Author: Lisa Burbank

I love raising honey bees.  In the warmer months, I can sit for hours just watching their rhythmic flight back and forth, tiny legs laden with bright yellow pollen.  The amount of pollen they can carry is the most amazing part of it.  Compared to the size of their legs, it would be the equivalent of strapping a huge tractor tire around my own leg.  It’s a wonder they can walk, never mind fly.  But I have not had a hive survive beyond their first winter, despite now three attempts.

We were doing so well.  We have had a record warmth winter this year in Northeast Connecticut.  Temperatures have been mild, dipping only into the 40’s and snowfall has been minor–until a couple of weeks ago when temps decided to dip below zero with wind chills making it -25 outside.  Just before this cold front moved in (one of the few benefits of the boob tube moving in is that I do get breaking weather advisories…), I went out to the one surviving hive from last year’s re-queening to inspect and also to feed a new jar of sugar water.  It was a warm day when I opened the hive and several scouts immediately swarmed around me, checking me out.  Though there were quite a few dead bees on the top board, there were far more buzzing happily in the hive.  Everyone appeared healthy; there even appeared to be a good supply of honey still in the hive.  I placed the jar on top.  A few bees flew up and immediately started eating.  I closed everything up again.

And then the cold weather hit.

Earlier this week I noticed that there was suddenly zero activity around the hive, despite the return of balmier temperatures.  Concerned, I opened the hive and found all of them dead.  I can only surmise that it was the sudden, drastic change of temps as the jar of sugar water was only half-empty.  It now sits on the top shelf of my refrigerator, a painful reminder of this loss.

Of course, I am my own worst enemy.  I have been wracking my brain–i.e. beating up on myself, wondering what I might have done differently, what did I do wrong?  However, Colony Collapse has been a scourge for the beekeeping community for years.  The Netherlands and Scandinavia have documented proof that it is the chemical fertilizers and pesticides that are causing this disorder (Cunningham; Butters) but, when the US decided to run their own tests, it was pesticide and fertilizer giant, Monsanto, who helped fund it.  It isn’t any wonder that they found the Netherlands’ and Scandinavia’s findings false.  If I do nothing else as a writer, I hope to bring awareness to the problem of chemicals in our environment–and our bodies.  Fertilizers, pesticides and even antibiotics are destroying our health, our food, our soil, our water supply, our animals, all of nature–in short, our planet.

It’s depressing.

However, I am not giving up.  Tuesday I contacted the CT Beekeepers’ Association to find out if I could still order a new queen and 3 lb. box of workers for this season.  I can.  So new bees will be arriving here at the Herbal Hare Homestead this spring.  Pointing the finger back at myself, next winter I will invest in a few straw bales to place around the hive to insulate it a bit, leaving only a small opening for ventilation and flight.  I will also begin feeding sugar water a little earlier, too–just in case.  But I will also continue to campaign against Colony Collapse Disorder and the big bucks agribusiness that feed it.

God bless you & keep you!

Resources

Butters, Mary Jane.  Mary Jane’s Farm magazine.  Moscow, Idaho.  Print & Web.  www.maryjanesfarm.org

Cunningham, William P & Mary Ann.  Environmental Science: A Global Concern, Thirteenth Edition.  2015.  McGraw-Hill: New York.

I had cable TV yanked about the same time CBS decided they weren’t going to air anymore family-oriented programs. “Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman” was still in the top 20 for ratings and yet she was cancelled. “Christy” never got a fair chance. A year later, PAX TV pulled “Little Men” because they weren’t getting the ratings–though there were many cities that didn’t even have access to PAX yet. “Survivor” was the new buzz and then all the wannabee copy-cats followed. Quality TV was no more. So I cancelled cable TV. And I never regretted it. As a homesteader, I really don’t have the time to sit and watch all the mind candy; I have work to do. And quality leisure time. I have hobbies that I want to indulge, cookies to bake, condiments to make, scarves to knit, animals to care for and play with, a guitar to play, books to write.

What changed?

Mom moved in. And Mom is the eternal couch potato.

It feels like a home invasion. First my pantry gets an overhaul as Mom offers to take over kitchen detail. Suddenly, I am inundated with packaged, processed, junk food. Goodbye homemade pantry with your short lists of organic ingredients. Today it’s time to clog those arteries and feed the addictions these junk foods are laced with. Every attempt on my part to take back ownership results in her trailing me along like a puppy-dog chanting, “Let me help you, let me help you!” Burnt eggs, under-cooked beans and over-cooked broccoli are the result of that “help”. And any meals that I cook, she will “doctor up” the next day to “stretch them” by adding something that just totally ruins it. The last time it was the 13 bean soup that she added dried beans to the next day’s leftovers.

The chickens ate well.

We did not.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I love my mother dearly. We’re simply polar opposites. She’s the junk food junkie/couch potato/pack rat while I am the organic/OCD/minimalist. After a year and a half of living together, we’re finding just how ill-suited we are for co-habitation but there’s naught to do about it now. Neither of us is in a position financially to fly solo. So we re-learn how to co-exist under the same roof. For me, that means learning to assert myself more by simply going ahead and living my life the way I’ve always done. Mom will complain about me and bad mouth me to my aunts as she always does but so be it. I cannot let her destroy me or the life that I am trying to build here. But, I admit, there have to be compromises.

Today it’s the electronic babysitter.

