Author: admin (Page 10 of 13)

Life’s been crazy lately, leaving no time to update y’all on the “goings ons” around here. And unfortunately today’s no different. My two girls are each at separate day camps in two very distant ends of our nearby city, I’ve got to rake 9 acres of hay and try to get it baled before it rains, again, and then both girls have separate softball games in two different towns tonight. Can you hear me scream, “Calgone take me away!”

I live in Irish Grove, I sport an Irish last (maiden) name, and I come from some pretty sturdy Irish stock.

So when during the past two farming years, my first two years as a farmer no less, I’ve been the happy beneficiary of some pretty good ‘Luck o’ the Irish’, I just figured that the luck comes with the heritage. It makes sense. Somehow, I’m just destined to be lucky.

For the past two years, the weather’s held out even when it’s been too dry just south of here or too wet just north of here. The crop yields have been decent and grain prices have been strong. We’ve started a fine herd of Murray Greys and all of our cows were somehow impregnated by a very young, inexperienced bull. (May that be a lesson to you parents of teenagers!) We’ve cleaned up the farmstead, organized things a little, and done pretty well for ourselves, under the circumstances.

We’ve made mistakes, sure, and I’m very realistic about how many more of those are on the horizon. And in no uncertain terms do I deny the fact that there is absolutely no substitute for experience in the farming world. But the mistakes we’ve made so far haven’t held any real, tangible consequences. Everything, thankfully, has turned out okay in the end.

And so that ‘I’m Just Lucky’ attitude wormed its sneaky little way into my psyche, set up shop and hung curtains. At first it was a welcome guest. It gave me the reassurance I desperately needed that I wasn’t going to screw up this whole farming experience and ruin our beloved family farm. But lately, I’m Just Lucky has overstayed his welcome. He’s eatin’ potato chips on the couch, if you know what I mean, and he’s started leaving his dirty socks under the dining room table.

Almost two weeks ago now, I’m Just Lucky finally overstepped his bounds and convinced me to mow the first crop of hay when we had a 4 day window of dry weather. I’m Just Lucky whispered to me that, “Sure, it looks like the storms could push in sooner that expected, but you’re lucky, remember? Don’t forget who you are, my dearest. You’re Irish. You’re lucky!”

So what do you think Miss Under-experienced, Relying On My Luck Farmer did?

I went and cut the hay!!!

Long story short……10 days later, the hay is still on the ground, has been rained on ump-teen times, and will soon be a nice black, slimy mess. The alfalfa continues to grow, of course, and is now growing through the windrows in the places where it’s not getting snuffed out due to lack of air and sunlight. The ground is saturated from the gazillion inches of rain we’ve gotten in the past 10 days, and I wouldn’t dare put the heavy tractor in there, even if we do get a few dry days. I’ve got to go call the farmer that was going to buy all of this hay and let her out of her contract. And next winter, we’re going to have one heck of a time trying to force the cattle to eat this degraded yuckiness. That is IF we are ever able to get this darned hay dried and baled in the first place.

Luck o’ the Irish? I don’t think so.

Now please excuse me. I’m got some spring cleanin’ to do.

Nature. Country. Connections. Roots. Family.

These are words that make my heart swell. These words are likely the reason why I’m so darned happy living in a place I never, ever thought I’d come back to.

Sure, Irish Grove was a nice place and all. But as I was growing up, I found it too small town, too Midwestern, and just too ‘ho-hum’ for a girl like me. I was going to change the world, you know….and the world I was to be a’changin wasn’t Irish Grove, for Lord’s sake. I was going to change the world out there, whether that meant out West, Alaska, or some third-world country. I had big dreams. Bigger dreams than could fit in Irish Grove.

