Author: admin (Page 11 of 13)

We’re off….we’re outta here….we’re gettin’ the heck outta Dodge. Yep, we’re headed to sunny Florida to spend a nice week relaxin’ in the sun, swimmin’ with the kids, and coaxin’ my freckles out of hiding.

We like to take advantage of spring break around here, seeing as April kick-starts the farming season into full swing, and we won’t be comin’ up for air until late October or early November. (Whew….makes me tired just thinking about it.) Last year we went to Panama to see the family, this year it’s Florida to meet up with my cavortin’ mother. Of course, we have a few trips planned this summer as well, but it gets waay more complicated when you’ve got hay that needs cuttin’ and especially some mama cows giving birth.

We’re leaving this afternoon, so Marcel’s off filling hay cages with hay for all the animals, and after church we’ll be grinding feed for the beef cattle. The kids are helping immensely by eating lots of Easter chocolate, and spreading their Easter basket grass all over the floor.

We might be a little stressed at the moment, but it will all melt away once we’re poolside (or even better, ocean-side), sippin’ umbrella drinks in our bathin’ suits. Ahhh. See ya when we get back!

And, of course, have a very happy and blessed Easter.

Ahh, St. Patrick’s Day. A day that celebrates fun, laughter, and a playful spirit. A day for blarney, for embellishments, for a few tall tales here and there. The Irish are no strangers to hardship and misery, but they are good at reminding us to lighten up a little and to take life’s troubles with a grain of salt, or perhaps more accurately, with a glass of warm beer.

So it is with an Irish spirit that I salute you, with a raised glass I toast you, and with a wink I remind you that if you’re lucky enough to be Irish…You’re lucky enough!

Enjoy a bit o’ Irish culture, if you may….

Irish Diplomacy…

is the ability to tell a man to go to hell so that he looks forward to making the trip.

An Irishman’s Philosophy…

In life, there are only two things to worry about—Either you are well or you are sick. If you are well, there is nothing to worry about,

But if you are sick, there are only two things to worry about—Either you will get well or you will die. If you get well, there is nothing to worry about,

But if you die, there are only two things to worry about—Either you will go to heaven or hell. If you go to heaven, there is nothing to worry about.

And if you go to hell, you’ll be so busy shaking hands with all your friends you won’t have time to worry!

Irish Bravado…

The Mouse on the Barroom Floor: Some Guinness was spilled on the barroom floorwhen the pub was shut for the night. Out of his hole crept a wee brown mouseand stood in the pale moonlight. He lapped up the frothy brew from the floor,then back on his haunches he sat. And all night long you could hear him roar, ‘Bring on the goddam cat!’

Irish Family Values…

A family of Irish birth will argue and fight,
but let a shout come from without, and see them all unite.

An Irishman’s Character…

An Irishman has an abiding sense of tragedy which sustains him through temporary periods of joy.

Irish Ego….

The Irish, be they kings, or poets, or farmers,
They’re a people of great worth,
They keep company with the angels,
And bring a bit of heaven here to earth

An Irish joke…

An Irishman, an Englishman and a beautiful girl are riding together in a train, with the beautiful girl in the middle.

The train goes through a tunnel and it gets completely dark. Suddenly there is a kissing sound and then a slap! The train comes out of the tunnel. The woman and the Irishman are sitting there looking perplexed. The Englishman is bent over holding his face which is red from an apparent slap.

The Englishman is thinking “Damn it, that Mick must have tried to kiss the girl, she thought it was me and slapped me.”

The girl is thinking, “That Englishman must have moved to kiss me, and kissed the Irishman instead and got slapped.”

The Irishman is thinking, “If this train goes through another tunnel, I could make another kissing sound and slap that Englishman again!!

and an Irish blessing……

May the lilt of Irish laughter
Lighten every load,
May the mist of Irish magic
Shorten every road,
May you taste the sweetest pleasures
That fortune ere bestowed,
And may all your friends remember
All the favors you are owed.

And happy birthday to my lovely and, yes, blarney-filled sister Laura. An Irish toast for you, Laura….