And that really is a fair assessment. Mom is simply no good at being by herself. And I am the polar opposite, craving solitude like flowers crave rain and sun. She just isn’t a self-starter. I am guessing it is because she was raised in such a large family. She’s one of 11 children and so solitude was unheard of. She shared a bed with one sister and another full-sized bed was just a few feet away in the same room with two more sisters. As more sisters were born, she was moved in with an older sister who had little time for her and Mom is ultra-sensitive. It shows up time and again when I’m spending what she considers too much time here in my home office. The guilt trips would do any Catholic Mama proud. She actually pouts. So the re-introduction to paid TV is a mixed blessing.
The positive side is that Mom isn’t so much the nervous Nellie now that she has TV to occupy her. She loves watching HGTV–obsessively. It’s almost scary. She can watch this mind candy as rabidly as she polishes away boxes of chocolates and bags of potato chips. Of course, it’s nice to dream. And all of these HGTV shows provide plenty of visual for the McMansion “dream” homes/nightmares on Elm St (for this homesteading minimalist). But, constantly watching them provides her with a lot of discontent. She’ll come out with comments about how we could do something like this or that without any grasp of reality that financially, at least, it would be next to impossible. And, from an ecological standpoint, this 3000 square foot monstrosity is definitely NOT good for the environment nor does it fall in line with the homesteading mentality. Nobody needs that much room…unless you’re a Duggar with 19 kids. I prefer the tiny houses. They aren’t for everyone but they can provide just what you need: some creature comforts alongside the bare necessities…unlike “Flip or Flop” or “Love It or List It” where everyone has to have that 3000 square footage complete with in-ground pool and home movie theatre (what ever happened to actually going to the movies??)

And then there is the negative side of it. Besides Mom’s drooling over these McMansions, it’s all the negativity that comes swirling into the living room each day. All I see are a bunch of spoiled rotten brats who have to have everything handed to them, everything picture perfect, everything the latest style and ultra-modern without any thought to what all that renovation is doing to the environment after all the old stuff gets thrown into the local landfill and off-gases into our ground water and soil. As for made-for-TV movies? Sitcoms? TV dramas? Well, if you like soft-core porn and characters you would never want to bring home to your mother, I guess modern television programming is for you. Don’t mention God though. Or faith in Jesus. That only happens with a sneer, as though Christianity is a joke. Moral values? I haven’t seen hide nor hair of them except in the old re-runs of “Little House on the Prairie” that air each day on the Hallmark channel.

Eh, well, Mom’s happy–almost. She was quick to inform me last night that HGTV is airing something about tiny houses on Monday nights at 9 p.m. starting in March. If she had her guilt-tripping manipulative way, I’d be right there on the couch beside her–and not just on Monday nights. However, my rabbits still need their playtime each night so I don’t think this will be happening. But maybe, just maybe, as Mom and HGTV become one with each other, I might get my kitchen back again.

God bless you & keep you!