As a highschooler, I was one of those rare kids that actually knew what she wanted to do. I loved animals, I loved the rural countryside, I loved wilderness, nature, wide open spaces and the way my heart would soar when in the presence of a beautiful rural landscape. So I knew I wanted to go to college to become a Wildlife Biologist, and that as a wildlife biologist I was going to change the world. What an idea! As a wildlife biologist, I could spend every waking moment outside in a natural setting and get paid for it! Who cares if it doesn’t pay well, or if there are no National Parks close to home? Close to home wasn’t where it was at, anyways. I was going global, remember? Yeah, I was focused, determined, young. I went to UW-Madison, and I became a Wildlife Biologist. No second thoughts. Full steam ahead.

Next I joined the Peace Corps to gain experience in wildlife biology and because I wanted to help the poor in a developing nation. (OK, and maybe for the adventure of it.) But mostly I joined the Peace Corps because I had always dreamed of going to Africa to work on the great savannas, and the Peace Corps was the fastest, most effective way to get there. Africa was where its at for a wildlife biologist like myself. Africa was the the big kahuna. The be all, end all. Africa was my destiny, and I was going for it. I filled out my application, requested Africa as my first choice for location, and didn’t bother filling in my second and third choices. In my mind, there was no other choice.

But you know, those darned Peace Corps people had different ideas, and they valued my Spanish experience–which was nothing to write home about, let me tell you–over my wildlife biology degree. How dare they? How dare they derail my dreams, my life’s pursuits, my ambition to be a Wildlife Biologist and to take the continent of Africa by storm?

They plainly didn’t care. They thought it was much more important for me to be able to communicate with my host country’s people….p’shaw. And they thought it was better to send someone with an agricultural background (a very questionable agricultural background) to agricultural lands instead of vast savannas and grand deserts. The nerve!

But the biggest kicker was that they weren’t even sending me to work in wildlife biology! I was going to Panama–hardly the exciting, exotic African nation I had hoped for–and I was going to work in Environmental Education.

“Umm, excuse me but I couldn’t hear you very well. Did you say Panama? Panama, like in Noriega? And, umm, please forgive me once again, but did I hear the word Education? Education meaning like a teacher, with a classroom, stuck in a building, with a bunch of kids? Ah, yes, of course…. Environmental Education volunteer in Panama. Wonderful, yes that’s perfect. Now will you please excuse me while I go cry myself a river?”

My disappointment only added to the building anxiety (aka FEAR) I was experiencing as my departure grew closer. I literally felt like I was jumping off a cliff into the unknown. Where I would land, or how I would land, or if I would land, even, was a mystery. At this point I wasn’t only leaving behind everything and everyone I knew and loved, I was going to a place I didn’t really want to go to, and I was going to work in a position I most positively did not want to work in. Where were my open spaces? My wilderness? How could I realize my dream of being a wildlife biologist as an environmental education volunteer in Panama?

Yes, Panama is exactly where things started getting off track.

Ahh, I just love our tractor. Isn’t she lovely? She has the nicest shade of blue, which is my most favorite-est color, and she also has a low, powerful roar when she drives which is music to my country-girl ears.

Most of us in Irish Grove are rookie tractor drivers. I, for one, am extremely slow and cautious when behind the wheel. Even after two years of farming, I always go through my mental checklist before driving: put on seatbelt, engage the clutch, double check the gears, change gears if necessary, lift bucket (while refreshing my memory as to which direction on the handle will swivle the bucket up or down), put the tractor in gear, adjust RPM’s, etc. etc. etc.

I’m such a tractor nerd, in fact, that I make sure to turn the radio volume down, so I can listen closely to the hum of the engine. (I’m learning to embrace my nerdiness.)

Marcel, on the other hand, is an expert tractor driver. (I know, I know….what’s new?) When Marcel’s driving the tractor, we all feel comfortable, secure, and confident that the job’s gonna get done, effertlessly executed and in style, I might add. In fact, with Marcel behind the wheel I don’t even feel the need to run, duck for cover, whisk my kids to the safety of our porch, or call Olivia away from the scene. Marcel’s got it under control.

Which makes me wonder what was in that coffee I drank at lunch yesterday.

Mom wanted to use the pick-up truck, which was parked behind the tractor in the machine shed. So, not only did I encourage (she might say force) Mom to drive the tractor for the first time ever……

but I let my youngest child sit in on the ride!!

