Category: Animals

Animals, Homesteading, Nature

Livestock Guardian Goats

Lisa Burbank

Sargent Feathers, Corporal Denim and Tank all broke out in a loud, raucous screeching this morning around 10 a.m. Knowing this is their warning cry, I ran out of the rabbit room and outside to the back deck where my livestock guardian goats were all standing at attention, eyes focused up in the trees, while the roosters and some of the hens fluttered about near their feet; the rest of the girls had scattered. My guess is the goats had been sunning themselves on the deck when the Sargent awakened them…rudely. Trust me…this is not a noise you can readily sleep through.

Goats are not necessarily what one thinks of as a guardian but Felicity, especially, is very protective of her feathery friends. Though she’s not above head-butting them out of her way to the feed bowl each morning, heaven help the creature who tries to nab one of them in the yard. Last summer’s unfortunate skunking is a perfect example. Felicity may not have received the full force of Mr. Skunk’s defense mechanism, but a few droplets did hit her…and should have been enough to teach her a lesson. I’m not sure though that the lesson took hold. If we are ever unfortunate enough to receive such a visitor again, Felicity is liable to go on the rampage again. Not on her watch, you don’t. And Prudence the Plymouth Barred Rock chicken will readily jump up on Chester’s back if Duncan and Dweezil suddenly become too amorous again. They may not be traditional guardians but the chickens have certainly found that having them near is a safer place to be.

Of course, the moment I walked out onto the back deck, the goats trotted over, eyes bright, ever hopeful and nuzzling my hands in the most obvious of body languages: Got any treats???

Sorry, guys!

I did a quick headcount, finding most of the hens in the coop, all huddled in the corner under the Japanese knotweed. Taffy and Kiel were inside the henhouse; a couple of girls ran into the goat barn. Though the ducks were quacking, excitedly, they stood milling around outside the goat barn. There were still three hens missing, however.

As I walked back out of the goat barn, I discovered the cause of all the commotion. I’m not sure what kind of hawk it was but it had a pretty good-sized wingspan. Seeing me emerging from the barn must’ve spooked it. It flew off of the branch it had perched upon, overlooking the yard, and flew into the woods behind us. I didn’t think it had gone far though so I stayed outside a little longer to make sure, still searching for the three missing hens. As I started back towards the house, one of my Americaunas crawled out from under the deck. Mystery solved.

I went back inside then returned again with my glasses to see if I could spot the hawk better but he/she was nowhere to be seen. And, so far, all has been quiet outside. The last time I checked, the goats were still sunning themselves…with a circle of feathery friends staying close and near. What are friends for?

May God bless you & keep you!

Abuse, Addiction, Alcoholism, Animals, compost, Creativity, Environment, Faith, Frugality, gardening, Gratitude, Healing, Homesteading, Lasagna Gardening, Nature, No-dig Gardening, OCD, Organic, Self-esteem, Self-improvement, Spirituality

Who’s Really in Charge Here Anyway?

Lisa Burbank

“We ought not to insist on everyone following in our footsteps, nor to take upon ourselves to give instructions in spirituality when, perhaps, we do not even know what it is.” St. Teresa of Avila

I’ll admit it. “Charles in Charge” has nothing on me. I’m in control, or so I tell myself, and then hear the echo of what can only be God laughing as I tighten the reins…and chaos erupts.

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I think I remember reading somewhere that 98% of us have at least a touch of it. Some of us have a bit more than a touch, unfortunately. Oh, it comes in handy at times. The alphabetized CD, DVD, VHS and book collections make finding whatever I’m looking for a snap. Because, really, who wants to waste time looking for something that may be right in front of your nose? I have bigger fish to fry, as they say. And, maybe it’s a bit extreme but my closet is color coded with all the yellow garments together, all the red, all the green, etc. Again, it makes finding that outfit easier. And I’m all about economizing my time. However, these little impulses and neuroses also tie me in knots and can make me a rather difficult person to live with.

Poor Mom.

This feeble attempt at perfectionism often manifests as criticism. I hear myself and cringe. Criticism was definitely NOT the intent but that’s what surely came across if I put myself in her shoes. And really, how important is it if the buttery popcorn bowl wasn’t rinsed first before it went into the sink? Or if the spoon rest is backwards on the stove? This latter “pet peeve” doesn’t get spoken; I simply turn it around again but then I think, as I’m doing it, does it MATTER???

And here is where the knots get tied because, as one voice is asking about the importance of such an act, another voice knows how much of a mental distraction it will be if I leave the spoon rest backwards…or the toilet paper feeding from under, rather than over.

Of course, I’ve never really sat down with Mom and tried to explain exactly what it’s like to live with OCD. Sadly, such a conversation tends to veer off into why mine is so intense in the first place: it’s a response to the molestation I grew up with. And that is a subject Mom would rather forget about altogether. As a child, I couldn’t control what was happening to me so I acted out by adopting these little “habits”. It gave me a false sense of security. And I was desperate to feel secure. Not only the abuse but also the alcoholism, the drunken accusations that told us all that we were “stupid” and couldn’t do anything “right” and to “look a little harder than you have to”. Like many children who grow up with some sort of substance abuse…as well as the abuse of their bodies, minds, and spirits, I turned all this negativity onto myself and shouldered all the blame. If I was a better student, he wouldn’t be so angry. If I kept my room neater, maybe he’d leave me alone. If I did all the chores around the house, all this chaos would stop.

Who was I kidding?

I’ve been tied up in knots since I was a very little girl. Is it any wonder that I’m still tying myself in knots? Unhealthy though it may be, it’s also a comfortable numb. It’s familiar. And, if I don’t grasp, and clutch, and sterilize my whole life, I start to relax…and then chastise myself for being “lazy”.

The paradox of all of this is that my property from the roadside looks like tobacco road. This is another coping mechanism from dealing with alcoholism. It keeps people away. But such a desire never cropped up until a few years ago when I had a live-in boyfriend…who was also an alcoholic. He seemed a nice enough guy when we met. And there was an instant rapport. This last one should have been a red flag…heck, it should have been flashing in neon red. Because that kind of comfort level so early on, well, they say a girl looks for her father when she dates…or, in this case, father figure. I was embarrassed. The sometimes-arrogant self, who would never allow herself to be caught in such a situation, got caught in it. How did this happen? How did I let this happen? And, worse, it took me forever to finally get out of it. The same mind control that I grew up with, manifested again in this romantic partner. The same self-doubt and shame crept in. And I felt sorry for him. He, too, had grown up with abuse in the home. I knew what that was like. And, while I had had a network of family and friends behind me as I sought therapy and tried to claw my way into some sort of normalcy of life, he was still wallowing in the beaten-down misery he grew up with. He even threatened to beat me physically…and I still let him stay. It wasn’t until, in a drunken stupor, he cut down a beloved shade tree in the yard that I snapped and gave him the boot.

Tobacco road’s been growing ever since…because I’m mortified that I allowed myself to be caught up in this unhealthy situation. I fell down on my principles. Every stitch of therapy went out the windows. Though I have no actual proof, I even suspect he was abusive to one of my cats as Trooper’s behavior while he was here was almost unbearable. And it stopped almost immediately once this man was finally gone for good.

A little bit at a time. That’s what friends tell me as I tackle this overgrowth. It’s a little bit like that “One Day at a Time” motto advocated by both Alcoholics’ Anonymous and Al-Anon. A little bit at a time, one day at a time.

This homestead is healing me as well as it is healing the land. My OCD says I should be able to perfectly landscape the 3/4 of an acre I’ve set aside for fruits, vegetables and herbs in a weekend’s work; it’s not good enough otherwise. Reality says, as I am implementing Charles Dowding’s “No Dig Gardening” method to bring as low an impact to the earth as I can, that such an enormous undertaking simply cannot be done in one weekend…not to the scale I envision. And not by one single person…especially one on a part-time income.