Wow! I cannot believe so much time has passed since my last post here. Part of it is in trying to find my feet as a blogger. Sometimes I think that what I write about will not be of interest to anybody so why write it? And then I think, if I work at this daily, if I take up the blogging challenge posted by Live Your Legend, there is a potential for this to evolve into something more than just a daily account of life on the homestead. Not that there is anything wrong with that but I also want to help people with my blog, to bring awareness to certain issues, to educate, to explore and experiment, even to restore faith. Over the past few months I have been brainstorming. And this morning I re-read some of my posts–again! (The eternal perfectionist I tend to re-read them a lot!) What I realized was that I have been hiding behind The Herbal Hare, an impersonal entity.
What is The Herbal Hare? It is the homestead itself. It is also the name of a fledgling business but I am more than The Herbal Hare and my blog should be, too. So, as the title suggests, let me introduce myself.
My name is Lisa Burbank. I am ordained minister, having received my ordination online through the Universal Life Church Monastery October 31, 2012. The date is ironic as I had spent a number of years practicing Wicca. October 31st is more popularly known as Halloween. For a Wiccan, it is Samhain, a most important holiday for that religion. Unlike many born-agains, though, I do not lament my study and practice in this nature-based religion. I am grateful for it! I started off taking a course at the local community college entitled “Intro to Wicca” to overcome the fear that our society typically has towards Wicca and came away with an abiding sense of respect and appreciation for it. However, He has been leading me in a different direction and so, I follow Him. Actually, even when I practiced Wicca I still kept Him in my sights. I never really “converted”. I simply added some of those nature-based practices to my spiritual life. I am part-Mohawk and part-Narragansett Indian so, while I was never raised within the tribe, perhaps the similarities between Wicca and Native American spirituality resonated with some ancestral core. Either way, I am happy that my journey through this life has taken me down this lovely road.
As for the ordination, well, the initial reason I paid the $45 for it was to circumvent some red tape for practicing Reflexology, Reiki and Touch for Health. None of the aforementioned bodyworks are massage but, not knowing how to categorize them otherwise, they are typically lumped in with it. I earn a very MODEST living from the three; too little to justify the expense so I became ordained. But it is interesting how He uses even those moments when we lack integrity. One of my earlier posts talks about facing foreclosure and then, later, how I wheeled and dealed with God, vowing that I would become the best minister possible if He would help me save the homestead. He did. And I enrolled at Grand Canyon University in their Biblical Studies degree program to fulfill that vow. I think that is the last update on my schooling in this blog (if not, forgive the redundancy). Since then, He has led me to switch degree programs and, consequently, universities. I am now enrolled in Southern New Hampshire University, earning my Bachelor of Arts in Creative Writing with an Emphasis on Fictional Writing. And life just seems to be coming together. Suddenly, my confidence levels are, well, not exactly soaring but definitely on the rise. I’m doing something I love. I am writing again. And I am still serving as a minister. Though I do not lead my own church yet–and that may be something that never happens (more on that later), I have been giving graveside services and that is a very rewarding experience. I have also started an ongoing food drive to help support the local food pantry. For every canned or dry goods’ item you bring in for your treatment in either Reflexology, Reiki and Touch for Health, I take $1 off the fee. It may not sound like much at first but, even 10 boxes of Jello will take $10 off of your session. And, having been a recipient numerous times at said food pantry since my downsizing from Corporate America, I hope to really be able to give back.
The Food Pantry.
One would think that someone homesteading wouldn’t have any need for such a place. I hope one day this homestead produces enough food for Mom & I and our 4-legged menagerie that we won’t have to rely on it. But it takes years to develop a working homestead. And, while Mom is here, she’s not really into this homesteading thing. In fact, everything she does seems to be counter-intuitive. So I am still a single woman homesteader and every step forward seems to be followed by a few back as each new learning curve is revealed. And these learning curves are not just about homesteading. The Good Lord is using these difficulties to mold and shape me…perhaps so I can be a better minister.
When I first started visiting the food pantry, I did so with shame. It seemed a sin past bearing to have to “beg”. But my first and only season as a tour guide at a local museum ended and, with it, my only source of income. There was not enough time to save enough to make it through the winter months until the next season started. Starvation was a very real possibility. So I went. And I went with an attitude that our society seems to perpetuate–that most of the people there were rejects and lazy bodies sponging off of the government and good will rather than working. I felt like that myself. I had always given to similar organizations. How had my world become so topsy-turvy? But, as I visited each month, and got to know some of the familiar faces, I realized that my attitude needed a little adjusting. Oh, sure, there are plenty of single moms who cannot feed the multitude of children they already have and are pregnant again, with or without the father–I’ve seen both–and, yes, some are simply lazy, but there are plenty more who are simply out of work and/or under-employed. There are a lot of elderly whose social security checks do not cover all of their living expenses. There are also a lot of disabled individuals. One gentleman is Deaf. Another is older, severely-crippled and, despite his handicap, qualifies for a measly $16 per month from the SNAP program. (How on earth does anyone eat for a month on $16??) One girl is blind. Many are capable workers but few employers are capable of seeing beyond their challenges. He has been slowly peeling away the layers of pride, arrogance and, yes, even ignorance from my eyes. I now see these individuals as people. Not that I didn’t before but I saw them with preconceived notions. Now I am proud to call many of them friends and I am saddened that, as one of the richest countries in the world (if not the richest), we still have so many who are hungry and destitute. I would love to figure out a way to reform our “system”. I know others have tried but it outrages me to see so many without the most basic necessities. Nobody should have to go hungry. And so many of the people I meet at the pantry want to work. They are simply too old, too infirm. There are a lot of reasons. I don’t know how to help but I will find a way. If He leads me to it, He will lead me through it.
Another outrage is, sadly, that most of the food donated to the pantry is packaged and processed. Granted, all those additives and preservatives provide a longer shelf-life and, for those in such dire straits, that becomes an important consideration. The pantry does supplement though with donated produce from local farmers and I know of at least 2 of them who grow their produce organically. They also receive vouchers to the local farmers’ markets in the summer months and offer recipes for healthy meals. But I think this is a growing problem in our country. I read in my Environmental Science textbook that municipalities typically locate dumps in the poorest sections of town so the highest concentration of greenhouse gasses, toxins, and contamination of ground water, etc. afflicts our so-called “low income” housing facilities (Cunningham & Cunningham, 2015). The same is true for our food supply. I understand that there may be some red tape involved, licensing, etc. that drives the cost of organic food skywards. But that just seems so upside down. I am reminded of a line from Charles Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol” about decreasing the surplus population. It seems our society seeks to do just that. But how does one balance the need for healthier food for our poorest citizens versus the “convenience” these packaged entrees provide for the working, single parent? I used to spend my Sundays cooking for the week. I would freeze what I cooked/baked in single portion containers and then simply heat it up as needed. It saved money. It saved time during the work week. And I ate healthier. But it also took the whole afternoon. And, for many single parents–and even in homes where both parents are present–this may not be a practical solution when the demands for quality family time come to the fore. However, it is a step in the right direction. I heard a quote recently–I’m going to paraphrase a bit. But it was something to the effect that if you want to help someone to eat, it is better to teach them how to fish than to give them the fish. Now it is just a matter of figuring out how.
God bless you & keep you!

REFERENCES

Cunningham, W. &amp Cunningham, M.A. (2015) Environmental Science: A Global Concern, 13th Edition. McGraw-Hill: New York.