May you have warm words on a cold evening, a full moon on a dark night, and a smooth road all the way to your door.

I added an old Irish proverb to my heading: He who has water and peat on his own farm has the world his own way.

This proverb speaks a rural language that is endangered in today’s urban society. It embodies the deep connection between farmer and farm, and illustrates the pride and sense of hope that comes with owning your own piece of rural land.

Today, our connection to Irish Grove deepens, as my mom, my siblings and I become full owners of this beautiful family land. We are realizing a dream that has been passed down to us through numerous generations of strong, rural Irish men and women, not the least of whom was my father.

Dad lived most of his life on this land, and had a deep and loving relationship with it. His desire to possess this farm for himself was not born out of greed or dominance or potential profit. He wanted to play a part in his family’s history as Irish landholders, and to lovingly nuture this farm for future generations. And he wanted this farm so he could ensure that our family had a place to call our own, a place to keep us grounded and united, a place that would instill a humble respect for the land, for hard work, and for our heritage.

Dad wanted to be the connection between the past and the future. He was, and continues to be.

Dad died two years ago today. At first glance it seems ironic that we would close on the farm on the anniversary of his death. At second glance it feels, quite simply, bittersweet.

I hate campaign season.

I hate that they call it a ‘season’ when it lasts 2 long, painful years.

I hate how the candidates want us to think they care about us, but really only care about our vote (and campaign contributions).

I hate the non-stop political reports, the requisite scandals, the knit-picking of every syllable spoken by every candidate.

And I especially hate the endorsements made by those who take themselves and their political sway way too seriously.

Does it matter to you that Ted Kennedy loves Obama or that Arnold Schwarzenegger favors McCain? Do you care what Eva Longoria (Clinton) or Chuck Norris (Huckabee) think about our political future?

Well, I certainly don’t. But then again I don’t speak for all of Irish Grove, do I?

Suddenly I’m curious as to what my Irish Grove cohorts think. Let’s go find out.

“Hillary really moooves me. She’s proud. Articulate. Ready to face the world. I can relate to that.”

“O-baaah-ma, baby. He’s multi-colored, err racial, just like us.”

“I’m single, progressive, and like to treat all animals in a herd equally. Plus I like to run. Over and over again. Just like Ralph Nader. He’ll take my vote this November.”

“The candidate that best resembles, err represents me is John McCain. He’ll keep the country in line, just like I keep the cows in line.”

“I just wish John Edwards was still in it. He made me giggle and feel tingly all over. I never did get a chance to bat my long, luscious eyelashes at him.”




“Huckabee. He’s as persistent as a rooster in a flock o’hens. Oh, and he eats possum; a nasty habit that is, nonetheless, a relief to chickens everywhere.”




“Who me? I’m an independent. Ain’t nobody takin’ my vote for granted. If they want it, they’ll have to work for it.”

So, folks, there you have it. Straight out of the horse’s mouth…and the cow’s mouth, and the….well, you get my drift. And these? Well, these might finally be some endorsements I can take seriously.

In Irish Grove we don’t make mistakes, we have “learning opportunities”.

A learning opportunity is good. Positive. Desirable. A mistake is bad: a reminder that you’re a big fat failure, a screw-up, a nobody. Yesterday I was presented with a learning opportunity, and I’m nice enough to share it with you.

Our cows needed hay. The poor pregnant mama’s and the young heifers were slowly walking circles around our snow-covered pasture all morning, trying to find a bit of grass to eat. They weren’t starving, by any means, since Mom had thrown them a few small squares of good, green hay in the morning. But our cows are a lot like me: they’re not happy unless they’re chompin’ and chewin’ and chawin’ all day long. (Hey, a girl’s gotta eat.)

So late in the afternoon, I finally get around to grabbing the tractor so I could haul a few round bales up to the ladies. When I was finished, I was all like “I’m the real deal, man. I just can’t get enough of myself. I’m a rockin’ farmer, that’s me allright.”

