Farm Fresh Blog

Sometimes we see most clearly in the dark. For instance, when you hear coyotes yipping and screams in the night, you can pare down life's essentials pretty quickly - gun + dogs

You don't get too caught up in fashion.

We have already established that I am not now, I have never been, nor will I ever be, a fashion icon. This does not however, mean I do not make a "fashion statement."

Although society's image of the stereotypical farm girl is blue jeans, boots, and a denim shirt, in the spirit of full disclosure, I must admit that many of us wear yoga pants, t-shirts, and tennis shoes, or worse, crocs. Gasp!  (I just blew that Hollywood image outta the water.)

The thing you have to understand here, is that for real farm girls, it's more about function than form. For example, when I'm at the ranch in north Texas, I do wear blue jeans and boots. That's because I need to carry a gun everywhere because of the freaking copperheads and rattlesnakes. Blue jeans hold up guns. Yoga pants do not.  I wear boots for the same reason. Boots give some protection against snakebites. Crocs do not.

But now let's zoom to the farm down south. I can count the number of snakes I've seen in the yard on one hand, and all but one of these was harmless. Down here I'm trying to juggle a full-time job, a husband who has a full-time job, and more animals than Noah brought on the ark. And it's hot. Good gosh, is it hot. Image a tropical rainforest with concrete. That's south Texas. As soon as you walk outside, you break into a sweat. This is the Land Of Yoga Pants. Yoga pants and rubber boots.

Or Crocs.

Yes, it's a real fashion statement. I'm not sure what it says, but I know it isn't pretty. On the other hand, it's harmless.

Well, kinda. It's harmless until . . .

. . . until events jettison our Farm Fashionista from Odd & Fumpy Weirdo to Full-Scale Ninja Nutjob. Let's examine the Ninja Nutjob.

The Ninja Nutjob emerges as a Farm-Fashionista-With-A-Firearm when the wolf is at the door, the coyotes are in the pasture, the bobcat has just snatched a goose.

Times like this call for an all-out committed response, and there is no time for fashion. Our fashionista has only a moment to grab a gun and a flashlight. Now here's the hitch. As if yoga pants, a long t-shirt, and crocs are not enough to set the neighborhood ablaze with gossip, in an effort to save time, the smart fashionista grabs her handy dandy police gunbelt which comes equipped with both a gun and a flashlight. (It's really handy. Home Depot should sell these suckers.)

The trick is to condition your neighbors not to call 911.

Fortunately one of our neighbors was seen running around in his underwear with a pistol when he caught someone breaking into his garage. It's the same concept as a bobcat getting your goose. We don't judge in our 'hood.'

And while this attire may raise the eyebrows of local law enforcement, for some people, furry people or feathered people, these duds are the cape of the Superhero!

"She came riding a Big White Dog!"

Just imagine our Caped Crusader wearing yoga pants and a gunbelt riding along the fence line on a large white dog. Yep, that's superhero material right there! Heck, Marvel Comics will be calling me in no time.

 "Hi Yo, Silver, away!"

I thought we'd take a walk with Briar this morning.

                  Sparrow & Feather

 Orville stills hangs out with the goats because the sheep barely tolerate him. He is becoming a pretty friendly little dude because the goats are so tame.

 "Why are you taking pictures when you should be feeding us? Snap to it or we'll be forced to report you to Management!"

 Poppy - my favorite calf

 Jethro, Tim, & Tony shoving each other at the gate when I show up with a bucket.

         Management material

I arrived just in time to blow up Barney. His explosion sent purple dinosaur fluff and stuffing skyrocketing. No, I myself, did not blow up Barney. Clyde did. I was just happy to watch while others whipped out phones to film Barney's demise. Yes, we were all adults. Yes, we're all supposed to be sane and not of the serial killer variety, but give country folk a rifle and some tannerite, and something is gonna go boom!

It works like this:

Stuff some tannerite into Barney's purple butt, or perhaps duct tape some onto Barbie. Set her in the pasture a good distance away, avoiding horses and cows. Walk back to porch. Make sure all have cell phones ready. Begin filming. Put Barbie or Barney in your crosshairs. Slowly squeeze trigger. If you hit the tannerite a very loud explosion will occur and bits of Barney or Barbie will be spread around the area. I'd like to see this done with a pumpkin or a watermelon.