My Bear did not elect to stay. It has been nearly a month since I had to make “that” decision and I’m still numb inside, as though some part of me has frozen itself against the pain. Looking back, I realize that something or Someone nearly pushed me through those last days with Bear. I slept on the floor with him for part of his last night at home. I remember how he kept leaning over and gently licking my nose. Did he know? Did he understand? His bone tumor grew to an astronomical size the last few weeks of his life. Then the day I made “that” decision, it was his back legs giving out–and him crashing into the pail of sand and salt that we keep for the walkways when they’re icy–that cemented it. I knew it was only a matter of time before he crashed into something else and this time fractured that leg–like Hooch. I knew, too, that like Roxy, if he went down, I would not be able to lift him and, knowing how much pain Hooch was in when his leg fractured from the bone tumor, that I could not, would not, leave my Pooh Bears to suffer like that.
The next morning he was so excited to go “bye-bye” with Mama in the car. I actually questioned “that” decision until we got outside to the car and he just stared at the backseat. He couldn’t hop in like usual and I had to help him get in. We drove around a bit. I was loathe to take him and, paradoxically, loathe to drag it out, too. There just never seems to be enough time. And I saw the look on his face when we pulled into the parking lot at Quinebaug Valley Veterinary Hospital.
He knew. His face fell. And he just looked so sad and weary. I tried to tell him that there was nothing I could do to make his leg better but there will always be some guilt anyway, some odd sense of betrayal perceived that I ended his life. I know it was to prevent his suffering. I know in my heart that it was an act of love. I only hope and pray that he knew that, too, and that, if I had my way about it, my will, he would have stayed with me forever–he and Roxy, both. There’s never enough time for those you love. Each and every day is precious. 1000 years would still be “not enough time”.
The same is true for humans. In addition to Bear, I lost my Aunt Marjorie last Saturday night. Mom and I had visited her at Kent County Hospital the week before. They had found a growth on her pancreas. Of course, Aunt Sandy was consulted and she asked that they not prolong Aunt Marjorie’s life but only make her as comfortable as they could for whatever time she had left. They gave her 2-3 weeks. She barely made it another week. Again, a decision made out of love and the desire to spare someone needless suffering. But this loss runs deep, deep in a different way than Bear or Roxy, or maybe even other people.
Aunt Margie was my father’s eldest sister. She was a lot like Dustin Hoffman’s character in “Rainman,” a savant. Where “Rainman” was gifted with counting cards, Aunt Margie was gifted in drawing and languages. She could speak a number of them quite fluently: French, German, Italian, Latin and, I believe, Russian in addition to English. And yet, growing up, my father and his other sisters had the stigma of being those kids down the street with the “crazy” sister. And I grew up hearing her described as “retarded”. I’m not sure where the labels come from or why we feel the need to always make them but Aunt Margie was definitely not “crazy”. She was more sane than most “normal” people. And my first husband said it best once when I told him she could speak so many languages, “Then how is she retarded?” How, indeed? Like Rainman, life with Aunt Margie was often challenging, too. Rainman had to watch Judge Wopner every day at 4 pm. Aunt Margie had her own “routines”. She couldn’t order, or even look at a menu for that matter, until she had ordered and received her cup of black coffee and cup of ice cubes. Once she had them, she would peruse the menu. She was ready to order about the same time as she was ready for her second cups of coffee and ice cubes. She would suck on an ice cube while sipping the hot coffee. My only guess is the different sensations this must have created for her. I always came away from a visit feeling a little wiped out and stressed but also happy and wishing my own life could be as simple–and I don’t mean that in a derogatory manner. It’s simply that Auntie Margie was still capable of delighting in things that most adults forget about once they pass beyond childhood. Oh, they may re-visit some of that wonder when their own children start to grow and learn about the world around them but that’s all. For Aunt Margie, she never lost that wonder. The butterfly sitting gently on a flower, wings flexing under a bright, golden sun was reason enough to pause and exclaim that wonder. Touching, too, was her reactions whenever she looked at family photos. I can still hear her almost breathless exclamation, “Oh, it’s Grandma and Grandpa Dean!” when she viewed a photograph of her maternal grandparents taken back in the 1930’s. Though both were long gone, they were certainly not forgotten and, obviously, the source of many happy memories.
I had to clean out her room at the group home on Friday. It was truly a walk down memory lane for me and filled with plenty of wonder as well. She kept an old Viewmaster. It still works and there are at least 50 reels for it. As I started looking through all of them, at first I wasn’t much surprised. There were many Biblical stories depicted and also, many old silver screen stars such as Loretta Young, Robert Wagner, and Jimmy Durante. But then I came to “Sigmund the Sea Monster” and a few others that I knew had not been her generation (Auntie Margie would have been 84 this October 7th) but my own. I had loved Viewmasters as a child and had had quite a collection. It dawned on me that she had also kept and saved mine. The Pebbles and Bamm-Bamm reel proved it. I was always a big “Flintstones” fan. Words cannot describe all of the emotions I felt seeing them, renewing the wonder of my own childhood, and the happy, secure memories these reels brought back to me. All of a sudden, I could clearly see Nanny and Poppop’s house (my names for my grandparents) in Greenwood. I remembered Saturday evenings chasing Auntie Margie around the first floor, which went in a circle, and playing tag with her. Anytime I tagged her, she would shriek aloud (most definitely because my 4, 5, 6 year-old self could not reach any higher than to goose her when I tagged her…LOL!). My poor grandmother probably never got to really enjoy her programs on those evenings. Aunt Margie and I loved to slide down the stairs together, too. Not having ever known the love of my father–though he lived in the same house with Auntie Margie and my grandparents, he was always a distant figure–I realized that Aunt Margie was the last living link with that part of my childhood. Yes, Auntie Sandy is still in Arizona but she always lived in another state so she was as she is today–beloved, yes, but it was normal to only see her maybe once a year when she visited. She, and Uncle George, have always been a vital part of my life and her visits have always been happy occasions but, most of my memories of 22 Greenwood Ave. are of Poppop, Nanny, my father (again, albeit a distant figure), sometimes my mother when she came for dinner, and Auntie Margie and I sitting around the dinner table together. To have lost that last link, well, I’ve lost a beloved aunt, a best friend, I’ve even lost a part of myself. My dream home is and always will be 22 Greenwood Ave. No, I would never build its twin were I to hit the lottery and be able to build my dream home, but it is the dream I carry around in my heart, just as I carry the love for my Aunt Margie, my grandparents, Aunt Sandy, Mom, and even my father in my heart.
Both Bear and Aunt Margie were cremated. Necessity was the reason for this decision for both of them. Bear because it is winter, the ground is frozen, and Natalie and I barely managed Roxy’s weight last June. That hole was big enough to have buried the refrigerator in; I doubted I could dig one large enough for Bear–though, if I had to do it again, I think I would try anyway. His ashes came back last week; it bothers me greatly to think that is all that is left, physically, of my beautiful boy. Aunt Margie’s was expense. Though Poppop liquidated his assets and put them into a trust for Auntie Margie’s care, and it did keep her going for almost 40 years, when she turned 65 much of it was lost to the State of RI and there was very little left for a proper burial. All I can think of is how horrified she would’ve been to be cremated. That would’ve freaked her out and yet, it is the best Aunt Sandy and I could do, neither of us having the means to do more. Her ashes will be buried in Swan Point Cemetery behind Nanny and Poppop’s graves. I will be performing my first official act as “minister” by saying the eulogy at a graveside service once she is buried. I hope, too, to eventually have a headstone erected for her. I want passersby to see the name, Marjorie A. Burbank, and to know that someone with that name existed, someone very special and precious that everyone who knew her was made the richer for that knowing. Of course, no one will ever guess how much she loved dogs or cream-filled chocolates. They won’t be able to sit and look at her baby picture and hear her ask, “Wasn’t I darling?”. And, should they ask her to help with the dishes, their ears might actually be grateful not to hear the uproar this request might cause, spoiling a “perfectly good day” and how it was “too much like work”.
I love you, Aunt Margie & Bear, too! God bless you & keep you!