No, the “No-Dig” method isn’t expensive. Quite the contrary. It uses flattened cardboard boxes laid out on the ground (something easily had for free from many of the local businesses who don’t mind not having to pay out to cart the cardboard away instead) and then composted waste, from both the kitchen, and the animals, layered on top of the cardboard to create a raised bed. I’ve been dismantling a broken section of stone wall that runs along the front of my property to outline the beds once they’re made and using old feed bags that I’ve cut open and laid flat for the walkways in between. As funds permit, I buy a bag or two of red mulch and lay it atop the bags. This is where the part-time income comes into the picture as I cannot purchase enough at one time to cover all of the walkways at once. And, as I am on a major interstate, as well as in the commercial district, it has to be “pretty”.

So, a little bit at a time, one day at a time.

And, when the OCD starts kicking up again and stresses perfection, I need only look outside to see the rhubarb growing tall and strong in the three-tiered pyramid I built for it and the strawberries; I need only look at the green beans poking their kidney-shaped heads out of the ground in one raised bed and the beautiful purple flower heads of the chives, and the lush expanse of marjoram in another to tell me that, yes, one day at a time is good enough. It doesn’t matter that it’s not “perfect”. Obviously, these plants don’t care a fig if it’s perfect or not; they’re still growing in imperfection.

As for the grass?

Mankind has ever strived to tame and “control” Nature. I refuse to use anything gas-powered, or any chemicals, to kill it off. Even with the raised beds, the weed and grass barriers being laid down, there’s still the occasional blade that pokes up even amongst those sections already landscaped. This is a reminder that, despite my valiant efforts to control and manipulate this landscape, much like the landscape of my life, there is Someone greater than I who is really in charge. Someone who takes those knots I’ve tied myself into, lays them out flat…and helps me to grow.

May God bless you & keep you!

Animals, Faith, Frugality, gardening, Homesteading, Nature

Rain

Lisa Burbank

“In that way you will be acting as true sons of your Father in heaven. For he gives his sunlight to both the evil and the good, and sends rain on the just and on the unjust, too.” (Matthew 5:45)

Rain. Rain. RAIN.

I’m not usually one to bemoan something so vitally important as rain. Considering the West Coast has been experiencing drought conditions over the last couple of years (or maybe longer…), I suppose I shouldn’t mind over much. My well is getting a thorough replenishing and the rhubarb, at least, is enjoying the good soaking. The seeds I planted last week are also getting a good soaking. We should have a decent crop…if the sun will also shine on occasion. Too much of anything–even something so good as rain–is never a good thing. Moderation.

While my garden is getting a good drink, the barnyard is a oozing with about two inches of mud and muck. The chickens lift one foot high and gingerly set it down again whenever they near the barn as the mud and muck seem to be worse there. My own Wellington-clad feet are doing the “Squee–elshhh–pop” thing again as I sink into those two inches of mud, trudging out to the barn with feed and hay and water. The mud seeks to keep me there, tugging and sucking on the souls of my boots until I finally tug free with that unmistakable “pop” in an endless tug-o-war. The goats are going to need a good hoof trimming soon; wet ground is never good for goat hooves. And I’m praying none of them get any foot rot from it. We’ve been battling worms; that’s enough. Only the ducks seem unfazed by it, quacking happily and splashing about in the river running through the very back corner of the barnyard. I’ve taken to placing boards down in front of the both the goat barn and along the pathway to the hen house so my poor babies have someplace relatively dry to place their toes.

I am grateful the forecast over the next few days is calling for warm temperatures and, finally, sunshine. All this rain brought a more ominous threat Tuesday when I went to the feed store: No More Hay. The local farmer who supplies them can’t get his hay cut and baled. If it doesn’t dry up soon, he’ll lose the whole crop. There was definitely worry etched across the store-owner’s face. She’s a woman after my own heart though. Sometimes bale straps break; she has her workers sweep them into large lawn bags and sells them for $3 per bag. I bought six out of the 8 she had left. My goats and rabbits will eat it well enough but there’s a lot of small, crumbly pieces of hay in it, chaff that they’ve also swept up and saved. It doesn’t stretch as far. She also carries a product called Chaffhaye, which is a bag of fermented hay. It is very good for their digestion but it is also fattening so, if I must eventually resort to using it (the animals love it!), I will have to modify how much I give to them. However, as Domino lost a bit of weight from the worms, it won’t hurt him if he does eat a bit more than usual.

Not having hay has me in a bit of a panic. My animals need to eat. What if this farmer can’t get his hay in? There are already contingency plans to call the local Agway and see if they have any…and how many bales I will need to purchase for them to make the delivery. They are the only feed place in the area that I know of that will deliver. (Sometimes not having a vehicle really sucks…) You see, the local feed place, while good folks and I will keep supporting the local business as much as I can, do not have an arsenal of resources for their hay. They run out a lot. Agway, on the other hand, has a host of sources so I’m going to call today. If nothing else, I can get a small stock in for winter.

Of course, looking out my window at the severely overgrown lawn–what’s left of it–I’m thinking I might be able to make some hay of my own in a few days. Here’s to looking at the bright side of things…literally and figuratively.

May God bless you & keep you!

Abuse, Animals, aquaponics, Creativity, Environment, Faith, gardening, Gratitude, Healing, Herbs, Homesteading, Organic, Prayer, Religion, Self-esteem, Self-improvement, Spirituality

A Bigger Life

Lisa Burbank

“Ask, and you will be given what you ask for. Seek, and you will find. Knock, and the door will be opened. For everyone who asks, receives. Anyone who seeks, finds. If only you knock, the door will open. If a child asks his father for a loaf of bread, will he be given a stone instead? If he asks for fish, will he be given a poisonous snake? Of course not! And if you hardhearted, sinful men know how to give good gifts to your children, won’t your Father in heaven even more certainly give good gifts to those who ask him for them?” (Matthew 7:7-11)

Believe it or not, I often struggle with this biblical passage. Struggle because there is too much doubt in my heart that what I wish for, what I hope will come to be, I am not worthy to have. This passage says nothing about worthiness. It asks only that we, well, ASK. No other hidden clauses.

Of course, when/if I discuss this passage with others, I invariably get that old standby of predestination. If it’s meant to be, it will be. Yes, that’s probably true. Does not the Bible also tell us that even the hairs on our heads are numbered by God? And that He knows when every sparrow falls so, therefore, He also knows our struggles…even the desires of our hearts? And yet, I hear that old adage and, no sooner have I gone to God in prayer for what I need, or even want, and I’m already deciding that what I’m asking for is probably not a part of His will and, therefore, why am I asking? I defeat myself as soon as the prayer is out of my mouth…or head.

What kind of lukewarm faith is this? Is there nothing too great for God? Did He not make me along with everyone else?

Then we get into the whole thought process of accepting that maybe He is instead trying to mold and shape me for something better, something that is in line with His plans. And my anxiety ramps up because maybe it will require too much of a sacrifice…like the loss of someone I love (did not The Twelve leave even their closest family members to follow Jesus?) in order to have that dream. Because, whatever dream He put on my heart, I’ve already convinced myself I’m not worthy of. So I try to guess His plans. What does He want me to do? Show me the way. And then I start chastising myself for being so ungrateful for what I already have. And I shouldn’t want or ask for more. Who cares if I’m robbing Peter to pay Paul and find that Peter’s flat broke? I’ve reached the cap on God’s mercy, or gifts, or grace. Such thinking, I consider, must surely anger God. For where in the Bible does it say He has a cap? Nowhere. His love is unconditional. Passage after passage tells us that He wants only the best for His children. Yet still I doubt. If You’re going to show me the way, I need neon signs and strobe lights highlighting that way. And even then I’d probably doubt if it was “meant” for me.