Anyway, back to Barbie and Barney. It's good clean fun for adults, and I guess if the zombies ever come, you'll be in practice for blowing them up too. The important thing is the fun with friends. And this leads me to my 'Points To Ponder" for today.

I've made some interesting observations over the years. Our friends in North Texas don't sit around waiting for their adult children to make time for them. They hang out with other friends who also don't sit around waiting for their adult kids to make time for them. In short, they live their own lives. Oh sure, if their kids need them, they'll certainly go running to help, but the point is, they live their own lives instead of making their children's lives theirs. You simply cannot depend upon someone else for your own happiness. You must make your own happiness. And a major ingredient in the recipe for happiness is good friends.

Friends are the family you pick for yourself. Yes, friends can come and go, but don't kid yourself, family comes and goes too. I've seen a lot of death, and experience has taught me that in life, friends are just as important as family. In fact, they can make the difference between just getting by, and really enjoying everything that life has to offer.

As we age our families expand like a spider web connecting relationships through almost invisible fibers. Many of us have this romanticized vision of family as multiple generations sitting around the table for Sunday dinner like the family on the television show 'Blue Bloods.' The reality is that this usually only happens on Thanksgiving and that's exactly when the murders occur. Sharp knives, alcohol, and family members who don't like each other forced into close quarters are never good ingredients for a happy holiday. Worse, this delusion sets many of us up for disappointment with life in general.

What about the people who can't gather their family? Often they sit, in a self-imposed exile, waiting for family members to carve some time out for them. My advice? Go blow up Barney. Seriously.  Hang out with your friends. Make an additional family. Don't spend this holiday season fretting about whether or not your adult kids can come see you. Make your own plans and let them deal with it. Include them or not, but I wouldn't not have fun with my life because I'm waiting for someone else to have fun with me.

I've noticed that there is a lot more fun in this life if we quit fretting about why someone else isn't making time for us, and we start making time with other people. I learned this lesson from Maggie's Grandma. Maggie was my old partner when I was still patrolling the streets of The Big City. Young and busy, Maggie rarely made time for her grandmother, but unlike my grandmother, who sat around worrying about when someone was gonna visit her, Maggie's granny was a "happenin' granny" who lived her own life instead of waiting for people to fit her into their lives.

One day Maggie decided that since she was scheduling a 'date' near the town where her grandmother lived, she could just call Granny the day before, and pop over to see the old girl for a few minutes before her date.

This is what Maggie was expecting:

Grandma sits around all day in anticipation of seeing her grandchild for probably thirty minutes to an hour. She has cooked goodies, cleaned house, and is waiting with bated breath for the arrival of her precious grandbaby. Maggie will spend the alloted time with her grandmother. Feel special. Cross the 'Grandma Thing' off her list of things to do. And then go spend time on her date which was the real reason for her arrival in town.

This is what happened:

Grandma already has plans with her friends. Yes. She is bowling. Maggie is welcome to come before bowling, or she can stop by the Bowling Alley, but what Grandma is NOT gonna do is cancel bowling with her friends so she can sit around all day waiting on Maggie to decide that she has a little time to spend with her grandmother.

This sent an important lesson to both Maggie and to me. I was in the patrol car with Maggie while she talked to Granny on the phone and I can assure that she was speechless when she hung up. And she was filled with respect for Grandma. When she finally found her voice, Maggie turned to me and said, "Wow. Grandma's got it going on!"

Grandma made it clear to both of us that she was not sitting around in a dark and dusty house with a crystal jar full of hard candy on the coffee table waiting for Maggie. Well, color me 'impressed.'

I thought about that this weekend as I spent time with my North Texas 'family.' As bits of purple blew across the pasture, I was reminded that just because you're all grown up, it's still important to make time to play. In fact it's probably more important at 59 years old than it is at 9 years old.

So the next time you're tempted to waste time waiting for someone to make time in their lives for you, be it a man you think will make you happy, a woman you think will make you happy, or family members you think will make you happy, instead, pick up the phone and schedule some fun time with your friends. And that, that, will make you happy.