I mean, I had dropped off the loader bucket and hooked up the bale-spear, I had plowed a path through our newest 6 inches of snow to the hay bales, I had loaded up the hay and driven it up the road without causing an accident, I had gotten the frozen gate open, and I had lifted those hay bales way up high, up and over the fence and dropped them squarely into the bale cages. It was the work of a professional…beautifully executed, if I do say so myself. And so I slept soundly last night, all warm with my feelings of self-congratulation and adoration.

But winter is bitter cold, and so is the feeling that washed over me when Marcel peeked his head inside before leaving for work this morning to say, “Hey, who drove the tractor yesterday?” (Conversations that begin by asking “who did that?” usually never end well.)

“Umm, I did. Why?”

Now Marcel has been stung by his wife’s “how dare you accuse me” wrath before, so he’s too wise to just come out and accuse me of something. “No. I mean who took the tractor out (meaning out of the shed)?”

“Yeah, I know. I did.”

“But didn’t Rob use the tractor to plow yesterday?”

Uh-oh. If he’s looking to scapegoat Rob in order to escape my reaction, it must be really bad.

“Yes, he did. But I had already taken it out and gotten it ready for him. Why?”

Note to self: never ask why.

“Umm, well someone forgot to unplug the tractor before they drove it and reeked havoc with just about everything. Are you sure someone didn’t drive it before you?” (Boy, this Marcel is good.)

And it is about now that that bitter cold feeling I mentioned earlier started to overtake me. “And by everything, you mean what? What did I do?”

Please note how I immediately took responsibility for my actions.

“Well…insert hesitation here…you drove the tractor with the extension cord still connected between it and the electric box (which, if you don’t know, keeps the diesel fuel warm in the winter, since diesel fuel can freeze at cold temperatures, unlike gasoline). The electric box was ripped off the wall, the cord is split and ruined, and you bent the h*ll out of the plug on the tractor.”

To which I adeptly responded, “Oops.” Then I crossed my fingers, hoped to die, and stuck a needle in my eye (not really) as I quietly asked, “Can it be fixed?”

My husband sighed a heavy sigh–like he needs more to do!–and said, “Well, I’ll see what I can do.” This, when uttered by my superbly-talented mechanically-gifted husband, usually means yes.

Whew! Thank God it will get fixed. And especially thank God we don’t make mistakes in Irish Grove. We just create new learning opportunities. And I’m saying ‘we’ in a very general sense, if you know what I mean.

So, what did I learn? I learned that when you’re gonna drive this:


you first have to disconnect this:

or else you’re going to ruin this:

And you don’t wanna do that.

Glad I could share this learning opportunity with you, everybody. I’m nice like that, no matter what my husband might fear, err think.

P.S. I’m soo glad Farmer Bill is on vacation.

I just ate store-bought chicken. The rotisserrie kind.

It was gross, but I ate it anyway.

I do this often. Eat first, think later. It is the first of many symptoms that prove I have a unhealthy relationship with food. (I know, I know….who doesn’t?)

The chicken meat was soft. The edges of the pieces were slippery and slimy. And the plate the chicken came on was positively swimming in grease.

By now you must be thinking, “And why, for the love of God, did you eat it!?!” That’s a great question, of course, but what intrigues me even more is “Just how does a harmless piece of chicken get to be so soft, slimy and greasy?”

Warning: Stop here if you love to eat store-bought chicken.

Did you know that the chicken you buy at the grocery store was only 6 weeks old at the time of slaughter? 6 weeks old, and already 4-5 pounds! In the early 1900’s, it took chickens about 16 weeks to reach 2 pounds. How could that be?

Well, in the 1930’s some enterprising scientists, in the name of national security (ok, not really, but it sounds good) taught the old-fashioned poultry breeders some new tricks, and they began to produce broilers (meat birds) that were bred for rapid growth, white feathers, and meaty breasts and thighs.

Soon after, the mighty chicken complex was born. You might be surprised to learn that most meat chickens aren’t raised in cages (laying hens are less fortunate). Instead, they get to live in a chicken complex. It sounds pretty fancy, but it basically means they get to share their bedroom with 20,000 other chickens, and the lucky dogs err chickens get a whole whoppin’ 0.8 square feet all to themselves.