You see, people who grow up in abusive homes, especially if the abuser was their father, or a father figure, have difficulty believing in a loving and compassionate Father in heaven; it’s an alien concept. We get the angry and vengeful God who punished the Israelites for worshiping other gods and erecting idols, for being stubborn, etc. But the God who loves us, who will give His children good gifts, we struggle with.

I am grateful for everything I have. I know I have been richly blessed already. Even when so many others were losing their homes during the Great Recession, I managed to hang on to this one…despite only being a part-time and/or seasonal worker (the only jobs available in this sleepy New England town)…simply due to His grace. It does seem a bit, well, sinful and selfish to be wishing for something more. This house is a fixer-upper; the homestead is small and, because of it’s smallness, it can also be limiting. However, the smaller size has forced me to get more creative as I continue to landscape and design, to find ways to re-purpose certain areas. It’s also on a major interstate so the dream of growing organic vegetables, fruits and herbs is already out the window. With that much carbon zooming by in a continuous stream, even with the row of Thujas across the front border, that carbon is undoubtedly settling onto each and every leaf; the Thujas can only filter out so much. And, though I am grandfathered in for the use to which I put the land, as big box stores continue to climb the hill, closer and closer to home, I can’t help but fear how much worse that carbon impact is going to be…or how long before that grandfathered use gets challenged. Of course, I probably wouldn’t say “no” if some big developer came by and offered me a decent price for it, enough that I could start over somewhere else…but that’s a bit like waiting to hit the lottery.

I dream of acreage somewhere. I dream of that plot of land down that dusty, country lane, with pastures full of goats, sheep and chickens, maybe a horse or two, and border collies zipping around “Come by” and “Away to me” as they herd those sheep and goats into the barn at night. I dream of a small pond, or lake, on that property where my ducks can swim until their hearts’ are content. I dream of paddling a canoe, or pedaling a paddle boat, out onto that lake or pond after the workday is done. I dream of campfires, with friends and family sharing meals and some good music as we break out the guitar, the dulcimer, and open our hearts and lips to song. No Kumbaya, mind you, just a gathering of friends. I dream of herb gardens, lush, full, and diverse. Gardens made for teaching how to cook with herbs; how to tincture, infuse, poultice and compress. Maybe even some “magickal” uses for luck and love and a bit of romantic whimsy. I dream of equally lush vegetable gardens and small fruits growing and a greenhouse that houses an aquaponics’ system for growing even more food. I dream of a thriving produce stand, or a booth in the local farmers’ market. I dream of supplying the local food pantry with fresh, nutritious produce instead of the packaged, processed donations they typically receive. I dream of looms full of brightly-colored threads, all weaving a brilliant tapestry from the wool, angora, mohair and cashmere fibers routinely sheared, or plucked, from the animals I raise. I dream of a little store where yarns and fabric are sold from my stock. I dream of fresh goat’s milk and cheese, and goat’s milk soap scented with some of the herbs I grow. I dream that all, or at least most, of these animals are rescues, given a second chance at life, for a forever home. I dream of summer days out on the road with a trailer full of goats as we clear land for others in a manner that is much gentler on Mother Earth. I dream of an orchard with healthy and thriving honeybees buzzing in and out of the blossoms. I dream of honey and beeswax candles. And I dream of walking into that bookstore someday, or logging into Amazon, and seeing my name on the cover of that bestseller.

And I dream. And I yearn. And I consider that, maybe, these are just dreams and never “meant” to be. Maybe someday I will do as that Garth Brooks’ song says and thank God for unanswered prayers. Surely, His plans ARE bigger and better than anything I could ever imagine. But, maybe, just maybe, I can finally find it in my heart to TRUST that God truly has put these dreams in my heart for a purpose, that it isn’t all a pipe dream, fueled by an over-active imagination. Perhaps *Someday* I will trust that, yes, I am worthy of such dreams, that God loves me beyond any human ability to comprehend. Just because. Not because I “earned” it. Not because I prayed the most compelling prayer and that was the one He chose to answer. Not because of anything of my will but because His will shall be done. Maybe, just maybe, He’s using these dreams and yearnings to first answer another prayer, a prayer that asked to draw closer to Him, to know Him better, to learn how to trust in a loving Father.

Can I let go enough to let that healing begin? To allow His miracles to take place? Can I trust that, even if these dreams do not come to light, that wherever He does lead me, will bring me more joy than I can possibly imagine? Can I trust that His gifts are not like those given on earth, to sometimes bribe, sometimes stifle, to sometimes manipulate? This isn’t a toe-in-the-water sort of thing. It’s that proverbial, giant leap of faith. Can I do it? Can I accept God’s will for me on this earth? And, more importantly, can I accept that, yes, I do have a loving Father in heaven who does desire to give me good gifts?

Okay, then.

Breathe.

Relax.

And let go.

Thy will be done, Father. Thy will be done.

May God bless you & keep you!

Abuse, Addiction, Alcoholism, Animal Rights, Animals, Environment, Faith, Forgiveness, Healing, Homesteading, OCD, Self-esteem, Self-improvement

Over It

Lisa Burbank

“Get over it!”

I hear a lot of this whenever I talk about, or add a new blog post, that shares about my childhood. Oh, the fun and games that every child remembers is acceptable. But the darker, more sinister aspects of my childhood should be kept quiet…if only because it offends the delicate sensibilities of others.

I say, if it offends your delicate sensibilities, then good. Great, in fact! If I’m offending your delicate sensibilities, then I’m getting under your skin. I’m making you aware that 6.6 million referrals of child abuse/molestation are reported annually in the United States alone–many involving more than one child, and alcoholism affects 15.1 million adults over the age of 18 (Child Help; NIAAA, 2017). Quite often, the two are irrevocably linked. And these are just the incidents that were reported…because the delicate sensibilities of those closest to many of these lost children dictate that these children should suffer in silence, rather than exploit the family dysfunction. I say, to what purpose should I “get over it” unless both of those statistics change to a big, fat ZERO.

SPOILER ALERT!

I hate to burst a few bubbles but, I am “over it”. You see, if I wasn’t “over it”, I wouldn’t be able to blog, or talk, so candidly about my childhood experiences. 20+ years in therapy have led me to a much healthier place, mentally and emotionally. I know sometimes it may seem otherwise when there are so many “hang-ups” that still trip me from time to time. But, honestly, before therapy, I bottled everything so deeply inside that I couldn’t see the proverbial forest through the trees. And I guess this blog post is coming about as a means to change some misconceptions…about a lot of things.

First of all, therapy. Whenever I get tripped up by some sort of coping mechanism I adopted as a child, or by a wave of self-doubt, there are some who cast aspersions on that therapy…or the therapist who worked so closely with me. But therapy, while valuable, can never truly wipe away those “hang-ups”; my memories aren’t going to disappear. I’m not going to forget what happened. However, I no longer dwell upon it. It isn’t an all-consuming nightmare from which I cannot wake up anymore. Therapy has helped me to put those painful memories, well, not really on a back burner but, instead, I can look at them with some distance, take them out, study them, study their effects, and, like an onion, peel away another layer of hurt and dysfunction in manageable bites. This is important because, if I tried to deal with everything all at once, I would get overwhelmed and incapacitated by that overwhelming. The abuse that I endured growing up was spread out over several years; is it any wonder that the recovery from it would also take a number of years?