Today I took back control of the kitchen–sort of. Mom loves to cook but her version of cooking is more like doctoring up pre-packaged and/or frozen entrees. I confess, she has a knack for combining foods into a casserole or soup that is tasty but, because much of what she makes has a foundation in “processed,” the empty calories leave me hungry again all too soon after I eat. I have a lot of problems with digestion: Irritable Bowel Syndrome, borderline Crohn’s Disease, Celiac’s Disease, and, while I seem to tolerate things like cheese or yogurt (i.e. fermented dairy products), just drinking a glass of milk does not agree with me. So, tired of being one with “john” and frequent stomachaches, I took back the keys to the fridge, so to speak. My body just cannot handle the processed cuisine that constitutes much of Mom’s culinary success.
Spaghetti squash, baked in the oven, freshly-baked bread (without the gluten, whole grain), salmon, and a medley of vegetables steamed in a non-dairy alfredo sauce are on the menu.
I have to be careful though on how I take back this control. Mom’s fragile; she gets her feelings hurt easily and I don’t want to hurt her by taking it all back…but I also don’t want to be sick. I took the coward’s way out and, instead of telling her I was taking the keys back, I simply started baking squash and bread early.
Poor Mom! She tries. She really does. But cooking whole foods, cooking from scratch, etc. are alien battlefield for her (and, while I hate to be another baby blaming my parents for all the woes in my life, the processed cuisine is probably the reason I have so many issues with digestion…). Adding vegetables to a meal is opening up a can of corn or peas. She does make broccoli on occasion…over-cooked to the consistency of mush. Yet she made stuffed peppers the other day using the recipe I use for veggie burgers and, while the results should have been superb, she neglected to par boil the peppers before she stuffed them and they came out tough and under-cooked. She’d never even heard of spaghetti squash until about a month ago. Kale chips were a hit, especially liberally sprinkled with nutritional yeast. The homemade bread and butter pickles were also a hit. Swiss chard was okay; collard greens were, too. Roasted chestnuts didn’t go over all that well. She drew the line at hummus. And my failed attempt to make homemade gelatin using “Green Goodness” juice from Bolthouse (and I can’t say I blame her there…(smile)).
It’s cute the way she reacts whenever I introduce her to something new. There’s a look of panic on her face, like I am trying to poison her or something. She has to ask me at least a couple of times if it is safe to eat. Even after she’s watched me consume some of it–whatever it is–she’s still hesitant. And, it’s as if she’s doing the same thing in the other direction–purchasing the latest junk food craze and endeavoring to get me to try it. She bought a “carrot roll” that had everything unpronounceable in it, enough sugar to jump start a day care center for a week, but no carrots. I took a couple of small bites just to appease her. It was dreadful. I could feel my backside contracting in protest.
I’m not sure where this is all going, except that the latest health issues that have been plaguing me since Mom took over kitchen detail in the fall, are proof to me how important it is to eat healthy, whole foods instead of all that packaged, over-processed stuff that lines the bulk of the supermarket shelves. It re-affirms for me my commitment to homesteading, to be responsible for growing much of my pesco-vegetarian diet and getting away from commercial food products. My intestinal tract will be happy about this commitment even if Mom isn’t.
God bless you & keep you!

