Category: Homesteading

Animals, Faith, Homesteading

Goodbye, Alice Cooper…

Lisa Burbank

Alice Cooper the Cat, that is; not the rock star. Yes, this is one of those blog entries again. I’m too shocked and angry and blubbery to really register how abysmally tired I am of making these kinds of posts.

I came home last night from the dealership and went about business as usual: feeding and watering the goats, chickens and ducks, and settling them into the barn for the evening. I finished up in the barn, came inside and opened a couple of cans of cat food. After scooping the food into their bowls, I turned around and noticed Alice was missing.

“Oh, no!” my heart screamed. Alice never misses a meal. I smothered the panic rising and tried to rationalize. He’s asleep upstairs and didn’t hear the can opening. It would be a first but it might be true. Or, as I strode to the bathroom door, he’s shut in the bathroom. I opened the door. No Alice. I gave a quick, cursory glance around the rabbit room, knowing that if he was in there, he’d have come running for dinner. I guess some part of me already knew but didn’t want to believe. Still rationalizing, I ran upstairs. Maybe I closed him in my office…even as I knew I hadn’t been in there since early morning and he’d been down to breakfast since then. He’d played with the rabbits later that morning, too. I remembered him chasing the blue feather on a stick, the cat toy I bought, I think, for Samantha and 8-Ball and that has entertained nearly every feline since.

When I got to the top of the stairs, something compelled me to go into Mom’s room and turn on the light. I went straight to the new bed she’d created out of a cardboard box; cats love boxes, love any hidey-bed they can find. I looked down and saw a fluffy, white tail. Even before I reached in to touch him, stone-cold and hard as a rock, I knew. I knew he was gone. Didn’t stop the major freak out that followed as I picked up my beautiful, blue-eyed baby boy and gave in to hysterics. I went racing downstairs with him. Mom came running.

“What’s wrong?”

“Alice!”

“Why? What’s wrong with Alice?”

“He’s dead!”

Poor Mom. I think she aged 20 years in the span of about 20 seconds. No sign of illness or injury. Happily running around with his litter mates, Emmylou and Ozzy, Mom Priscilla, and pals Whitney, Kirby (surrogate father), Rosco, Paz and Pearl right up until the end. Other than a couple of fleas–and we’re not “infested”, just overdue to pick up more flea prevention–he was fine as frog hairs. Or seemed to be. After I calmed down enough to talk without babbling, I called my best friend, Mary, who works at a vet hospital in the Midwest. Without actually seeing him, but based upon my description, it is likely he had some sort of congenital heart disease or defect, possibly something he was born with but wasn’t detected earlier in the year when he went in for neutering, shots, etc.

I am devastated. I lost my cool last night after I found him, railed at God, yelled, swore better than the best truck driver or sailor, raged. He was only 15 months’ old. And such a sweetheart. When he wanted attention, he planted himself at your feet, looked up, blue eyes squinting as he grinned up and purred loud enough to shake the floorboards–or almost. My last moments with him were in the rabbit room that morning, a brief playtime with the feather and a quick cuddle before I ran out the door to the food pantry.

I got Jeremiah 29:11 again yesterday, too. To paraphrase, it says that His plans are to give us a hope and a future. I’m not sure if I believe it now. I’m not sure it truly is a good future without Alice. I do know I was blessed for the 15 months that we shared on this earth. I just can’t wrap my mind around the why of it though. When they’re older, like Ariel, though it cut to the core, I knew it was coming, expected it. At 16 years of age, it was inevitable. But with Alice, well, I guess this is an example of that limited understanding of humans. I know when I signed on to this homesteading thing, when I signed on to rescue and care for as many unwanted and unfortunate animals as He gave me the means to do so, that heartache was a part of the deal. But I’m angry right now. That beautiful flame-point, double-pawed, blue-eyed sweetie was beloved of everyone in this household…and everyone who visited. I had more offers to give him a home–even from another best friend, whom I know would have cared for him as well, if not better, than I could…from the moment he was born. He was impossible not to love. There’s the blessing, that such a creature should grace my life at all. I’m about out of hope though. That’s 3 in as many weeks: Ariel on November 1st, Charity the Chicken was found decapitated a week later in the barnyard (owl hunt) and now Alice. I feel as though I’ve been clubbed to my knees. Though I try to hold onto my faith, wanting desperately to believe that I may one day see all those–human and humane–that I have lost, that’s lagging a bit, too. Awful thing for a minister to say but I’m lucky even to make a coherent post through the tears.