While in the complex, they are privy to an all-you-can-eat chicken-food buffet, every day of their lives (which might make my brother-in-law a little jealous). And chicken food is oh-so-delish, usually consisting of a little bit corn and soy, a little bit rendered animal parts (chickens don’t get mad cow disease), and a little bit o’ drugs, i.e. antibiotics, to help those babies grow big, fast.

(You can read about a study performed by Consumer Reports regarding Roxarsone, one of the antibiotics used that actually contains arsenic by clicking here.)

So now I know. Now I know why my disagreeable chicken meal was so soft, slimy and greasy. I just ate an overweight, under-exercised, flabby, drugged-out baby. Shouldn’t someone call the Department of Child and Family Services or something?

If I had only thought about that before eating, I could have prevented this physical and mental indigestion. And regarding my unhealthy relationship to food? I think I may have just taken a baby-step towards a solution. No pun intended.

Did you know that the Oxford Word of the Year for 2007 was “locavore”? Here is an excerpt from their website:

But what about supper? (And no, it’s not dinner, darn it. Dinner happens at 1:00 p.m., when the long morning’s work is done.)

We ain’t San Francisco, but we got a little somethin’ somethin’ going on in that department, too. Here’s what I’m cooking tonight:

Homegrown butternut squash.

Yum, yum. You can always butter me up with some butternut squash. Just in case you wondered.

And some good old fashioned, home-grown and corn-fattened beef (non-GMO, at least).

In a year or so, we’ll have some even better beef to eat (and, yes, sell!). Our very own (non-certified organic) 100% grassfed beef!! Yoohoo!! I highly recommend you check out Jo Robinson’s website Eat Wild for some really great information about the health and environmental benefits of grassfed beef. And then I highly recommend you mark your 2009 calendars with capital letters: BUY BEEF FROM JACKIE IN IRISH GROVE.

Okay, I admit. To make the near-authentic Panamanian meal carne asada, which, by the way, is what I’m cooking, I couldn’t pull off the whole meal without a few un-local, fossil-fuel-siphoning, carbon foot-printing, world-warming ingredients to round it all off. Especially since it’s January, and much of my garden-preserved goodies have long since been eaten.

Here are a few of the guilty parties:

I say if you strive for perfection, you’ll only end up a downtrodden, bitter, wrinkly worry-wart. That’s what I say, alright. (Why I say that is unbeknownst to us all.)

The moral to the story? When the urge to join the locavore movement becomes too great to resist, give your local farmer/gardener a call. Preferably one that lives in Irish Grove. We’d be more than happy to help you attain your new hipster status.

We residents of Irish Grove have been suffering a long week of frigid, sub-zero temperatures.

It’s cold. D*mn cold. And that’s coming from a person who likes winter. But when you wake up in the morning and it’s negative 18 degrees out there, and the wind chill is negative 25-30 degrees….well, my friends, that’s just too cold for most anyone.

And the poor, poor animals. I have no idea how it can be that they don’t suffer from frostbite. They have to suffer through the cold, the wind, a rock-hard barnyard to stumble through on their way to a half-frozen watertank…day after day after painfully cold day.

But then again, their food does come with a nice coat of white frosting!

Oops. I can plainly see that you two don’t find my jokes funny. At all. Especially when I get to go inside and savor a nice bowl of warm oatmeal for breakfast. Fine, I’ll knock it off.

So like I was saying, we’re freezing here in Irish Grove. And way back in the fall, when the weather was pleasant, and January was a long way off, I sold some soybeans for a January delivery. It was a brilliant idea at the time…there was no chance that the roads would be posted, the truckers would be readily available, and we’d get a nice infusion of cash for the new year.

4 months later, and that decision isn’t looking quite so brilliant. Especially since our bean bin is extra retarded (err, maybe I should say developmentally disabled?) and you have to shovel out the last 500 bushels or so. Oh, and also because it is bloody cold out there!!