Another blessing of that therapy is that, while I am peeling away those layers, I also have tools to help lift me out of depression and anxiety, to boost my self-esteem when it wants to plummet, to deal with anger and even the Obsessive Compulsive Disorder that became one of those coping mechanisms. I will probably always be afflicted with some trace of OCD. In fact, with Mom now living with me, I find myself falling back into some old obsessions. I’m guessing it’s because I am suddenly exposed to some of that learned behavior from dealing with active alcoholism again. I escaped life with an alcoholic when I was in my early-20’s; Mom lived with that same alcoholic for over 40 years. For at least half of those years, I was in that therapy, peeling those layers away; Mom was still in the midst of it, dealing with it. Yes, she did choose to do so but that doesn’t change the fact that she learned a few coping mechanisms of her own. I see it, hear the sometimes sarcasm, the passive-aggression, the lack of concern for her own well-being, the escapism, the manipulation, the desperate attempt to develop a new co-dependency with me. It saddens me. Because, overall, she’s a good woman who simply allowed herself to get caught in a bad situation…partly because she didn’t believe that she deserved better treatment, and partly because, underneath the alcoholism and abuse, she saw something–someone–that she loved despite the abuse…and she’s still struggling with the ill effects of that choice.

Of course, I will also concede that the OCD has become over-active again because some small part of me may still harbor some anger at Mom…for not acting when I first told her what was happening to me. I was eight years old. Today, she says she doesn’t remember me telling her. I’m not sure how one would forget such a conversation but, I am willing to concede that it may have been such a shock to her, that maybe some part of her did block it out. Because it was too much for her to deal with. It hurts too much to think that maybe she simply didn’t care enough to help me. Either way, acceptance is the only way to true forgiveness.

And therein lies another misconception: forgiveness. A lot of people look at forgiveness as giving in, giving up, as saying that whatever vile and/or hateful thing that has been committed is okay. No, it is never okay for a little child to be abused…in any way, shape or form. It’s not okay for any living creature–human or humane, child or adult to be abused. Forgiveness isn’t about the actions of the abuser. We’re not forgiving the act–or lack of action–but the person committing the act, or lack thereof.

“Your heavenly Father will forgive you if you forgive those who sin against you; but if you refuse to forgive them, He will not forgive you.” (Matthew, 6:14-15)

Forgiveness isn’t truly about them anyway. Forgiveness is a gift for the one doing the forgiving, for the peace that settles over the soul once we finally let go of the grudge, the anger, the stubbornness that inhibits further healing from the transgression. Forgiveness releases the power the transgressor still wields over us to hurt us even more…because by hanging onto our anger, truly, the only person we hurt is ourselves.

So, what does all of this have to do with homesteading? I get asked that one A LOT. Because, really, that’s the whole reason I started this blog. I wanted it to be a daily accounting–or at least a weekly one–of my journey as a homesteader. However, as I technically started this blog back in 2010, but never really contributed to it on a regular basis until last August (2016), obviously, I didn’t have as much to say about my homesteading endeavors. Or maybe I just needed to get into a regular writing routine, which I have done, and see which direction it evolved. I’d like to think that these two separate journeys are somehow intertwined…above and beyond the fact that this modern-day homesteader is also the one still healing from the effects of childhood trauma.

In fact, there’s the link: a journey of healing from childhood abuse…and a journey to heal Mother Earth from the effects of Mankind’s abuse of her. What’s in our food? A lot of things that should not even be used in the same sentence as “food”: high fructose corn syrup, monosodium glutamate, dyes, aspartame, saccharin and sucralose. Where does it come from? A package? A can? From over 3000 miles away where a huge carbon footprint is created to transport it across country, across the globe, after lacing it with these artificial preservatives, and growing it with chemical pesticides and fertilizers…which kill us, kill the animals, the plants, kill the honey bees. What’s in our clothing? Nylon, synthetics–by-products of the petroleum industry. Athletic wear, especially, contains a lot of plastic. Plastic off-gases in our landfills. It gets dumped into our rivers and streams, our oceans, where tiny particles of it…and sometimes even larger pieces…get ingested by wildlife and aquatic life. I recently did a presentation regarding climate change. I found a photograph of a seal that had died from ingesting run-off from lawn fertilizers–such as Scotts or TruGreen. We’re killing our planet, ourselves. And, while one lone homesteader may not be able to make much of a dent in that carbon footprint, I can lead by example. And I can rest knowing that I’ve done the best I could to lessen my contribution to the abuse. That’s worth it to me.

As this homestead is also intended as an animal rescue and rehabilitation, a sanctuary to help heal animals of abuse and/or abandonment, here, too, is another journey of healing. I need a bigger homestead if I’m to achieve the level of success that I envision but, for now, I work with what I have and mitigate whatever suffering I can, one heart at a time.

For every new skill I learn as a homesteader, whether it is canning, preserving, a new gardening technique, a new fiber art mastered, for every new animal that I learn to care for and that thrives, I gain a new level of confidence that takes me even further away from those painful memories. And that’s a link that will endure forever.

May God bless you & keep you!

References

Child Help, (2017). Statistics. Retrieved June 2, 2017 from: https://www.childhelp.org/child-abuse-statistics/
National Institute on Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism. Statistics. Retrieved June 2, 2017 from: https://www.niaaa.nih.gov/alcohol-health/overview-alcohol-consumption/alcohol-facts-and-statistics

Animals, compost, Cooking, gardening, Gratitude, Healing, Herbs, Homesteading, Recipes, vermicomposting

Chive Talking

Lisa Burbank

“And God said, Let the earth bring forth grass, the herb yielding seed, and the fruit tree yielding fruit after his kind, whose seed is in itself, upon the earth: and it was so. And the earth brought forth grass, and herb yielding seed after his kind, and the tree yielding fruit, whose seed was in itself, after his kind: and God saw that it was good. And the evening and the morning were the third day.” Genesis 1:11-13

I’ve been spending a little time each morning, building more raised beds, adding compost to the beds and, after mucking out chicken coops and rabbit cages and such, starting some new compost. Earlier this week, as I was transferring some of that compost into the new beds, I let out a “whoop!” that brought Mom to the door with a scowl!!??! Even when I explained my elation–the discovery of dozens of red wigglers in that compost pile–I could tell she didn’t quite “get it” as she shook her head and walked away. Even my assurance that worms in the compost bin are a very good thing didn’t convince her. She still thinks I’m addled. Worms aren’t her thing.

Oh, well. I refuse to let it daunt me.

Of course, some of the already established beds also got a dressing of this composted rabbit waste…with worms. I have a small bed about equal distance between the front and the side doors of the house. And my chives are up in it.

I love chives. I love the flavor they impart in cooking, as well as their aroma. They make a nice addition to salads. And I usually eat one raw coming out of the garden. Fresh like that, they really pack a punch. But my favorite use is in my favorite winter casserole: Spinach Mashed Potatoes. The recipe calls for 2 tablespoons of chives; mine are usually “heaping” tablespoons but it’s all good. Usually I buy them dried from a local herb store as I haven’t quite mastered the art of drying them with a food dehydrator–until Tuesday of this week. It took a couple of tries; the first batch I cut and spread on the screen turned brown and lifeless using the recommended drying time. So I cut the time in half and voila! I have a half-pint jar of chives and will be drying another half-pint this weekend. So I’m feeling a little victory here. And this is one that even Mom can relate to a bit.

As I love chives so much for cooking, the herbalist in me has never really looked into them as a potential medicine. But, before writing this blog entry, I did do some research in some of my herbals. Not much there either except in Juliette de Bairacli Levy’s “Herbal Handbook for the Farm and Stable”. She recommends sprinkling some cut up chives into animal feed for the “expulsion of worms.” (Good thing the chives are well away from that wormy compost pile…)

And, unlike many cooks, I have no aversion to sharing that recipe for Spinach Mashed Potatoes; good food is meant to be shared.