I love you, Alice Cooper Burbank…heaven must’ve needed another angel.

May God bless you & keep you!

PS I have pictures of him but they’re all on my cellphone. As soon as I figure out how to download them, I’ll post them. =O

Abuse, Alcoholism, Faith, Gratitude, Healing, Homesteading, Religion, Spirituality

Trust Issues

Lisa Burbank

“For I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord. They are plans for good and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.” Jeremiah 29:11

This biblical quote has been given to me twice this week. First, it was part of the readings in church this past Sunday. Yesterday, another member of the Christian Mompreneur Network, quoted it to me after I posted a prayer request on their Facebook page. I don’t really need a third to tell me He’s trying to get my attention, that I need to learn how to trust that He is a loving God and Father. To trust, period.

Ironically, today’s post in my Al-Anon daily reader, Courage to Change, traveled along the same theme: “‘Let Go and Let God’ teaches us to release problems that trouble and confuse us because we are not able to solve them by ourselves.” But maybe it’s not so ironic. Because this is exactly what I need to keep hearing right now. That I am loved. That I have not been abandoned.

I am a chronic worrier. And only He knows how many years I’ve probably sheared off of my life by doing so. You’d think after years of stressing and worrying–and all of the myriad stress-related conditions that I’ve developed from it: Irritable Bowel Syndrome, Acid Reflux, Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, Chronic Epstein-Barr, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder–that I would have gotten the memo decades ago. Granted, many of these maladies are also a result of a poor diet growing up. Mom has ever been the queen of packaged, processed junk food. But it is the combination of the two that really sets it all off. And, of course, it is a vicious cycle. The poorer the diet, the more stress on the body, and, what do many of us do when we’re stressed? We reach for the junk food.

Why do I worry so much? Because I am a control freak. Growing up, scary things were always happening in my home. Having a cold beer or two, or a glass of wine isn’t inherently bad, and I’m not a tee-totaler. However, the step-father kept going until he was raging drunk. From the age of 5 and up, he skulked about looking for any opportunity to get me alone so he could do things that were frightening and painful. We had pictures hung in odd places from a fist or a foot colliding with the wall. And, on more than one occasion, the police were at our door. I know that I have a choice now. And I choose to live without such a scary environment. Albeit, I do so by somewhat isolating myself from friendships, both new and old; I seem to have forgotten how to make those needed connections. But the scars run deep. And I am perpetually driven to find some worth in myself.

Actually, I’ve gotten better with the self-esteem thing. Around 12 years of age, the skulking thing stopped. For the most part. Albeit I still slept with a pocket knife under my pillow…just in case. The drinking raged on. And we all heard almost daily how stupid we were; how we couldn’t do anything right, etc. All of the little jabs that pepper an alcoholic’s speech. Yes, I understand it is a disease. And this is the disease talking. But, growing up hearing it, you start to believe. It didn’t matter that I was a straight-A student, that my name was often on the honor roll. I was also perpetually laughed at and picked on in school. And my first “crush” in high school? When he found out I liked him, told me he wouldn’t go out with anyone as ugly as me if I was the last girl on earth. By that point, I already believed myself “damaged goods”. I’m divorced twice. In more immediate times, I’ve had family members bad-mouthing me behind my back. I’ve allowed myself to be taken advantage of. People close to me do not follow through with things they’ve committed to–and I don’t always hold them accountable. And, most recently, I’ve lost a lifelong and close family member because I wouldn’t shut my doors and my heart to other family members with whom she was feuding. So, yes, the self-worth thing has been a long road to travel to a healthier self-image.

To be honest, today I am quite comfortable in my own skin. I’m too old to be a candidate for Miss Universe but I am confident I wouldn’t qualify as a blooper either. I don’t write any of this to be wearing my heart on my sleeve but merely to explain where some of this journey started, why trust is such an issue with me.

The biggest thing I have struggled with throughout all of my life is the belief that He is a loving God. Or, more appropriately, a loving Father. The condensed explanation of my life is that my biological father has never wanted anything to do with me, and my step-father wanted too much to do with me, so the concept of a loving Father in heaven has been tough to wrap my mind around. For other victims of abuse, this is quite common (I’ve had 20+ years of therapy). And, where I start to wane, is in the “waiting on the Lord”. I tend to be impatient. I know the best things in life are worth waiting for but the waiting makes me anxious. And I’m apt to sabotage my own efforts if the waiting goes on too long.