I grew up on a steady diet of "The Wonderful World of Disney." Every Sunday evening our television glowed with another tale of wonder and imagination. One of my favorites was "That Darned Cat" the story of Siamese who lives a secret life. His family is completely unaware of his travels around the neighborhood until he comes home with a diamond braclet fastened around his neck. Thus the mystery begins.

Briar is like that cat. No, she doesn't roam the neighborhood. Apparently, the neighborhood comes to her.

A few weeks ago I was in the kitchen when I heard a woman's voice outside. A neighbor had her toddler in a stroller at the gate.  At first I thought they wanted my attention, but nope, they were visiting the Big White Dawg. She explained that a storm was coming but the baby wanted a walk anyway. Fearing they'd get caught in the rain, she didn't want to get too far away from the house, but thought they enough time to visit Briar and thus pacify the child. And it did.

Apparently Briar is a regular stop on their trip around the neighborhood. I find this vastly amusing. Other Half is not a fan of my big white dog. She's big. She's hairy. Most of the time she's dirty. 'Aloof' is not in her dictionary. I've found that people either really dislike Briar (for the above reasons) or they absolutely adore Briar. (in spite of the above reasons)

It has come to my attention that the toddler next door is just one of Briar's unknown fans. The UPS man stopped at the gate last night. We had a short conversation about Briar and once again I realized the dog has a secret life going on outside our family.

Although deeper into the country than the little farm where Briar grew up, this property is on a main county road so it gets far more traffic. In addition to cars, we also get a lot of bicycles and joggers. Thus more people have access to this giant white dog, and clearly these people know Briar.

I had one lady stop to tell me that she used to be afraid of the dog but now they are great friends. She talks to Briar as she powerwalks down the street.  I don't even know this woman's name, but she knows my dog.

While fishing for a home for a rescue dog, I once asked another neighbor if he was ready for a new puppy, and his response was,

"No, the next time I get a dog, it's gonna be one like this big white dog!"

I swear I saw Other Half gag.

Briar just smiled. And maybe she winked.

I've started building my fall inventory of soap and thus begins the merry-go-round of making soap, cutting soap, bagging soap, mailing soap and delivering soap. The goat milk I'm using is the last of the frozen milk from Clover and Crimson. I stored the milk in glass Mason jars with a little blue dab of painter's tape on the lid where the goat and date is listed.

I can't help but get a bit choked up as I pull the milk out of the freezer. By the time I've completed my Christmas inventory, I will have run out of milk from Crimson and Clover - my first dairy goats.

Last spring when I ran CAE tests on everyone, my beloved Clover and her son, Dash, came up positive. While other people may be able to juggle CAE positive goats with negative ones, we have neither the time nor the space to do it, so I opted to place everyone in pet homes and start over again. Although it hurt to lose them, they went to great homes with people we trust, so all was well.

Clover and her babies went to live with our grandchildren so we could see them regularly. I missed them, but was satisfied that they were living happy lives as beloved family pets. They got lots of attention and followed the kids everywhere. But just as there is a snake in the Garden of Eden, there are parasites in Paradise.

Most likely these were parasites the goats came in with but because Clover was at the tail end of lactation, she was affected more than the kids. Clover began to lose weight. She was wormed and seemed to be better, but the kids found her dead one morning a few weeks ago. 

Like an ostrich, I stuck my head in the sand and pretended it didn't really happen, but each morning that I pull milk out of the freezer, it's there in front of me. I have to deal with her death. I cannot keep pretending that the next time we visit the kids, she'll come trotting up with her ears swaying from side to side.

The rest of the goats are fat and happy with strong immune systems, but Clover just didn't make it. I cried. I cried for Clover, I cried for the grandchildren who lost a beloved pet, and selfish beast that I am, I cried for me, because I loved that silly goat.

There is a philosophy among goat people -

"It's always the pretty ones, and the ones you love the most who will die."

Sadly this holds true. Parasites are nasty little bastards. Worming goats and sheep with the right drug for the right parasite is always a tricky game. Most of the time we win, but this time we lost. And it hurt for everyone.

Clover will always remain that one special goat for me. She was my first dairy goat. The first goat I learned to milk, the goat who led me to the world of goat milk soap. She used to hum when I milked her. It was the oddest thing. I think she was actually talking to herself as she ate her grain, but it sounded just like humming. Clover was my humming goat.