SPINACH MASHED POTATOES

6 large or 8 medium potatoes, peeled and diced (if using white potatoes; if red-skinned, may leave the skins on them).
1 10 ounce package (or equivalent from garden) of spinach
8 oz. package of shredded cheddar cheese (or, an 8 oz block of cheddar and shred it yourself; usually about 50 cents cheaper (eh, I am ever the frugal fanatic…))
1 stick of butter
1/4 cup of sour cream
2 tbsp. chives
1 tbsp. olive oil
1 tsp. sugar
1/4 tsp. dill
1/8 tsp. black pepper
pinch of salt, to taste

Boil potatoes until tender. Drain. Add stick of butter, sour cream, sugar, black pepper and pinch of salt; mash (will be very creamy) In large skillet saute spinach, chives and dill in olive oil until just wilted. Fold into mashed potatoes until well mixed then fold potato and spinach mixture into casserole dish. Sprinkle cheese over the top and back in the oven for 20 minutes at 400 degrees. Enjoy!

May God bless you & keep you!

References

De Bairacli Levy, J. (1952) “The Complete Herbal Handbook for Farm and Stable.” Faber and Faber Limited, London,
England.

Abuse, Animal Rights, Animals, Homesteading

The Birth of an Animal Rights Activist

Lisa Burbank

My parents didn’t spay or neuter. They believed that every animal should have at least one litter. Only we never seemed to stop at just one.

As a little girl, having a constant stream of young kittens and puppies to play with alternated between the thrill and delight that any child experiences when presented with a new kitten or puppy, and the underlying sorrow that I would have to say, “Goodbye” to them in the not-so-distant future. My mother always assured me that we would find homes for them. We seldom did. And, of course, we couldn’t keep any of them; we couldn’t afford to feed that many. And how do you choose just one? Besides, if we kept only one, it wouldn’t be fair to the others, they assured me. And, as I was constantly told, as the kitten or puppy matured, the mother would start to fight with them and I wouldn’t want that.

Every six to eight weeks my stepfather would place the kittens and/or puppies into a box and we would take another trip to the local shelter or pound. I always accompanied him, unwilling to relinquish those last few moments I would have with my new friends. I hid my tears the best I could. And whispered to each of them how much I loved them and how sorry I was; as a child, I was powerless to change their lot in life. And I knew it. I also lied to each of them, telling them they would find homes. Because that’s what I was told. And I wanted to believe.

Of course, once we arrived, those beliefs were shattered–both for me and for my young friends. Walking through rooms full of cages that were full of unwanted and unloved animals was overwhelming. The frantic yipping and meowing as each animal begged to be released, to find that forever home, was a heart-wrenching chorus…especially since we weren’t there to adopt, but to add to their numbers. How on earth do you find homes for so many animals when we couldn’t even find homes for 5 or 6? In every shelter there was also a row of cages labeled Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, etc. I guess you could call it “death row” because, even as a child, I understood enough that the animals in these cages (or pens) had only until that next Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday to find a home. Afterwards, they were gassed. This was the 1970’s; no-kill shelters, if any existed then, were unheard of. And so we left them there and drove home again.

Our pets free-ranged the neighborhood. We lost quite a number to the streets and highways as motorists, unable to brake quickly enough, struck them down. Daisy, Ginger, Misty would be in heat again; it didn’t take long for other dogs or cats to find them and impregnate them. And the whole cycle would start all over again. I lied to Ginger and Misty, too. I told them we would find homes for these puppies or kitties…

And, as I type this, I realize that at some point we did start choosing at least one from a litter. Ginger was Daisy’s daughter. While Daisy had only 6 puppies (yes, only!), Ginger had 12, 13, sometimes more. Some of them might have been still-born but the numbers were astronomical for a relatively small dog. We also kept Ginger’s son, Barney. Barney came down with heartworms. He died slowly, painfully, gasping his last on my parents’ bed. We didn’t do vets either. And while Misty wouldn’t venture outside, we did have Muzi in the beginning; he gave her a litter of four kittens before he was run over by a motorist. We kept three of the kittens; a friend took the other in a rare instance of finding someone a forever home. However, one of those kittens was a male–Toby. All of Misty’s litters afterwards were by her son, a too-close breeding.

Bubbles, whose only litter-mate had been stillborn, spent her first year with us. She couldn’t “me-ow”; she made a little tsk-ing sound each morning as she jumped onto my dresser and waited for me to awaken. Though they were all grown, mother and child did get along just fine; another myth debunked. Bubbles also never went into a heat or, if she did, Toby had no interest in his sister/daughter. Only a year with me but she carved a place so deep into my heart that I was devastated when, after a year of cuddling this beloved pet, my stepfather gave her to the dog warden along with Misty and Toby’s latest offspring. I cried an ocean of tears but there was no getting her back. My stepfather screamed and hollered at me to stop; I’m still getting choked up now.

When we moved across country a year later, the dog warden came again to pick up Misty and Toby to take them to the shelter. He was a neighbor of ours. When I asked him, with all of my teenage heart hanging on my sleeve, if they would find new homes, he didn’t lie to me. He said they would try. By then, Misty was an older cat. While I hope she did find some caring person to give her a new home, I also can’t help wondering how much time she spent in a cage, feeling alone and abandoned, before she, too, found her way into a cage labeled “Monday”; ditto for Toby. Daisy and Ginger both found their way onto Interstate 70. Daisy in a blind panic from Fourth of July fireworks; Ginger, just because. It was a year before this move. In that year, we had acquired Baby, a little beagle. At least in her, I know she went to a good home. A neighbor of ours, knowing we were moving, offered to take her in. She and her husband were unable to have children. Their home was filled with cages of birds, hamsters, guinea pigs, etc. They also had cats but no dogs yet. It was not a hoarding situation; these animals were the beloved children they never had. While my heart broke to say “goodbye” to Baby, as we pulled away from the curb that one last time, my heart knows she was at least loved throughout the end of her days. I vowed then and there that, when I was finally out of the house and on my own, no matter what, if I ever had to move, I would make that extra effort to find lodgings that would allow me to keep my pets. The heartache was just too great. And the looks of confusion and fear on each pet’s face haunt me still. Over the years, the myriad rescues I have taken in have all been either super anxious to win my affection, fearing being abandoned again, or else, incredibly shy and quite a work to win over; I suspect, if Bubbles, Misty, Toby & Co. did find homes, they were tough to win over, too.

We got Tiger when we finally rented our new house in Rhode Island. Tiger disappeared only a few months after we got him. Then we got Garfield and, later, Samantha. Samantha’s first litter all died before they were weaned. By this time, I was in my early-20’s but still living at home. I had graduated high school before we left St. Louis and was now working a part-time job, while also taking a correspondence class in Journalism and Short Story Writing, taking guitar and voice lessons, and fronting metal bands. Samantha had a bit of a nasty attitude; few could pet her, let alone handle her. I was an exception but that trust didn’t come along until after she’d had her second litter. There were complications. Three of the kittens were still attached to the umbilical chord, which had somehow gotten wrapped around her front paw. My stepfather noticed the problem but assumed she would get them off on her own and left her alone. By the time I came home from work at noontime, Samantha’s paw was three times its normal size due to her circulation being cut off. When I came in the door, she jumped out of the box she’d been laying in and chirped at me. Amazingly, she let me look at her paw but the chord was so deeply embedded into her skin, there was no way for me to cut it. I picked her up, placed her back in the box and closed the flaps (we didn’t have a pet carrier because our pets rarely, if ever, visited the vet), then headed for the door.

My stepfather tried to stop me. He yelled and threatened. He wasn’t paying for any vet. I was working; I had money saved in the bank. I would pay for it. As if it was an even worse threat, he told me if I was going to pay all that money foolishly, then when I finally moved out, I was taking Samantha with me. I told him I planned to anyway and stormed out the door.