This is happening in my life now.

I left work on a Friday in 2008 with 30K in a 401K account to plunk down as a down-payment on a property in Maine. This is when the crash happened. I came back on Monday with only 3K available for that down-payment. I let it go. A year later, I was laid off from the corporate position. Though I would miss many of the friends I’d made in that position, I cheered as I drove out of the parking lot. The last few years there, I’d driven into work raging and miserable. It wasn’t what I wanted to do. As I began the long, arduous journey of unemployment, never suspecting how long and arduous it would be, I turned my focus back on my current property, determined to create a small homestead here. And it definitely has potential but I’m looking to spread my wings and fly; I’ve kept them clipped for way too long now. However, as the world spreads out before me, my lack of trust that He will provide, that everything will work out in better ways than I could ever imagine (i.e. step out in faith), keeps me worrying that when I finally do spread those wings, I’m liable to go splat on the pavement.

Family members and close friends parrot predestination platitudes about things being “meant to be”. While I believe in predestination in some areas, such as death and taxes, falling back on these platitudes keeps one perpetually in a victim mentality. Yes, “Let Go and Let God” but haven’t we all heard that He helps those who help themselves? That means we cannot have a lukewarm faith; we have to have an active faith. And I have to step out in that faith, flapping those wings like ain’t nobody’s business, trusting that I will be airborne, rather than a half-hearted rustling of those feathers that will surely result in that splat I live in fear of. Fear is the opposite of faith. And it keeps me grounded…and not in a good way.

As for wrapping my mind around the concept of a loving Father in heaven? While I may not have an earthly image to compare it to, the scared and scarred little girl often dreamed of what a loving father might look like. While he may have worn the faces of Pa Ingalls, John Walton Sr. or Mike Brady, I believe my Father in heaven is equal to all of these images…and more. My personal God will never leave me. My personal God will not abandon me.

It’s time to fly…

May God bless you & keep you!

“Worry is like a rocking chair. It gives you something to do, but it doesn’t get you anywhere.” – Anonymous

aquaponics, compost, ecosystems, Environment, gardening, Homesteading, Nature, Organic, vermicomposting, Zero Waste

Aquaponics 101…or Dreams of Fish, Flora and Fauna.

Lisa Burbank

I am pumped.

Fueled.

Psyched.

I’ve been viewing some videos produced by a man named Murray Hallam, who hales from Australia, about Aquaponics. I’ve had an interest in this for some time but, for some strange reason, have not satisfied my curiosity about it…until last week when I decided to type “Aquaponics” in the Facebook search engine and came across his Facebook page. He provides a link to his website and a host of videos that provide a good introduction to this phenomena.

And, yes, phenomena would be the perfect terminology when one considers what this man–and others–are growing in such a system: potatoes, squash, cucumbers, papaya, and even bananas and mangoes! Who would’ve thought? As a Master Gardener, I am well-familiar with hydroponics, which uses a “raft” (a square of styrofoam with circles cut out with which to “plant” the plants) in a tub of water to grow greens, strawberries, and some herbs. But, because there are no fish involved–fish, which supply the much-needed nutrients each plant requires–there is a limit to what can be grown in hydroponics. From what I have been able to learn from these videos, hydroponics is designed for growing lots of a single crop, or a handful of crops in a rotational manner, similar to the big agribusiness farms out West. And, because it is designed for monoculture, nutrients must be added to keep the plants healthy. Oftentimes, especially in commercial operations where a large output is needed to stay afloat (no pun intended), synthetic fertilizers, plant feed, and even pesticides are added. They’re not needed with aquaponics. The only additive that Mr. Hallam added to his tanks was a bit of either compost tea or worm tea.