So each time I take a Mason jar out of the freezer and peel away the little blue sticker with her name, I will hurt a little inside, and through the tears I will remember my beloved Humming Goat.

Vaya con Dios, Clover. Go with God.

     Since the Troll was just a wee pup he's been able to entertain himself. He crawls into his own little world with such wild enthusiasm that just watching him play brightens my day. Perhaps we could all learn something from this little dog. Trace makes his own fun. He doesn't require special toys. Trace creates his own toys - his own fun.

He played and he played and he played.  He raced up and down the fence line with his toy - not parading it for me or Cowboy, or anyone else, just racing with a glove, or perhaps it was a rabbit, or a squirrel, or maybe it was the red bird that poops on Momma's truck mirrors.  From time to time he would stop, flip it in the air, and catch it in moves that would make a Harlem Globetrotter proud.

I stood in the morning mist and watched Trace play and I thought "the world be such a better place if, like this little dog, we embraced the things that God gave us, the hand we were dealt, confident that it was really all we needed to be happy.

If you're looking for sympathy, look outside a family of cops, or ranchers. We've seen it all, so copious amounts of blood just aren't that impressive unless your arm is actually lying in the dust. And that is only impressive because it means driving the 4wheeler will be more difficult, thus the working of cattle will go slower.

And so it was that despite the rapid drip of blood all over my shirt and the 4wheeler, I pressed onward. Being a crime scene investigator brings a certain skill set. As I crashed through the brush, I glanced down from time to time to check the bleeding. Nope, no arterial spurting, just the steady heavy flow of dripped blood. No worries there.

"Just a flesh wound!"

(For the younger crowd, google Monty Python and watch it.)

But I'm getting ahead of myself. As all bloody adventures begin, this one began with cattle. Regarding building fences, it is said that if you can throw dishwater through it, a goat can get through it. The same can be said for keeping cattle on a large piece of property in North Texas. Since everything they need and more is provided on the 133 acres we own one would think they have no reason to wander, but cows don't reason like that. They also have two great allies in their quest for adventure: the creek and the hogs.

A lazy little creek meanders through our property like an anaconda in the Amazon. Most of the time the creek is bone dry, but when it rains, this creek can turn into a raging force of nature, capable of moving large trees which crash through fences like battering rams. Then you add the feral hogs. These hogs can grow to enormous numbers and proportions. They use the dry creekbeds as highways and consider the fences across the creek as mere speedbumps. In time these Porky Pigs create holes in a fence big enough to drive a truck through, or at least a large heifer.

As is my habit, each morning the dogs and I drive the property on the 4wheeler. And each morning I saw fresh evidence of cattle: tracks and cow patties, but no cows. Each afternoon would find the whole group of them chewing their cud under the pecan trees by the big pond in the pasture. Since the property is so wild, it is entirely plausible we could lose an entire herd of cows, or lions, tigers, and bears, in the forest and never find them, so it wasn't until we were packing to leave that we realized we had a problem.

Other Half happened to look across the fence at the neighbor's property and saw a couple of our cows staring back at him. Rut ro!

"Houston, we have a problem."

Since the property they were on was bigger than ours, and just as wild, finding everyone and getting them pushed back onto our ranch was a massive undertaking which would have been impossible without the Border Collies. Fortunately most of this group started life as show cattle and were tame, so we began shaking feed sacks and calling them like puppies. The biggest chow hounds began to emerge from the brush. Then we had to convince them to follow us down a fence line, down a deep dry creek, up a deep dry creek, and down acres and acres in the opposite direction of the metal cow feeder. It was an arduous task which required patience, a great deal of acting, an empty feed sack, and dogs.

When we discovered the cattle were out we just had Trace the Troll and Ranger the Blue Heeler in the pickup. I raced off on the 4 wheeler to open the north gate so we could call cattle to that open gate. Once they walked ALL THE WAY TO THAT GATE, they would then have to retrace their path on the opposite side of the fence (our side) to return to the exact same spot they had just left but on the other side of a field fence. Try explaining that to a cow.

I did manage to get one in that way. The other one petered out about half way through the journey and announced that,

"Fat girls can't walk that far."

