily out and I'm just out here enjoying this easy life singing with goats and growing food. I was flipping through my draft posts I have in my Blogger files (103 posts that have never been read by the public... Wow.) and found one in particular that made me laugh at myself. The post below was written last March, at a time when I was sorely frustrated with myself and the fact that I was spinning my wheels. I think I decided to leave this post in the draft file because it sounded too much like I was complaining, but I'm posting it now so that not only can y'all laugh at me too, but here's the proof: My life isn't perfect. Far from it in fact. But I try. We all try. And as long as we keep picking ourselves back up and trying doggedly again, we WILL accomplish what we are after. This I know for a fact. 

So in the end, I picked my oars back up and kept rowing. I think I'm getting somewhere now.

"I wanted an ocean liner, and instead I'm given a row boat. Why is life never easy? Shucks, I've put blood, sweat and tears into trying to get this little farm up and running, but why is it that I have to pull myself up by the bootstraps? Sure, I know life isn't easy, and the farming life is especially grueling, but can't I get a leg up just once in awhile? Can't something work out that might make things just a tad easier? I don't ask for much; just a bit to give me some start up. Money makes the world go 'round, and I just can't seem to get any of that stuff. This post isn't a complaint, it's a ponder. It's my thoughts being thought aloud.

 I wanted an ocean liner in life. An easy fix to my problems that would allow me to effortlessly glide through life and have a famously productive farm. Oh yes, I can see it now... The magazine articles, the radio broadcasts, the autographs... A young girl single handedly started her own farm and it all turned out just magnificently. 

 Now we plunk down to reality: I'm on a row boat. Maybe I'll paint the words "Ocean Liner" on the prow to make myself feel better.... I manually heave my little boat forward. My hands are blistered and bloody, my shoulders ache, my legs cramp up, the wind bites me, the water stretches on and on.... The folks on the cruise ship sail by, waving with their free hand; the other one is holding a glass of lemonade. They probably all won free tickets from a contest... I watch them pass and continue my rowing. Work, work, work. Blood, sweat, tears. Yet I never seem to get anywhere. I never seem to gain ground. Why must this be so hard???

 And then I find that the boat has not only not gone forward, but I went in a complete circle and am now right back where I started. Maybe I should try swimming? Para-gliding? Sending a SOS?"

From Joel

It doesn't matter what your background, your socioeconomic status, your age or your current living condition; if you have a yearning in your soul to grow things and minister healthy food to people, to live an agrarian life with your children and grandchildren playing around your feet, then an opportunity exists for you.

Write down your dreams. Write them down often. Speak of them to your relatives and friends. Seek out people who share those dreams; ignore those who do not. Don't spend time with naysayers. As your vision becomes your passion, dreams will give place to reality. My prayer is that together we can help this happen for you.

~Joel Salatin, Excerpt from 'You Can Farm'; page #6.

It Feels Good

There is something terribly satisfying about sitting still on a squishy couch at the end of a long day of work.

Today I butchered a goat, planted celery, and harvested potatoes. The butchering of the goat deserves a blog post of its own, and perhaps I will do that later on in the week. But for now I am completely content to just sit. And rest. 

It feels good.