What is compost tea? It is very simple. You take a handful of composted waste from your compost bin, place it in a mesh bag, tie it off and steep it in a barrel of water–much like a giant bucket of tea. Then you pour that water into your tank (or, for those of more traditional garden means, you can pour this nutrient-rich “tea” into the soil around your plants). Worm tea is the run-off from a vermicomposting set up. Vermicomposting is using worms to digest kitchen waste. It is very easy to do. Get a square box, drill a small hole in the side towards the bottom and put a plug in it. Layer strips of newspaper (non-shiny…i.e. no glossy advertisements), and/or wood shavings in the bottom of the box (PS Box should be wooden or plastic, not cardboard as the worms may eat that, too, and it won’t hold up to all the moisture inside) and then add some worms. Red wigglers work best. Now start adding in all of your kitchen scraps: vegetable peelings and cores, eggshells, spent tea leaves and coffee grinds (minus the paper filters or actual tea bags) and those little guys will start eating it up. As they eat, they do what every other creature does after eating–they excrete. This pools up into the bottom of the box and this is the reason for the plugged hole. This worm excrement is the consistency of tea, a liquid black gold that has nothing to do with the petroleum industry and everything to do life. After about 2 weeks of steady feeding of these scraps, you should be able to harvest this “tea” by simply placing a bucket under that plugged hole and pulling out the plug. This, too, may be added directly to your soil as a natural means of fertilizing it. Also, for those of you in more northerly climates, you may also cover this worm bin with straw to help insulate it but there are companies out there that sell vermicomposting systems at a fairly low cost. They are designed to actually sit in your kitchen, being a fairly attractive apparatus, with a handy little spigot at the bottom for extracting the “tea”.

Anyway, I’ve veered a little off subject but that’s what happens when I get all fired up about something. My enthusiasm takes me away. And that’s what has happened with the viewing of these videos. Now that I have a better understanding of how it all works, I want to plunge right in and get started. But I may need a greenhouse for that as New England is rapidly approaching winter and the freezing temps that go along with it. And I have no desire to go ice fishing–even if it is a popular endeavor with many fishermen.

So how does it work? The system is comprised of multiple tubs, or basins. There are actually three types of grow “beds”. One is a raft system with the styrofoam “grid” (picture a square of styrofoam with 16-20 circles, about the size of the bottom of a styrofoam cup, cut into it in neat little rows). Another is called a media bed that has gravel or clay pellets and you plant directly into them. This is for more “permanent” plants like squash or corn, whereas the raft system is more for quick-growing plants like leafy greens and strawberries. The last is a wicking bed, which is used for growing root vegetables. It is similar to the media bed with its gravel but the plants are placed in a basket of gravel and then the basket is set inside a media bed (water and gravel). This keeps the roots from becoming too soggy and rotting. Some systems also have towers, which are basically PCB pipes with holes drilled in them for planting so that you can take advantage of vertical spacing…but you need a stronger pump for these. And, of course, you also have a tank or two of fish. Mr. Hallam recommends jade perch, tilapia, or carp as being the most hardy for these systems. In short, waste water from the fish is pumped up into the grow beds. The plants filter this waste water, extracting the nutrients from the fish waste, and then the filtered water goes back into the fish tank. In the media and wicking beds, the water is actually drained and then re-filled in a constant cycle, which is how the roots are kept from rotting; in the raft beds, you need a means of aerating it. (Not sure if the latter are also drained; still learning…)

What I liked best about this is that it is a perfect eco-system. Yes, you will get bugs–both beneficial and some not-so-beneficial. But, if your system is maintained properly, you’ll strike a good balance in keeping those harmful bugs to a minimum.

Yes, an aquaponics’ system does require energy to run. Mr. Hallam has a video about using solar. He had four batteries connected to 20 solar panels to power his Indy 23 system (he designs aquaponics’ systems). He also talks about using wood pulp/shavings/mulch in a pile that you keep moist–basically, green compost–and burying some geothermal coils in it. As the moistened mulch heats up, it heats the water in the coils and that keeps your plants at a nice, even temperature. So there are definitely alternatives and, with a little Yankee ingenuity (even if you’re not a Yank!), it may be easy enough to set something up at a reasonable cost. When one considers how much food can be grown in such a system, that certainly outweighs the cost of operation. You’re getting both vegetables and fish to eat, as the fish are also harvested regularly, and both are free of harmful chemicals. In one of his videos, Mr. Hallam, talks about feeding his fish naturally (i.e. no commercial fish feed), using some of the greens grown in his beds, vegetable waste, steel-cut oatmeal (dried oatmeal) and, occasionally, some finely-cut chicken. Fish, like chickens, eat just about anything. For fish, it simply has to be cut up a little smaller.