I almost cried when she turned back around, but I continued on with the one greedy chow hound who was convinced the empty feed sack would produce goodies if she just walked a little farther. I got her to the feeder where she was rewarded with actual cattle cubes. Then I returned for the other one. She was well on her way back to where she started. And that's when I saw a little red streak. Other Half had deployed the Heat-Seeking Missile.

 Trace the Troll/Norman Bates the Psycho/Red Feather the Nasty Ranch Dog had been jettisoned. He raced through the brush so far away from both of us that he was a mere red dot in the distance. He found the cow, picked her up, and headed her back toward Other Half, then turned her into the creek where the water gap in the fence was down, and his job was done. Just like that, she was back on our property. He was huffing and puffing and proud of himself.  Ranger had also been deployed but he apparently had only run part of the distance before announcing,

"Little Fat Blue Dawgs don't run this far!"

And thus, he returned to the truck where he was benched for the rest of the game.

In time the rest of the adult cows threaded their way through the brush and came home. Everyone came in except for five calves.

Yep, five calves - four little calves born this summer and Little Bully, a bull calf born last winter. He was destined to be a replacement bull for his father who died last winter. We had no idea where the calves were. There were hundreds and hundreds of acres to cover, in land rich with cactus, briars, brush, heavy forest, feral hogs, copperheads, and rattlesnakes. We had nothing but a pickup truck, a 4Wheeler and three Border Collies, thus, we had everything we needed.

We went back to the ranch house and traded in the Benched Blue Heeler for Cowboy/Snidley Whiplash/Old Dog With A Bad Back. I picked up my favorite Trunk Monkey and we bounced off in search of calves while Other Half cut a hole in the water gap so we could drive the calves through it when we did find them.

So Lily and I drove and drove and drove. We followed the trail of fresh cow poop and in time found the calves bedded down in the forest not far off a gas pipeline easement. We then returned to get reinforcements.  There was a wide range in ages. The youngest calf was two weeks old. Guess who his momma is? Yes, Paisley. What other crackhead would leave a two week old baby alone in a forest with coyotes and cougars?

Paisley is a dumbass. Forgive me, but she is. She is a crack momma with little or no maternal instinct and needs to be cut from the team. I don't care what she looks like. She left her infant in the care of a teenage boy.

Little Bully really stepped up to the plate. He assumed the role of babysitter for an infant and three toddlers.

And after watching him with the Border Collies, there is no doubt in my mind that Paisley's calf is still alive because of this bull calf. He is very serious about protecting calves - serious enough to go Bowling For Border Collies.  He rolled Cowboy for getting too close to the calves.

Other Half scooped up the old dog and put him in safety of the pickup truck where he supervised the rest of the mission.

We soon worked out a suitable method for moving the calves. Lily and I rode on the 4Wheeler just outside their flight bubble. The bull calf kept himself between the infant and the dog. As long as they were moving in the right direction, we just rolled behind them. When they stopped, Lily hopped off the bike and stalked forward. Once inside the bubble, they would start moving and Lily would back off and hop back on the bike.

This was successful while the gas pipeline easement had heavy forest on both sides, but once it opened up to heavy brush with scattered trees, the calves decided that they were going to make a break for it.

And that's when I made the decision not to lose what we'd already gained. I had to take off on the left flank and head them off before they scattered. There was no trail, just brush. I gunned that engine through the brush, saw just a small opening, and took it.

The vines draped over the opening turned out to be briars. The tree turned out to be a thorny tree. The 4Wheeler was caught. I gunned it and pushed forward before we lost the cows. And the blood flowed.

Lots and lots of blood. I think I left part of my face hanging in those briars. But the important thing is that we caught the calves and turned them around, and as the blood flowed down my face and dripped across the front of the bike, I left  a blood trail in the sand. Unfortunately the calves overshot the water gap and walked all the way down the fence line to stand across the fence from their mommas. Since the pickup couldn't go down the steep bank of the creek to help retrieve calves, it was up to Lily and I.  Imagine now trying to push tired, irritated calves AWAY from the mothers and down the fence to a water gap,

and yet that little dog did it. Every time they stopped moving, she hopped off the 4Wheeler, entered the bubble, and held her ground patiently while waiting for Little Bully to decide to move forward. It was a dicey game. Push him too much and he'd bow up on the dog. Get too close to the infant calf and he'd bow up on the dog. And so acre by acre, Lily pushed the calves away from their mothers and toward the gap in the fence. Once Little Bully found that gap, he led the calves through it and back toward their mothers.