We drove to East Greenwich Animal Hospital where the prognosis was not good. She had one kitten in the box who was not attached to the chord and seemed fine, but the other three were so tightly wrapped with her, that the vet could give me only two options: either I take the paw (i.e. amputate) or he euthanizes the kittens because he could not cut them away otherwise. While it broke my heart to lose such young lives, I opted to spare Samantha’s paw; he wasn’t even sure she would regain full use of it but, thankfully, she did. And he managed to save one of the kittens still attached. Like the previous litter, the two that survived this initial catastrophe, died before they were weaned. Not wanting to ever go through such a thing again, I had Samantha spayed. Again, my stepfather threatened that I was to take her with me when I moved out; he thought the money spent to spay/neuter was a waste.

When I moved out in 1990, Samantha came with me. She had belonged to my Aunt Sandy’s father-in-law before we took her in; she was at least a year old then. I had her another 15 years. She died of renal failure just before I bought the property that is now The Herbal Hare Homestead. Prior to her passing, my then-father-in-law was amazed at the lengths I was willing to go to to spare her life. He walked in one night while I was hooking up the IV to administer her daily sub-cutaneous fluids. Though he thought it was silly, he also thought I’d make a good vet.

I beg to differ. I think the constant exposure to neglectful and abusive pet owners, the continued exposure to unwanted and abandoned pets, would turn me into a fanatic. And fanaticism doesn’t help anyone. I also don’t think my poor heart could take the pain of it. Though I know, and have had to make such decisions, to terminate a life that is beyond any human capacity to help, I think I’d be an empty shell from it over time. Instead, I’d rather mitigate as much suffering as I can by caring for the orphans that come my way and making The Herbal Hare Homestead a haven and a rescue for those in need. And, where possible, to lend my time and financial resources to help others who can provide that veterinary care better than I can. Over the years, I have added herbal remedies to my care; rabbits, especially, do not always respond well to more orthodox medicines. Thankfully, my vet’s sister is also an herbalist and he’s well-versed in the myriad herbs and their uses and, rather than condemn, as many would, applauds my use of them. Over the years, we’ve worked together…rather than against each other. (Would that more doctors, nurses and vets open their minds and hearts to such practices; herbs and modern medicine, when understood, often compliment each other…and alleviate more suffering by doing so)

May God bless you & keep you!

Animals, Homesteading

Meet the Animals – Last, but not least…the cats!

Lisa Burbank

Hey, every well-run homestead should have a cat. That’s just my honest opinion but they do keep the rodent population down…and that’s a good service. They’re also warm, affectionate and amusing companions. Home simply wouldn’t be “home” without at least a couple of felines running around. And the perfect R&R time is a rainy day with a good book in hand, a cup of tea to sip on and at least one cuddly feline purring away in my lap. I’m in my own little, private, heaven-on-earth. So, without further ado, here they are:

This guy is technically my mother’s cat. Rosco traveled across country from Missouri with Max and Mom in September of 2014. He rode all the way on the dashboard, watching the traffic, hills, mountains, rivers and lakes rolling by. He has a bit of an interesting history with Mom. She saw him in the local Pet Smart and fell in love with him, but my stepfather said, “no!” and, for the time, that was that. Now there have been many posts where I have dissed my stepfather but, in this case, he wasn’t denying her the cat to be cruel. A few years’ prior, Mom had had some problems with hoarding. I won’t go into all of the details but he was trying to prevent such a thing from happening again. Later, he finally relented only because Rosco was already neutered and not likely to get the ball rolling again. However, when they went back to Pet Smart, Rosco had already been adopted. Ironically, the person who adopted him lived in the same apartment complex. Mom saw him in the window a few days’ later. He then went to another family in that same complex and they abused him terribly–so much so, that when Mom finally got him by threatening to call the police if this family did not turn him over to her care. He was skin and bones; the woman had not been feeding him and, when Mom first brought him home, he had to eat very small meals every couple of hours because, otherwise, his stomach rebelled and he tossed it back up. He had to have his jaw re-wired; the boyfriend of his current owner had kicked him in the jaw and broken it. His first few months with Mom were a seemingly endless round of vet visits. Despite all of this, he is a lovable and friendly guy…doesn’t quite like sharing his attention with other felines but he’s not hostile to anyone either; just a little anti-social with the other cats. As you can see from his photo, he’s not starving now (chuckle).

The hefty tuxedo on the left is Paz; that beautiful white boy with the double paws is Alice Cooper. We lost Alice suddenly last November; he simply didn’t wake up from his nap. I found him curled up in his kitty bed when I got home from work (heart defect) (RIP my beloved friend). Paz, however, is still hale and hearty. He is 17 years’ young and the last of the litter that included Ariel (also lost last November to a mammary tumor), and Woody (lost in August 2012). He and his litter mates were found behind a log by my beloved Tessa (black lab/Belgian shepherd mix). My former father-in-law had had a tenant who’d left behind his female cat when he moved out. He fed her but she seldom went indoors, living outside her whole life. As a result, she was extremely wild and shy; my then-husband and I tried to capture her but she eluded us. She had one more litter of kittens; my father-in-law and brother-in-law each took in two but, again, the mother continued to avoid capture. Sadly, shortly after her second litter was born, my father-in-law saw her get hit on Route 14. Unlike his poor mother, Paz has been pampered and babied his entire 17 years…and will continue to be for however many more I am blessed with.

This is Priscilla. She is Alice’s Mama. One warm August evening, as I was sitting in the rabbit room letting the bunnies out of their cages to play and stretch their legs a bit, suddenly, Alys started thumping her back leg like ain’t nobody’s business. The other rabbits followed suit. Even with all the banging and slapping of hind legs from 10 frightened rabbits (this is a warning signal that they give to each other in the wild when a predator is near), I was still able to hear human footsteps running away from the opened window. I looked out but it was dark; I couldn’t see anyone. However, about 20 minutes later I heard a very cautious, “Me-ow!” (Oh-no!) Again, it was too dark to see anything outside but next morning, this adorable little face greeted me by the back door…an adorable little face and an enormously round belly. (Double oh-no!) Priscilla came right up to me. And, knowing there was no mistake that she’d been dumped off on this farm, I started feeding her. She would allow us to pet her but not pick her up to take her in…as Mom discovered two days’ later when she picked her up and got bit. I had to take Mom to the ER where she was given both a tetanus and the first in the series of rabies’ shots. That evening, Mom tried again and managed to get Priscilla into the bathroom for quarantine until we could get her to the vet. Later, Mom went to stay with her sister for a few days; I got bit the next morning when I reached over Priscilla to get her food bowl. So, back to the ER. Because she was quarantined in our house, I did not need the rabies’ vaccine. But I was given the tetanus…and found out I am extremely allergic to it. Two days’ later, I was back in the ER, sporting a temperature of 105 degrees. They fed me Motrin intravenously. I was there over four hours. They finally released me but, the next day, I spiked again to 106 degrees and started convulsing. It was 97 degrees outside; I was huddled under every spare quilt in the house, unable to get warm. But I survived it. And, over time, Priscilla has learned to trust us…and has proved to be quite affectionate now that her new home is assured. She also gave birth to a total of five kittens. One was stillborn. In this picture, they are only a few days’ old. One of these four, a gray and white tuxedo, died within the first week; Alice after 15 months. Ozzy (Osbourne) and Emmylou (Harris) are still with us though.

This is Ozzy. Ozzy has learned his mother’s gift for biting. He can be extremely lovable but, when he’s had enough, he will turn around and nip. He also likes to climb. On his first visit to the vet for his shots, he amused everyone so much that one of the technicians took a picture of him and put it on their website. It was a shot of him sitting on top of my head–literally. He, Priscilla and Emmylou are probably my best mousers; if they know one is about, they won’t leave the room where they’ve sensed it…even to eat. However, Ozzy likes me all to himself. The minute Emmylou tries to horn in on the attention, he hisses at her and leaves.