What was I thinking????

You just can’t beat springtime on the farm.

After an especially long winter this year, the pretty spring flowers breathe life back into our souls and the fresh, breezy days bring out the best in everyone.

My favorite spring flowers are the bleeding hearts. They make me daydream about little flower fairies hosting little flower-fairy parties in my garden, decorating the branches of their favorite plants with sweet heart-shaped jewels and lanterns.

I also love the bright, cheery tulips that bob back and forth in the spring breezes.

Springtime brings the baby chicks, who are always there for you when you need a little cheering up.

And the warmer weather finally allows you to take on a few projects to spruce up the place a bit.

Here’s Marcel, giving the house a much-needed face lift. (Which for some reason makes my thoughts immediately jump to that avocado/cucumber facemask I saw in Walgreens last week.)

But the best thing about spring is that the kids can finally get outside and entertain themselves with the simplest of pleasures.

Like Armando with the water hose. Now that’s bliss for ya, pure and simple.

Madelina has waited for this moment for 6 months, 2 days, 24 minutes and 11 seconds.

Ana has mastered the art of paper-airplane throwing. Just look at that form.

Paper airplanes are the preferred toys in Irish Grove at the moment. The kids played with them for over 3 hours yesterday, and got cousin Jonathan into the act this morning for another couple of hours.

Jonathan’s got a nice, gentle toss that really makes ’em soar.

I just might start a petition to close all of the toy stores over the summer. When you’ve got fresh air, open spaces, and a happy spring-time heart….who needs ’em?

Maybe I shouldn’t talk about buying meat from your local farmer when we’re all out for the year. That’s just mean, isn’t it?

And yet as I was perusing the USDA website (which proves how lame I really am), I clicked on the Find current food recalls link and was horrified at the sheer number of recalls in the past few months. That’s right…I said months. Then I figured out that I was looking at only the open recall cases, meaning the USDA hasn’t found all of the recalled product yet. Isn’t that reassuring?

There is a second link that leads you to the Recall Case Archive, which means the recall is complete and they’ve taken all of the product off the supermarket shelves. Phew!

And because I am known to be a caring and generous soul, ahem, I have graciously combined these two lists for your reading enjoyment. (I only included page 1 of the closed cases.)

July 19, 2007, Canned Meat Products, C. botulinum, OPEN

Nov 1, 2007, Totino’s and Jeno’s Frozen Meat Pizza Products, E. coli 0157:H7, OPEN

Nov 15, 2007, Double B Foods, Inc., Frozen Sausage Roll Products, Listeria, OPEN

Jan 5, 2008, Mark’s Quality Meats Ground Beef Products, E.coli 0157:H7, CLOSED

Jan 12, 2008, Ground Beef Products, E. coli 0157:H7, CLOSED

Jan 26, 2008, Chicken Products, undeclared allergen, CLOSED

Feb 1, 2008, Bacon-wrapped Beef Tenderloin Products, undeclared allergen, CLOSED

Feb 17, 2008, Beef Products, problem unstated (which worries me even more), CLOSED

Mar 2, 2008, Frozen Chicken Entrees, Listeria, CLOSED

Mar 3, 2008, Frozen Chicken Entrees, Listeria, CLOSED

Mar 4, 2008, Gourmet Boutique Meat and Poultry Products, Listeria, CLOSED

Mar 14, 2008, Chicken Gibliets, adulturated, OPEN

Mar 29, 2008, Frozen Chicken Products, mislabeling, CLOSED

Apr 4, 2008, Frozen Cattle Heads, prohibited materials, OPEN

May 3, 2008, Gourmet Boutique Meat and Poultry Products, Listeria, OPEN

Only 16 products in 10 months. Not bad, right? Except that they don’t include the sheer poundage of the nasty food that is complicit in the above recalls. Nor do they include the brand names the food is sold under, except for one or two.