Oh Happy Day!

Lily and I did the High-5-Snoopy- Happy-Tushy-Dance. Then and only then could we clean up a bit and examine the damage to my face. Ironically even though we were in the middle of nowhere, in bumf@!%* Egypt, Other Half somehow managed to have cell phone reception and that evil man put my bloody face on Facebook!  Did he give credit for the successful mission to the hardworking Border Collies? No! He showed his buddies what his wife did to her face while working cows! Grrrr....

While fixing the fence he would periodically stop working, look at my face and proclaim how bad it looked. Hmmmm. . .
I finally got annoyed enough to ask him which he would rather I have done - save my face, or not lose the calves. He agreed that he would rather I not lose the cows.  Nuff said.

I'd rather give credit where credit is due - the dogs. Without the dogs, we'd have had to wait until that evening when the cows came to the water on our property. That meant fixing the fence in the dark and driving 7 hours home all night long so we could go to work (real paycheck jobs) the next day. Egads. Not something anyone wanted to do. Even with the Border Collies, this little adventure still took 5 extra hours.

So the moral of this story is if you have a ranch, you need a good ranch dog, or two or three.

"There is no frigate like a book
To take us lands away,
Nor any coursers like a page
Of prancing poetry -
This traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of toll;
How frugal is the chariot
That bears the Human soul!"
 
Emily Dickinson

I was in the 7th grade. Scared. A new town. A new school. A new classroom. No friends. And then I met Emily Dickinson. And she was my friend. She understood the magic of books. The magic of words on a page. We'd just moved from a place that anyone would generously call "the sticks" into the outskirts of a college town and I was both exhilarated and terrified. My mother's first order of business had been to trot her children down to the local library and get us library cards. I shall never forget that building.

It had TWO STORIES! TWO! Imagine that! Two whole stories of books! (In hindsight I think it may have had three stories. I believe it had two levels for adult books and a bottom basement level for children's books.) Nevertheless, I shall not ever forget the wonder that rolled through me like sunshine the day I walked into that library. And the smell. Ah, the smell.

Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of books. Just waiting. Waiting for me. Like the drumbeats of Jumanji the books called me. They held secrets. They held the world. And they could be had for the mere punch of a library card. The library would let me take as many as I could carry. And as a country kid, I could carry a lot!

And so here I am today, a thousand miles away from that frightened child who opened up a textbook and found a new friend. Like Bilbo Baggins' book, "There and Back Again," my travels have taken me far. I have battled dragons and trolls, and like a hobbit, I yearn to return to my simple roots. And yet through it all, I have dragged my books. I have dragged some books for over 40 years. They move with me, old friends following along like faithful dogs.

We were poor, but on Saturday nights our family would clean up and go to "to town" to visit the news stand. This store carried magazines and some books. As children, we were allowed one magazine. If we wanted a book, my parents would 'match' our money. I shall never forget my first big purchase. I had saved $4 to buy the AKC Dog Breed Book. My mother matched it, so for $8 I bought a book that I've dragged across the country for forty years. My mother enrolled me in a Book-Of-The-Month club. National Velvet came from that subscription. I've carried it for over forty years.

The libary had an extensive collection of books by Albert Payson Terhune and Colonel S.P. Meek. I eagerly devoured these dog books and re-read them every few months. God bless the internet, for over the years I've collected many of the same books that fed me as a child, and I still drag them around each time I move.

As I see today's children absorbed in their electronic worlds of computers and video games, I cannot help but wonder. Do they read? Do they experience unbridled anticipation when they open the cover of a book? Old books are old friends. It's not about the story, it's about the spell, the memory of a child running her fingers across the cover and opening up the magic - the magic of words on a page.

Yesterday Liz (Vic Aust.) asked about the cat on the barrel.  Because I'd been knee deep in making that photobook and had also included a picture of Faith the Fuzzy,

 I thought Faith was the cat she was asking about.