And, of course, this is Emmylou. She was a shy one until this past January when a nasty upper-respiratory infection went through most of these felines. Emmylou had it the worst of all; Mom & I feared for her life. But she pulled through. And, since this most recent trip to the vet hospital, she’s been a little cuddle bug, sleeping on my “lap” each night. I guess she knows she’s loved. And, while Ozzy and Priscilla are good mousers, Emmy takes the prize. She is absolutely relentless whenever a mouse is in residence. Now, if we could just convince her that its bloody remains are not exactly the sort of present her humans want to receive, we’d be all set.

This handsome guy is Kirby, a beautiful Maine coon cat who arrived here in the spring of 2014. I don’t know if he was dumped off like Priscilla, or if he simply chose this house as his home. But I heard Paz, Ariel, Trooper (lost in Jan. 2016) and Pearl hissing and spitting at something/someone in the kitchen so I went to investigate. The windows were open and Ariel had just jumped out of one of them. At the bottom right corner was this little face peeking in. I initially thought he simply a neighbor’s cat who had wandered over. As the days turned into weeks, these nightly visits continued, and I started to notice he was losing a bit of weight, I started taking bowls of food out to him. At first he was incredibly shy and wouldn’t come anywhere near me. But, over time, I could at least sit nearby and talk to him while he ate. As I have an interstate running through my front yard, and knowing it would only be a matter of time before he decided to test it, I started leaving the bowls in the attached workshop. It has its own door and I could leave it open a bit to allow him to go inside. It was also approaching fall and I was worried about him over the coming winter; it had taken me the whole late-spring and all of summer to even get this far. At first he was distrusting of the workshop but, eventually, hunger won out and he started venturing inside the doorway. Each day, I put the bowl a little deeper into the workshop. And, finally, I was able to watch one morning while he went in to eat and sneak around the outside to shut him in. He was NOT happy about it. He hissed at me when I brought in a cat pan for him (I wasn’t even sure he’d know how to use it) and hid behind some of my spare bee supers. I called the vet. This one wasn’t going to go in for testing and shots easily. It would be another month before I could get him into a carry-on cage for transport; the vet hospital kept an open appointment for him. As I did with the workshop, I had to leave his food just inside the door of the cage and then a little farther in until he got comfortable with going all the way into the cage with me also standing nearby. As I had done with the workshop, I eventually shut him inside and called the vet, letting them know we were on our way for that open appointment. By the time I got him to the vet, he had ripped open his toes on the cage door, trying to escape. He howled and hissed and I was beginning to think maybe I was going to have to turn him loose again after we got him neutered and his shots–if we could get them done. The vet and technicians pulled on these long gloves that went all the way to their shoulders. I opened the cage and he shot out of it like a cannonball, hit the wall over the sink and slid down it, leaving bloody runnels everywhere. The vet was able to throw a towel over him in the sink and sedate him. He got his shots and immediately into surgery. I brought him home later and he spent a few days in the bathroom, recuperating, and also starting to allow me to actually pet him and scratch him under the chin. Now, he is the most lovable and affectionate cat of all. He does not like to be picked up but he will sit in my lap forever if I let him. We have daily “Kirby time” where he just cuddles and purrs contentedly. He also came down with the upper-respiratory infection last January; the difference in his behavior for this trip to the vet was like night and day. He was a perfect little lamb. He also played surrogate Papa to Priscilla’s kittens when they arrived. The picture below is him with Ozzy and Alice.

Priscilla’s kittens were weaned and she finally went in to be spayed. About a week later, just before Halloween, Whitney showed up.

Again, another trip to the vet for shots and testing, etc; she was unlike either Priscilla or Kirby, going along quite easily and charming everyone. She came back home and, after a few days of letting the other cats “meet” her through the bars of a large dog crate, I let her out. She immediately ran upstairs. I followed her closely, trying not to spook her but also not sure where she was going because she seemed to be on a mission of some sort. And she was. She ran right into my bedroom and jumped on the bed where Priscilla was sleeping. Priscilla jumped up and, if they could have shrieked and spoken, I swear they would’ve been saying, “Oh, I haven’t seen you in, like, forever!” They ran right up to each other and started licking each other’s faces like they were bosom buddies. The vet estimated Priscilla to be about 2 years’ of age when we brought her in that first time; Whitney to be about a year. Whitney’s size and shape is nearly identical to Priscilla’s and Mom & I have been wondering ever since if Whitney isn’t an offspring from a previous litter for Priscilla. While I heard the running footsteps away from the window when Priscilla arrived, Whitney was simply there one day. Do their previous owners live nearby and, after seeing that I took in Priscilla & Co., decide to dump Whitney off, too? Or did Whitney somehow follow her scent? Is that even possible? Or had Whitney been left at the same time as Priscilla but wandered off into the woods or to a neighbor’s house for awhile? We’ll probably never know but I’ve never seen two cats take to each other that quickly before. I am convinced that they were already acquainted long before.

Last of my felines is Pearl. And definitely not least. Pearl, and her sister, Megan, were on display at the vet hospital. I fell in love with both of them but, as I already had 4 cats at home at the time, I took a deep breath and steeled myself to say, “No!” A few weeks’ later, I went back for another routine visit with another pet and they were still on display. The shelter sponsoring them was hoping to place them together. Again, I steeled myself to say, “No!” There was a third visit. I almost caved this time. Instead, I left but I told myself that if they were still there the next time I went in, I would inquire about adopting them. About a week later, I had a rabbit die unexpectedly. I brought her in to be examined, to try to determine the cause of death; I feared it might be something contagious. It turns out it wasn’t; Isabella had a weak heart. But Megan and Pearl were still there. I took them home. Megan died in June of 2013 to cancer but Pearl has been my little shadow for 10 years; she is 13 years’ old. Sweet, gentle but also timid, she used to get bullied by Trooper and Paz; Paz still gives her some static on occasion but Kirby adores her. Priscilla, Ozzy, Emmylou and Whitney adore her. Rosco tolerates her, like he does everyone else, but at least he doesn’t bully her. She also helps me with my yoga routine each morning, stretching out on the floor beside me and twisting and turning as I also go through some similar poses.

Here she is again with Priscilla (back of chair) and Emmylou (right).

May God bless you & keep you!

Animals, Homesteading

Meet the Animals – Odds and Ends

Lisa Burbank

Cockatiels aren’t your typical homestead bird but Smoky Bones has been the ambassador here since he first came home with me in 2006…before this was even remotely a homestead. He had belonged to my friend, Jo-Ann’s Uncle Mike. Uncle Mike, Smoky and a small dog had all been living with relatives on their farm in Voluntown, CT. Ironically, it was a goat farm. But they were selling out and moving to a new state. And Uncle Mike was being sent to an assisted living complex (or maybe even a nursing home; it’s been awhile). I remember the dog’s place with the family was assured but the wife found Smoky to be a challenge so he needed a home. It broke Uncle Mike’s heart. He was only willing to relinquish his pet after constant reassurances from Jo-Ann that he would be well-loved and cared for. It breaks my heart to think of it even now; I could write a whole other blog post about our society’s treatment of their elders but, for now, I’ll stay on subject.