The cycles of life and death seem never more apparent to me than in the fall. Falling leaves, dried and withered, like the sudden chapping of lips and knuckles, scuttle across yards and pathways like so many industrious mice and chipmunks as they store away for the season. October 26, 2014 saw me in the herb garden at the museum where I am a costumed volunteer. On this blustery, fall day, incongruous to the autumn splendor, was a single, lonely rose blossom–a deep and lustrous shade of pink amidst the browns, golds, and yellows of the falling leaves–and a cluster of cottage pinks, only a shade paler of a pink. Both were a bit gaudy against some of the deeper shades of orange that represent a New England autumn yet a symbol of tenacity of some to persevere in the face of seemingly impossible odds. In the case of the single rose and cottage pinks, the seemingly impossible odd was winter being just around the corner. This was the second such example that I received that week.
The first example of perseverance and tenacity that I received has been christened Gale (or perhaps, Gail) the Snail. Gale/Gail rolled out of a bag of dandelion leaves one morning. The bag had been in the refrigerator for at least 3 days and who knows how long the bunch had been in the grocery store. And who knows how far Gale/Gail traveled before arriving at Big Y Supermarket! Tucked deep inside his/her shell, I assumed the shell was empty and tossed it into the chicken bucket. An hour later found Gale meandering up the side of the container, antennae up as he/she inquisitively explored this warmer (albeit probably smellier…if snails care about such things…) new world. Gale now lives inside a quart-sized mason jar on the counter. A plug of moistened “frog” moss provides necessary hydration; a piece of cheese cloth over the opening of the jar provides oxygen, and a sprig of whatever greens I happen to have on hand gets thrown in for Gale to eat.
How is it that such a minute creature, scarcely larger in circumference than a shiny, new penny, can survive for days on end in an airless plastic bag inside the refrigerator when my Orion bunny succumbed just days’ prior to an intestinal worm? In a blog entry such as this I am not going to solve the mysteries of life and death but it is a wonder nonetheless.
Did Roxy display this same tenacity as Gale in that last lovely head-tilt that greeted me her last night on earth when I came home from work? Will Bear, bone tumor diagnosed recently, display the same tenacity and stoicism as his dam? Or, heart not quite healed from losing his Roxy, will Bear leave this blessed earth like Orion, quickly and without complaint, the fight gone out of him from his loss? I am hoping that he will elect to stay and fight for awhile, selfish creature that I am.
In the meantime, I will continue to marvel at cottage pinks, a single rose in bloom in late-October, and a tenacious, wee garden snail–symbols of hope in this ever-changing world; symbols of faith in our great Creator, and a can-do attitude placed on some very special spirits. All is not lost. New beginnings in new seasons of life, shining brightly for as long as their time is allowed.
God bless you & keep you!

Just write. That is the advice I am giving to myself. I love to write and yet, over the past several years, I have done so little of it. What does this have to do with homesteading? Well, maybe not much, except it has always been my dream to write professionally (i.e. for a living). I have used the excuse of “writers’ block” ever since my fragile, little ego was damaged by an off-hand comment from my then husband after reading part of my book. He loved it. His comment was that my main character “has enough children” because she has offspring in the double digits. This is intentional and has a purpose within the story. However, I allowed myself to start second-guessing the number of children my character has. I cut a few out of the story and then added them back in. I developed a few extras then cut them back out. I cut out a few more characters then decided again that they were needed to carry the story along. In short, I tied myself into knots. And, instead of just leaving it alone for a little while and then coming back to it later, I sat and obsessed over it until those knots became seemingly impenetrable. And I did not come back and continue the story, I just obsessed over what the magic number of characters should be. I also did not take up writing anything else. I simply stopped writing altogether. And it is much harder to re-cultivate a habit once it has grown cold. So, here I am, hoping against all odds that what I blog will not bore the rest of the world to death even while it will, hopefully, cultivate a new habit over time. I read somewhere that experts say it takes 21 days to make a new habit. Today is as good as any to be Day 1 of that new habit.
Of course, I also like to write about homesteading and so, if we must tie this in with homesteading, then here it is. I sincerely hope my blog becomes more interesting as time goes on and not just a pseudo-diary entry (chuckle).
As for new beginnings, there have been many here at the Little “Almost an Acre” Homestead. The new goats are firmly settled in. Felicity, Domino, and Chester arrived in mid-November, free-to-good-home but from a friend rather than an anonymous newspaper advertisement so any cringing that fellow goat owners may have experienced reading that entry may relax. They are healthy and hearty, and even came with papers as Felicity is a registered doe. Jonathan and Kay are simply downsizing their property as they are now empty-nesters and long to travel more. For me, the addition of these three little wonders is a dream come true and the beginning of the start of a home-based business (more on that later). I am enjoying the learning curves that always come with new species of animals that join my home. I am also enjoying their antics! Laughter is never far from the heart when goats are around. The other morning was cold and brisk. Knowing I was heading inside to fetch their favorite treat–carrots–the three of them raced ahead of me, jumped on the back deck and ran sideways across the wooden surface, did a little “bink” as they jumped off of the deck again and ran around in a circle before getting back on the deck. I was in stitches. What’s lovely about all of them is how inquisitive they are and, because Jonathan and his family paid so much attention to them, they are all so very affectionate. Cutest of all is the twice-daily trips to the chicken coop when I have to pass the goat barn and, invariably, I see Felicity’s smiling face watching me from the window. It is like having my own personal sentinel watching over me. Of course, it could also be the hoped-for taste of oatmeal that I may be carrying out to the chickens and ducks that has Felicity’s true interest…
This year I have my first spinning wheel. It was purchased from a visitor to the museum with whom I had the pleasure of chatting while helping out in one of the houses. (Of course, I was supposed to be in the herb garden but bitter, cold winds that blew autumn leaves about faster than I could rake them sent me running indoors where friends of mine were working…) Anyway, it was a steal at $50.00, a family treasure that had been collecting dust and conversation but little else over the years since this visitor had inherited it. It needs a little work, missing only a couple of pins to attach the wheel to the treadle and these are easily replaced and obtained. Before too long I will be spinning my own yarn from Jillian and Gizmo’s fur (Angora bunnies). I am excited. It is another step in the direction I hope to take the homestead–that of spinning and weaving my own fiber products. I negotiated the sale but it was Mom who did the actual purchasing for my birthday in November.
Mom is another new beginning at the homestead. She arrived towards the end of September, driving across country from Missouri in her 2005 Ford Freestar van with her dog, Max, in the backseat and her cat, Rosco, on the dashboard. She drove straight through, almost non-stop, pausing only long enough in the 36 hour trek for conditions of flood and famine. She slept through most of her first days here…and has been experiencing some culture shock ever since. Though Mom has some idea what homesteading entails, this is the first time she’s actually lived it. I’ve had to make a few compromises along the way; this is not her way of living and, at 68, making these changes so abruptly, well, I cannot ask it of her, especially all at once. In time, and with patience and love, we’ll start unplugging the kitchen again…I think.