So last night, in the bitter cold, while the rest of the world was snuggled in tight, with their fleece blankets and cups of tea and favorite television programs flickering on the screen, my Panamanian husband Marcel, with his thin, tropical blood, was outside, freezin’ his little hiney off for 4 straight hours, filling up a semi-trailer with the last of our soybeans. And do you think that my wonderful, mango-eatin’, coconut-slicin’, salsa-dancin’, latino lover-boy ever complained?…even once?

Do ya? Do ya?

No!! Not once!! The man’s an enigma, people! I mean, I can NOT figure him out! Let’s do a quick comparison:

Here’s Marcel slicin’ a coconut open, on his farm in Panama.



Here’s Marcel eatin’ snow, on our farm in Irish Grove.

Now do you see what I mean?

Once again, my husband’s won my admiration. Marcel, my dear, you truly are a good sport.

I believe it’s about time that I introduce y’all to Olivia, our trusty farm dog.

She’s a border collie, a dog that is celebrated for it’s intelligence, it’s strong herding instinct, and for being a great family dog. Olivia is all of that and more.

Yes, border collies are normally black and white. But Olivia is a beautiful chocolate brown color that contrasts dramatically with her white markings. Her coloring is an expression of the recessive color gene that must be carried by both parents in order to show up in their offspring. Genetics 101 in the flesh.

We think Olivia is definitely the best dog in Irish Grove and possibly in the whole Midwest. First off, she was the most adorable puppy ever.

This picture speaks for itself. I mean, can you get much cuter or fluffier than that?

She’s got beauty all right, but does she have brawn? Or, in border collie terms, does she have a strong herding instinct?

“Alright ladies, let’s see whacha got.”

You’d better believe she does. She’s a herder, through and through.

Olivia is in hog-heaven when we’re working the cows. (Please don’t ask me what hog-heaven means.) She lives for this very thing.

“Okay, mom. Just give me the sign. Come on…I’m in position. Where do ya want ’em?”

Yeah, Olivia will bring the cows in if we ask her to, but the most important thing to her is that they all stay together in a nice, tight unit. And she perks right up if she sees someone or something out of place.

“Is that a cow breaking away from the group? I don’t remember giving anyone permission to walk away on their own here.”

Recently, the cows got out of the pasture by pushing through an old gate in the fence. I was all alone. Trying to round up a bunch of cows with their minds set on adventure in a new field is easier said than done, and darn near impossible without a posse of farmhands to help. I manned the gate and sent Olivia out to fetch the cows. We got the cows back in the pasture in under 5 minutes. That never happens. Take my word for it.

Unfortunately, some situations require that we banish Olivia from the cowyard…situations where we don’t want the cows all stirred up. But it is the mother of all insults to make her sit out on the action, like we did on the day we beautified the cows.

“This is so unfair. And after all I’ve done for them. It’s a betrayal of my loyalty, really.”

“I almost can’t even look. Almost.”

Sorry, Olivia.

Of course, she herds other things besides the cows….things like the kids, the other dogs in the extended family, and yes, the tractor. She accompanies the tractor out, and likes to think she brings it back in, too.

“Whew. Why don’t my humans just leave the tractor in place already!”

But Olivia’s most important trait is her wonderful temperment. She is simply a great dog. A love sponge, as I call her, since she will beg and whimper and cry until you can’t help but give her a good belly-scratchin’.

Olivia’s top-notch in Irish Grove. A real peach. Our number one canine.

Our first and most important addition to the farm.

When we decided to take a shot at running the family farm, I didn’t know diddly squat. Luckily, Farmer Mark was going to do the planting and harvesting of the grain crops, so the hardest part was taken care of.

But I swear the hay started growing the day after Dad’s accident (okay, not really), and with it grew my anxieties about what to do about it. I mean, we didn’t even have haying equipment. I had no clue when to cut the hay, how to cut it, or what to do with it after it’s cut…let alone who was going to bale it, where we were going to store it, or even who’s animals were going to eat it.

Fast forward two months, some hay equipment purchases, a recommendation to sell our hay to Farmer Ben (a local hay broker), and we were ready. I had talked to Farmer Ben on the phone numerous times, apologizing for my many questions and concerns, and he very patiently explained the hay-makin’ process in great detail. “You cut the hay after it has budded, but before the flowers open.” “You let the hay dry.” “You rake the hay when the top has dried and is all crispy.” “Make sure you call me before you cut the hay, to make sure we can fit your hay into our schedule.” Got it. Got it. Got it.