I’m still stymied on what the challenge was…

Smoky had roommates when he first came here, a trio of budgerigars named Nigel, Jamaica and Skye. I set his cage next to theirs for company and, while I wasn’t confident enough to put them together in an aviary setting, that was a future plan. Until I underestimated the effects of having fluttering, chirping birds in a house full of felines. My Megan Magee was still with me then; birds were her absolute delight. I came home one afternoon from work to find both cages on the floor. Smoky was fine. A bit shaken but otherwise hale and hearty. The parakeets were flying pell-mell around the house…except for Jamaica, who greeted me on the living room floor, surrounded by felines, left wing bleeding. He was my first concern, for obvious reasons. I grabbed a nearby clothes’ basket and threw it over him then shooed the cats out of the living room until I could get him to calm down enough to let me handle him. Good luck! I remember, despite the bloody wing, he flew back into the rabbit room (where their cages were also housed) and, eventually, into his cage. I managed to clean his wing with saline; it proved to be only a flesh wound. Nigel and Skye seemed unscathed, physically, but the following morning Skye let out a squawk and tumbled to the floor of her cage; the next morning, Nigel, did the same. (Or maybe it was the other way around…again, it’s been awhile.) Though they would never become actual roommates, Jamaica and Smoky were good company for each other for many years’ after. Sadly, I lost Jamaica in 2012.

Far from being a “challenge,” Smoky has proven to be quite the character. Shortly after I brought him home, I was sitting at the table, reading a book, while Smoky whistled away in his cage. Eventually, his whistling drew my attention. I realized I recognized the tune. That was the opening to the old “Andy Griffith Show” and, later, was that “The Odd Couple” theme? I went to work the next day and asked Jo-Ann if Uncle Mike watched a lot of TV Land. She admitted that, yes, he did. Well, Smoky had picked up the theme songs to many of his favorite shows. Uncle Mike also had a police scanner. Out of the blue, Smoky will suddenly squawk, “Rescue! Rescue!” complete with a bit of re-created static as the scanner pops “on” and “off”. And you’ll never doubt his name. His invariable greeting is, “Hello, Smoky!”

Dogs are a usual part of any homestead. I hope to one day raise border collies for herding future sheep, and also agility. Mom brought Max with her from Missouri in September 2014. He’s a blue heeler. Traditionally, this is a herding breed but Max has never been sheep or goat “broke” so putting him out with Felicity and Co. would be a disaster (if a dog has not been raised with sheep, instead of herding, he’ll run them down and potentially kill them; they have to be “broke”. This does not mean anything brutal or unkind to the dog but a gentle training to teach them how to appropriately interact with them.). He knows he’s supposed to do something with these goats but he doesn’t know what that something is. And, for Felicity’s part, she doesn’t seem to be dog “broke” either (again, simply being raised around dogs and being taught to understand that the dog does not mean her harm but is there for her protection; because she’s never been taught otherwise, she sees Max as a threat…and he is because he’s also never been taught). When Max first came here, Mom and I took he and Bear (who was still with me then) out on leashes. I wanted them to at least get acquainted with each other so there wouldn’t be some mad charge at the back door someday. Amazingly, Felicity didn’t seem to have any problem with Bear. Maybe his size was a deterrent (St. Bernard) but Max lunged and then Felicity charged. That ended that exercise. We are very careful to keep Max and Felicity separate. However, Max is an intelligent boy. And, while it may be a little late in his life to get him into herding–especially with a recalcitrant lead doe fighting him every step of the way–now that warmer weather is coming in, I would like to start some basic training with him and then, maybe, get him into agility. Herding breeds have a lot of energy so it would be good for him to have a means to use some of it up each day. He learns fast. Over the wintertime, we started chorus classes…I taught Max to howl. And he sounds for all the world like the wolf he’s often mistaken for in public.

May God bless you & keep you!

Animals, Gratitude, Homesteading

Meet the Animals – The Goats!

Lisa Burbank

A little over two years’ ago, I brought home a trio of Nigerian Dwarf goats. They were “free to good home” but, before any fellow goat farmers cringe, Felicity, at least, is a registered doe…and I have the papers to prove it. Domino and Chester are both quite large for the breed and, because of this, they were both wethered so that they do not pass along too-big babies to future generations. They are here simply as pets and companions to Felicity. She has been bred at least once. Her previous owners did not keep the single male. But I do have plans to breed her again. Fresh goat’s milk, cheese, yogurt and even soap would be a nice addition to this homestead.

For now though, I am simply enjoying them, learning all of the myriad ins and outs of their care and getting to know their unique personalities.

I am remembering when I first brought all of them home, I was ecstatic! Anyone who has known me for longer than five minutes knows how much I love goats and how long I waited to get them. However, at the dealership, this love and longing wasn’t as widely known yet; I hadn’t been there that long. But, I had to share this elation with somebody…besides Mom, of course. So I chose Sean, our then-service manager. Sean and his wife frequently rescue and adopt older dogs from the local shelter. And I commend and applaud them for their kindness, their generosity, their beautiful hearts because of it. Sean’s an animal lover; he’ll get this. So, with a huge smile on my face I announced that today one of my biggest dreams just came true. Somehow, though, I don’t think Sean was expecting my acquisition of three goats to be the answer to his question about what that dream-come-true was. His blank stare that so clearly read: “how do I respond to this?” was priceless. But my goats are a dream-come-true.

So, without further ado, meet Chester…

He obviously likes his kibble…and his carrots. He was that round when I got him. Though he wasn’t quite as camera-happy as Tank the Silkie Rooster, he really is a sweet boy and every morning after feeding we have to cuddle for a few minutes. He will saunter over to me and start rubbing the stubs where his horns should be against my skirt. I’m guessing it’s an itchy spot so I oblige by giving him a good scratch. Eventually he will raise his head and blow goatie “kisses” at me.

Felicity is the true boss of the barnyard. I know I said last week that Sargent Feathers was…and, in many ways, he is. But even he defers to Felicity. She is very protective of “her” flock. Last summer we had a skunk find it’s way under a low spot by the back gate and there was no holding her back. She charged. And, yes, it sprayed. But, amazingly, she managed to avoid most of it…even if the barnyard smelled pretty rank for awhile afterwards.

Felicity is also the most empathetic–if one can attach such an emotion to a goat…and I do. When I lost my Bear two years’ ago, the following morning I trudged out to the goat barn as usual but she must’ve sensed that I was “down” and a bit out of it. She has what I call the upside-down Madonna grin. Madonna has always had that bit of a gap between her two front teeth. Felicity has it, too, but in the lower jaw and there’s just a slight hint of an overbite. Nothing too detrimental to keep her from eating but, when she’s curious, she juts that jaw forward a bit, turning her head from side to side and sniffing intently. That morning, I got the full upside-down Madonna grin. As I sat down on the bench for a moment, Felicity came forward and then, as sweet as can be, gave me the gentlest little head-butt and rested her forehead against mine. I remember blubbering over the sweetness of it, though I’m guessing that wasn’t Felicity’s intent.

Domino took a little longer to warm up to us. He’s lovable, too, but a bit shier than the other two. His coat is like spun silk though. Where Felicity and Chester are a bit wiry to the touch, I could run my fingers through Domino’s coat all day and never get tired of it. He’s a bit of a dandy about it. He loves being brushed. And I don’t mind obliging him.

And, yes, that’s a lot of hay on the floor of the goat barn. They scatter it everywhere. And, because New England winters are so brutal, I leave it there until spring. Many farmers do this as it provides protection against cold floors and the slow decomposition of hay, wood shavings and, of course, their waste, actually helps warm the barn. There is no odor. The top layer is dry. And come spring, I clean it all out and toss it into the compost bin where it will dress the garden in the fall. Then we start all over again.

…although next winter will see them in different quarters as this old shed-turned-barn is being semi-retired; the attached garage and former workshop will become the new barn. Our current barn has wooden floors. It’s not so bad on the goat side. But, in the separate “room” that houses the chickens and ducks, the ducks’ perpetual play in the waterers is rotting it out. I put my foot partially through it recently so it’s time to relocate them and, as time and funds permit, cut out the wooden floor and replace it with cement.

There’s always a new project with this journey called a homestead.

May God bless you & keep you!