It has been over a month since my last post and my heart broke in two when I read it. Not arthritis but old age took my Roxy on June 26, 2014. As I type this, I am tortured by the picture pasted on the wall by my computer. It is from the advertisement on PetFinder that started it all. It is a side profile of my beautiful girl, looking at the camera, young and beautifully groomed, the picture of health. I remember how I was not too sure about her because of her age. I was reluctant to face the heartache that I was certain would come within a couple of years. Roxy was 6 years old when I adopted her and her son, Bear. Knowing that the life expectancy of a St. Bernard is 8-10 years, when I drove with a friend to New Milford, Connecticut to pick them up in February of 2006, I never expected that Roxy would be blessing my life for 8 and 1/2 years. I confess, in the beginning, I drew away from her, trying hard not to get too close and maybe that heartache would not be so deep. However, the heartache is bittersweet. I realize what a waste of time such an attitude was and I wish I could get those months, years–however long before that attitude faded away–back. I also realize that she wormed her way so deeply into my heart anyway that she could have lived another 8 and 1/2 years and I would still be mourning her just as deeply and regretting that we did not have more time together.
Of course, there is irony in this; there always is. Despite so many good years together, I do regret that I did not have Roxy or Bear from the start of their lives. Not that it would make any difference as to how much I love them but there were times, especially in the beginning, when my patience with their boisterousness reached a limit and I found myself raising my voice at them. When Roxy left me, a part of me wondered if she was happy to be going home to Jesus and her previous owner, who had to abandon Roxy and Bear due to a fatal illness. I could just imagine her beautiful tail wagging at the sight of her. I wondered if Roxy still loved her. I was jealous and heartbroken, thinking she might have loved her more than me (as though there was some competition for her affection), that maybe I was too harsh at times, or too busy to truly be a good human to my canine friends. Then I remembered the last night that Roxy was here. I had had a call in to the vet, who was supposed to stop by after hours to take a look at her and see if he could help her. Roxy had crippled up pretty bad the last couple of days of her life and I was unable to lift her. The best I could do was to keep clean newspaper under her and try to keep her clean and comfortable until he could arrive. That last evening, I came home from work and my girl sat up, cocked her head to one side in greeting, eyes all full of light and love and happiness that I was home, and then flopped back over. I spent that whole night with her on the floor, stroking her head, praying the doc would arrive and, in some strange way, grateful that he did not so I would not have to make “that” decision. I did not want Roxy to suffer but, having her die in my arms at dawn, with only Bear and the occasional resident feline to comfort her as she left us, is a bittersweet memory I am so grateful for. Knowing how happy she was to see me, knowing she may have been leaving sooner but hung in there until she could see me, and I her, one last time is a gift beyond measure. Tears are pouring down my cheeks as I type this; I do not know what I did to deserve such a gift but my heart knows how much she loved me. If she also loved another human who took exceptional care of her in her puppy and young adulthood, then I pray they are together again and that they will both be there on that Rainbow Bridge waiting to greet me again when it is my turn. Roxy had enough love in her heart for both of us and I know she will not forget me anymore than I will her.
Another irony in this is Bear. I have always thought of Bear as her “baby.” He was only 2 years old when I picked them up at New Milford Animal Shelter. He was bouncy and boisterous–they both were–and he has remained “Roxy’s baby” in my mind for these 8 and 1/2 years. Now that Roxy is gone, I look at Bear and I see grey hairs growing in around his eyes. He does not jump into the backseat of the car as easily as he once did. I realize he is going to be 11 years old his next birthday. How in the world did he get old? Will he survive as long as his Mama did? Or will he leave me sooner? I do not wish to dwell upon it either way. That bitter-sweetness of Roxy’s passing has made me realize that I have to enjoy every possible moment with Bear, while he is here, and not rob us of precious time worrying about what may or may not happen, and when or how.
Bear is mourning, too. And his mourning makes my own mourning more difficult at times. I wonder how much he understands–probably more than I do. For the first couple of weeks, Bear would not go outside unless I gave him the drill sergeant act: “Come on, Bear, outside!” He carefully avoided Roxy’s grave (it was the biggest hole I have ever dug!) and he refused to sleep on the dog bed that they shared, haunted by whatever scent still lingered there. Instead, yet another irony, he chose to sleep in the exact same spot where she died. At first, he looked for her everywhere and, even today, the life seems to have gone out of him a bit. Maybe that’s why he suddenly looks old to me; he’s not my happy-go-lucky Bear anymore without his Roxy. He’s still just as sweet as can be but, where he was always friendly and eager to greet new people, he now shies away from strangers. Rides in the car have become more comfortable recently but, at first, going out without Roxy made him anxious. He whimpered a lot, laid his head on the back of the seat, eyes pools of sadness. Other dogs held no interest–even the Great Dane next door to Tractor Supply where we shop for dog food and treats. Dog biscuits did not interest him either. We went through the drive-up window at the bank and the teller gave him a couple of Milk Bones; he turned his nose up at them. Same thing happened at Tractor Supply at checkout. Bear usually inhales everything.
The saddest encounter was only 3 weeks after Roxy’s passing. Bear and I were taking our morning walk up Route 6 when a woman pulled into the parking lot at the liquor store almost across the street from our house. She had a St. Bernard puppy in the car. I say “puppy” because she truly was a puppy but, at 5-6 months old, she had a considerable amount of growth to her…and she looked a bit too much like Roxy. Bear went running over, all excited, began sniffing her over, and then I watched the..tail…slow-ly….droop…..down-ward. She wasn’t his Roxy. The puppy continued to lick his face all over. He bore her friendly overtures patiently but the sigh he gave in his disappointment was too human in its depth. I explained to the woman about Roxy and she understood but, I confess, even my heart lifted for a split second…and then fell.
I see Roxy everywhere. I miss her daily barking at the menagerie of kitties that grace our home–even during her last evening here on earth, she made one last, valiant attempt to chase a passing cat who had wandered into the living room with us. I miss the tilt of her head that said so clearly: “Look at me…you know I’m cute!” I miss watching Bear and Roxy washing each other up, cuddling together on the dog bed. When we walk each morning, I see her skipping along beside us.
I made popcorn one night and shared a bowl with Bear. As I tossed a few kernels onto the floor for him, he reached out his paw and grabbed it the same way Roxy used to when her arthritis kept her from jumping up and down after the kernels like Bear. For a moment, she was sitting right there beside me watching, panting, secretly laughing at her boy’s antics, eyes shining with love and pride.
I love you, Roxy, always have, always will. Rest in peace…