Imagine my surprise when I realized she was asking about KARMA!

 Karma was my Rat Warrior.  My old barn cat, Chelsea had just disappeared and we were in the middle of a rat infestation. When I say 'infestation' I'm not kidding. If you can catch sight of a rat during the daylight hours, you've got a crapload of rats.  I simply refused to put out rat poison and we were catching rats daily in traps.

Then one day I saw a car speeding away from my mailbox shortly before a heavy rain. I didn't think much of it until I later heard a kitten crying. I followed the cries and suddenly a half-drowned creature dropped out of a bush and wobbled toward me. It was honestly the ugliest cat I'd ever seen, but in that moment, I knew three things:

A) Chelsea, my old barn cat, was dead.

B) That car speeding away had dumped a kitten

C) God had just sent me the perfect Rat Warrior

I named the scraggly thing Karma, because I assured her there was a special place in Hell for people who dump kittens and Karma would repay the bastard. Then I brought her inside. I had faith that she would be my Rat Warrior. After all, God had sent this little beast. No matter that she was tinier than the rats, I knew that she was destined for greatness.

And she was.  She became the best rat killer we ever had.  Karma was proof that God will provide if you just have faith. I knew without a doubt that despite her size, she was the answer to our rat problem. After all, God had sent me a warrior. She lived up to her name. She was a rodent killing machine.

Karma preferred to live outside and did so for most of her years. One cold night she came to the window to announce that she wanted inside. I obliged and let her spend the night in the spare bedroom. I awoke the next morning to find her dead on the floor.

Karma was buried beside an apple tree.

She will always remain a part of that farm.

In hindsight, no, she wasn't buried under the apple tree. She was buried under the Pecan tree.

Read: Vaya Con Dios

“Nothing ever goes away until it has taught us what we need to know.” 
Pema Chodron

There is wisdom in these words. I have just taken a bittersweet journey down Memory Lane and find myself in wistful regret. As a birthday gift, a company gave me a free Shutterfly photobook. I could have chosen any number of themes for my photobook, but I picked "Failte Gate Farm."

Although I sold my little farm to buy the ranch in North Texas, I still miss its tattered charm and wanted a way to remember it in its glory.

  Walkway from house to barn covered in climbing roses and grapevines

In their effort to turn the property into yet another cookie cutter subdivision house, the new owners tore down, cut down, and burned down the very things that gave the farm its character, so that today it is a mere shell of its former self. I have shed many tears over roses, grapevines, and trees cut down for any number of obscure reasons such as 'the trunk wasn't straight enough.'

So when faced with the offer of making a free Shutterfly photobook, I immediately began searching my files for pictures of the old farm as I wanted to remember it. Soon it became apparent that the farm wasn't simply the land itself, but the faces on the land.  It is said that "home is not a place, it's a time."  Perhaps this is true, but a farm home is also the animals during that time. Little faces, big faces. Many faces make a farm.

Some faces had been forgotten, but others hit me with a pang of regret. These faces shouldn't have been sold. And perhaps there's a lesson there too. If you think for a minute that you might regret the sale, don't do it. There are goats and sheep that I wish I'd never sold. The money just wasn't worth the regret later.

This age of digital cameras has been a blessing, for as memories blur, they are recovered in full color. The camera doesn't lie and thus it captured both the glories of the farm, and the stark realities. Just as it recorded the brilliant colors of the flowers, and the pairing of aged wood fences with lush green plantings, it also revealed that the wood fences were in disrepair, and that the property flooded more than my glossed-over memory recalled.

I lovingly hunted through hundreds and hundreds of photographs in my search for the twenty which would represent the farm as I wanted to remember it. Some were romantic favorites,

   but others made the cut even though they were poor quality because I wanted to remember some little face in the picture.

 Dora The Explorer

 Karma The Rat Warrior

 Zena The Perfect

After I selected my photos, I was then given the option of different lay-outs, text, covers, etc. Since I love quotes, I began to pair favorite quotes with my pictures. Ironically the quotes helped center me and put things in perspective.

“Never regret. If it’s good, it’s wonderful. If it’s bad, it’s experience.” 

Victoria Holt

What started as a promotional card that I almost threw away has become a really nice journey both into the past as it was, and as I'd like to remember it.