The cutting went relatively smoothly, even if we did shave it off a little too close to the ground. And there it sat for 2 days, dryin’ away just as planned. Towards the end of that second day, I knelt down in the field and felt the top of the windrow (that’s a fancy name for a row of cut hay, lying on the ground). Oooh, feels crispy!! It’s rakin’ time!! By now I was feeling like the newest expert on the block. This hay business is a piece of cake.

After about an hour or two of raking hay, I noticed two pick-up trucks parked alongside each other at the corner, farmer-style. I got a little nervous when I realized it was Farmer Ben (the hay guy) chattin’ with Farmer Bill (our #1 support person and #1 critic). What could they be talking about?

Farmer Ben drove onto the field a few minutes later. I got out to talk to him, and noticed he seemed both nervous and perturbed. He wanted to know why I was raking the hay already. Umm, it was crispy on top?? Ben was trying real hard to be nice, and I could tell he was beginning to regret his decision to buy hay from us. He grabbed a tuft of hay here and there, and tried to help me save some face by saying things like “well, it is a bit drier over here” and nice things like that. At about this point I felt that distinctive sinking feeling in my stomach. I had already raked about 1/3 of the field!

Ultimately Ben had to stop being nice and told me to please stop raking the hay and wait a few days longer. Plus, it was supposed to rain the next day, and you never ever, ever rake the hay if it’s going to rain. Sorry Ben. So sorry. Really, I’m really so very sorry.

I parked the tractor, and retreated to the comfort of Mom. She made me a glass of lemonade, and told me that I couldn’t have known any better, and that I was doing a good job, and that if Ben didn’t want the hay anymore, we’d just keep it. I was just beginning to feel a little better about the whole mix up when Farmer Bill walked in and started yelling.

“Jacquelyn!! What in the h*ll are you doing? Who told you to rake the hay?? It not near ready, and it’s supposed to rain tomorrow!!”

I immediately tried to defend myself: “Well, it had been windy and sunny for the past two days, and it was crispy on top, and Ben told me to rake the hay when it was crispy on top...” Not only did I feel like an idiot and a failure, I had to fight real hard to keep the tears at bay. (I am a girl, ya know.)

After a few more tongue lashes, I folded. “Okay. Sorry. I didn’t know.” And with that, Bill huffed off, shakin’ his head and mumblin’ to himself as only a Flynn can.

Now I admit, I may have been overeager about the hay. But I also didn’t like getting yelled at.

That night, with my ego still stingin’ from the terrible mistake I had made, I wondered what to do about Bill. I mean, I truly needed his help, his advice, and his expertise and I also really appreciated everything he had done to help us. But it was our farm, and we had to do things our way. Plus, I was bound to screw up many more times before this farm experiment was all said and done. I had to demand respect, whether I deserved it or not.

The very next morning, Bill showed up at my house. As he walked down the sidewalk and towards the back door, I knew I had to set a new tone. I stuck my head out the door and said, “If you’re going to yell at me, I’m NOT letting you in.”

That took him by surprise. “I didn’t yell at you!” “Yes, Bill, you did. And if you’re going to yell at me again, I don’t want to talk to you.”

“I’m not going to yell at you, Jacquelyn. Do you want to learn how to make hay or not?” When I said I did, he told me to jump into his pick-up. He drove us out to the hay field, got out and very nicely showed me how to know when the hay’s ready, how it should feel, reminded me that I have to keep the humidity levels in mind, etc. etc. When I told him thank you, I really meant it.

You see, Farmer Bill has one of the biggest hearts around. You just gotta coax it out from under all that crust. And when he yells at me, it’s not because he’s angry but because he sincerely wants me to succeed.

I owe a lot to Bill, as he has proven to be our biggest help on the farm. But I’m even more indebted to him for helping me find my backbone.

I’d need it when I had to take on the local grain elevator a few short months later. That conversation, however, will have to wait another day.