One of the most difficult aspects of homesteading is the same for any pet owner–when to say “goodbye” to a beloved friend. I am at a crossroads right now with my 14 & 1/2 year old St. Bernard, Roxy. Roxy has arthritis in her back legs, the right one being almost completely stiff. Her vet says other than the arthritis, Roxy is in great shape for a dog her age. All her organs are healthy and strong. But she has trouble moving about. He recommended Meloxicam last November for her arthritis. Last week, Roxy suddenly had a bad reaction to this medication. She vomited up massive amounts of clear bile then continued foaming and drooling from the mouth. There was also a point where her eyes rolled back into her head and I thought she was done. I called the vet hospital and they reassured me it was the Meloxicam and to give her some Pepto-Bismal to calm her stomach then, once it was settled, start giving her 20 mg. of Pepcid AC 20 minutes before I gave her the Meloxicam. Well, I did that. And she had the same reaction to it even with the Pepcid AC. So now Roxy is completely off of the arthritis meds and her human is forced to give her a lift up every time she needs to go outside to relieve herself–which usually winds up with her trying to squat and simply going all the way back down to the ground again, sitting in her own puddle. Hopefully, her vet can come up with some other medication to give her some ease of mobility as she is still healthy in every other aspect. But this is that crossroad of quality of life vs. my desire to keep her with me. No, I’m not giving up on Roxy–arthritis isn’t fatal and, if everything else remains healthy, I am certain we will find a way to give her ease. Her human is an herbalist and a Reiki Master Teacher; she did well with a Reiki treatment yesterday and I have an herbal remedy for a massage oil that is good for dogs. It is simply a matter of finding another internal remedy that will help; herbs, like allopathic meds, have their limitations.
It is the heartbreak of knowing that this medical miracle dog (St. Bernard’s have a life expectancy of 8-10 years) is living on borrowed time, no matter how healthy and strong those vital organs are. I just buried a young rabbit 3 weeks’ ago today; the cycles of life and death are impossible to ignore when you homestead or farm. And, while we may tell ourselves otherwise, you really don’t “get used to it” and there is no way to truly prepare yourself for the absence of that special being who once graced your life. In the past few days, her normal activity level (i.e. barking at the cats who cross her path and threatening to give chase though she has lived with them for over 8 years of her life (Roxy is a shelter rescue, adopted when she was 6 years old)) has diminished. Where I once would jump a mile at the sudden burst of sound and yell at her to stop barking at the cats, I now miss that sound and am feeling a prelude to the coming years; there is little hope she will go on many more years despite her good health.
So I watch her carefully, pamper her whenever and wherever possible, and mourn the passing years, all the times I was too busy to play and remembering all the lovely walks we took in the woods together and the shared bowls of popcorn on movie night. Sometimes I wonder why I bother with raising animals here; I could just as easily create a simple herb farm and be done with it. But I can remember–and still see–that cutesy little turn of her head when she wants some attention and the wondering ends. Though my heart breaks for every loss, I wouldn’t trade a single blessing–and each one is truly a blessing, brightening my days, my evenings, my everything.
God bless you & keep you!