So, let’s see. I could have a banquet of Listeria, E. coli, and botulism. I could partake in a delectable feast of cow head with prohibited materials. I could ingest a few undeclared allergens…I mean, what you don’t know won’t hurt you, right? (Right??) Or, I could just eat something that claims to be something else. No harm, no foul.

I read a list like this and never ever want to set foot in the supermarket meat isle again. But when we take ruminants, stick them in a CAFO (Confined Animal Feeding Operation), and feed them genetically modified grains, plastic “fiber” pellets, “recycled” chicken manure, distiller’s grain (ethanol byproduct), and maybe a little hay here or there, E. coli 0157:H7 is what results. When we lock thousands and thousands of chickens together with only 0.8 square feet of space per bird, who’s shocked if a little Listeria winds up on our chicken nuggets? And when we forget about the pots and pans in our kitchen, and only reheat the “canned meat products” on our pantry shelves, we submit ourselves to the industrialized quasi-kitchens that process millions of canned products daily. Who knows what contaminants lurk in those kitchen-factories?

I’m not judging, people. After a quick look at my own pantry, I found canned corned beef, for pity’s sake. That stuff looks and smells like dog food when you open it. But for the sake of our environment and our health, we have all got to get away from the sad, demoralizing, inhumane and unhealthy meat industry and back to the small family farms that were traditionally the backbone of our country.

Small farms like ours can have contamination problems…of course! But cleanliness and herd health are much easier to manage when you’re working on a small scale. Contamination is easier to track down and correct when things go awry, I might add. I know of not one local farmer who trucks in plastic pellets or chicken manure to feed his beef cattle….these things don’t happen on a small-scale farm. They happen all the time on CAFO’s. Not to mention the growth-promoting hormones and antibiotics.

Seriously. Find a local farmer. Ask them if you can buy some of their meat, be it chicken, pork, beef, duck, lamb, goat, mouse…OK, not mouse.

Now go. That’s right, go.

Go do it. Call a local farmer.

Really. For your sake and mine, for the environment’s sake, for the animals’ sake, GO!

You can thank me later.

Late Sunday morning, the call came. “Your chicks are at the post office. If you’d like, you can come pick them up. Or, we’ll send them out your way in tomorrow’s mail shipment.”

Here they are, still in the box. They come in these neat little compartmentalized boxes, 25 chicks per compartment. In fact, you have to mail-order a minimum of 25 chicks, otherwise they won’t have enough body heat to keep themselves warm. A cold chickie is a doomed chickie.

Madelina’s like a little mother hen.

Ana’s snuggled in nicely with this one.

It takes awhile to get the heat lamps situated just right. If the lamps are hung too high up, the chicks get cold and start to mob together like this:

Today is another one of those blustery Northern Illinois spring days. High 40’s and windier than all get out. Yesterday, we had thunderstorms and wind. The day before, nice warm temperatures accompanied by a stiff wind. Wind, wind, wind.

I hate windy days. Wind makes me angry. When I was in college, I lived a good 15 minute bike-ride away from campus. I relied upon my bike to take me everywhere. Madison, with it’s four surrounding lakes, tends to be a windy place. So when I would bike to class, loaded down by a backpack filled with textbooks and notepads, I’d often find myself sparring against a strong headwind. I’d put my head down, and pedal as hard as I could. Just when I’d think my legs and my lungs could take no more, I’d look over at the students walking to class on the sidewalk. It was hard to tell who was moving at a faster pace. My quick Irish temper would ignite and a few choice words would escape my lips. “@#&%@ wind!”, I’d mutter.

Today’s wind is making me feel isolated and lonely, and I imagine how it must have been for women years ago on the frontier. They say many pioneer women went mad on account of the unceasing winds that whipped across the prairie. For today, at least, I can relate. And just like in the old movies, the latch on our porch door is broken, and so the door violently swings open and hits the porch railing…”Bam!” A second or two later it then slams shut…“Bam!” I half expect a tumbleweed to roll on by.

When I go out and call to the kids, my voice goes unheard. The wind carries it away. My trusty barrette that I rely upon daily to keep my hair out of my face is no match for the unrelenting gusts of air. The ground grain that I carefully poured into the feedbunk for the cattle was whipped into a whirling dustdevil that proceeded to attack me viciously. And I dare not lay down the bedding that I bought for the baby chicks that are to arrive tomorrow.

And so I am imprisoned. Idle. Locked in. All on accounts of this maddening wind.

SOLD!! Thanks to everyone that responded. Unfortunately we are sold out for the year.

If you’re in the market for some tasty, fresh, good old-fashioned corn-fed beef….and….if you’ve got a freezer that’s spinnin’ your electric meter like nobody’s business because it has nothing in it but stale air…..and….if your favorite summer past time is firin’ up the grill and throwin’ on a few juicy burgers for the kids and a few tender steaks for you and your main squeeze, then have I got a deal for you!

We have orders to fill 3/4 beef, and need someone to take the other 1/4. That’s it! Just a 1/4 beef. A mere 200 pounds or so. You’ll hardly even notice it.

Well, okay…you might notice it a little bit.

But when you notice it, you’ll also notice the undeniable grumble in your belly and that your saliva glands are suddenly acting like Old Faithful.

If you’re interested, flit me off an email to comepifa@aol.com and I’ll fill you in on the necessary details such as where we take our beef for processing, how long it takes, and of course how we determine the cost. I’ll give you a hint on that one: we use market pricing, which always makes me feel like a rich, powerful oil executive:

“We charge you a buttload (is that a bad word?) for oil because we can…ahem, I mean because of high demand.”

Except that I’m your friendly local farmer who would never, ever charge you a buttload for anything. (There’s that word again…sorry!) And I should probably give up on the dream of being rich and powerful, too. It’s usually not in the cards for silly ole farmers like me. Ah, well…there goes that analogy.

So, um…what was I talking about?

Oh, right! Beef!

Beef that is humanely-raised; beef that has had 100% access to pasture, good quality hay, plenty of fresh air, and clean water; beef that has never been fed any type of genetically modified foodstuff; beef that spend their days snackin’, wanderin’, sleepin’ and chewin’ their cud.

Beef that is really, truly good eatin’, as they say in these parts.

So what do you say? Any takers out there?

Vacation…oooh. Sunny Florida…aaah.

It was so nice to take a break from life in Irish Grove. Florida was wonderful, and we were actually able satify the whole family on the trip, if you can believe it! We had lots of swimming opportunities and a visit to Busch Gardens for the kids, boating, golfing and relaxing for Marcel, an outing in a nature preserve for me, and a trip to a beautiful beach that made all of us pretty dern happy. Plus, we got to spend a lot of time with my mom, and shared our Busch Gardens time with my sister and her family, and my brother Matt. What more could you ask for?

Did I mention that for 6 out of 8 days, the weather was in the low 80’s, sunny with a nice gentle breeze? Ahh, such a treat for some pretty winter-weary Irish Grovers. So, come along as I reminisce.

Here we are, relaxing…

sightseeing….

playin’….

swimming….

and piggin’ out.

Plus, we got to see lots and lots of exotic animals (exotic for Irish Grove at least).

We saw a dophin….

a manatee (you’ll have to take my word for it)…

the homely, yet important and very rare wood stork (notice the water just in front of him?)…

a very large alligator (that luckily didn’t end up eating the wood stork above!)….

and a strange, elusive tropical creature that I just can’t quite make out.

This is very mysterious. It looks a lot like a ring-tailed lemur, but aren’t they only found in Madagascar? Yet it moves so sleekly through the understory. What could it be?

Wait….it seems to be swinging around this way….

I’m still not sure, and yet suddenly it looks a little familiar.

Aw, shoot. Did we come all the way to Florida just to see a raccoon?

Oh well. Raccoon and all, we had a wonderful time and are ready for farmin’ to begin. Rested and rejuvinated, all I can say is: Bring it on, Irish Grove! Let the fun begin.