There is also a segment about the yield one of these systems can produce: 19.8 lbs. of Swiss chard from just 3 plants; 88 lbs. of tomatoes from 5 bushes; 22 lbs. of beets from 60 plants; 33 lbs. of lettuce from 30 plants; 6 lbs. of radishes from 60 plants. Those were some samples. It’s pretty impressive. And it’s food security at its best. In today’s market, with so many herbicides and pesticides killing our rivers and streams, animals, plant life, and human life, finding healthier ways to grow food is a worthy endeavor.

For more information, you may visit Mr. Hallam’s website at https://murrayhallam.com

May God bless you & keep you!

Creativity, Healing, Herbs, Homesteading, Minimalism, Nature

A “Tiny” Drool

Lisa Burbank

I don’t remember his name. I do remember he was a professor at a college in Massachusetts and that he was looking for a slightly larger tiny house closer to his work. His current tiny house was approximately 124 square feet. That’s a bit too small for me; if I were to build a tiny house, it would be closer to 300 square feet. And the loft would be tall enough I could sit up straight without bumping my head. He couldn’t in his loft. I wasn’t drooling over his tiny house. I was drooling over what he’d built around it and the lifestyle he was leading with this first tiny house.

Nestled in the New Hampshire woods, this permaculture farm provided for all of his needs. He grew fruits and vegetables, raised chickens for eggs, and there were even a couple of pigs running around. Albeit, as a pescetarian, I would likely omit the pigs for anything other than pets but to each their own. I may not have a need to fill my freezer with ham or bacon but I can appreciate this low-impact lifestyle, this more sustainable and healthier way of living. As he was growing and raising his food, he knew exactly what was in it, how it was fed. That was worth the drool. He was entirely off the grid. That, too, was worth a drool. And what made me chuckle was the bowl bath he took outside each day. Now I have no aspirations to dance around sky-clad under a full moon or anything but, that he could get away with such, without being hauled into court somewhere for indecent exposure, is a measure of the freedom this man enjoyed. For someone who feels so totally oppressed living on a major interstate with the fish bowl effect, this was definitely something to drool over. I like my privacy. And this man had it in abundance.

Yeah. I am a bit of the hermit in the woods. Don’t get me wrong. I love people. But I also love my solitude. Quiet time for me is how I rejuvenate. Granted, my idea of “quiet” time typically involves the CD player cranking out some Within Temptation or Blackmore’s Night while I paint or draw–and I do plenty of that right here on Route 6. But I’m not surrounded by woods. I’m not walking out my door and hearing nothing but crickets chirping and bird song. I’ve got the perpetual hiss and rumble of traffic zooming by, the growl of a semi down-shifting as it passes through this little strip of residential properties. And, as I type this, I am realizing how much I’m growing to hate the noise most of all.

Yeah. I think that decision I lamented about a few posts’ back is already made. Yes, I can start with what I have right here. There’s land enough to grow fruits, vegetables and herbs, and I have done so in the past. This summer, we grew very little as I concentrated on building and outlining more raised beds. But it comes in fits and starts as I consider the filtering of carbon monoxide which undoubtedly contaminates everything I grow here. There’s also the continuous development of commercial land in this area. This strip of Route 6 is rapidly becoming a big box nightmare. So I procrastinate. I do so, too, because life here is still in financial limbo. I’ve been on mortgage assistance since 2013. While I am grateful that it saved my home and put me right-side up again on the mortgage payments, this is a loan. And it is a bit counter-intuitive in my quest for getting out of debt. But, without it, I’d likely lose even this noisy, little patch of land. So I take a step forward, then a couple backwards. A friend of mine called it projectoral thinking. It’s anticipation of the worst-case scenario. And, in doing so, I trigger the law of attraction and welcome in my worst nightmares–maybe. I’m also a cock-eyed optimist. But I can’t help wondering from time to time, if I throw all of my efforts into developing this property into the homestead of my dreams, that some hotshot developer is going to suddenly want to buy it for a strip mall. At this point in time, I’d likely let him. But, at present, I need to focus in on that decision and concentrate all of my energies on whatever path I eventually choose.

It’s time for a change. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll find my own little woodsy oasis in the middle of nowhere where I can dance around naked under a full moon without scaring any neighbors–but only on Halloween.

May God bless you & keep you!

Abuse, Alcoholism, Animals, Creativity, Faith, Healing, Homesteading

In Limbo

Lisa Burbank

“Yes, the Lord hears the good man when he calls to him for help, and saves him out of all his troubles…the good man does not escape all troubles–he has them, too. But the Lord helps him in each and every one.” Psalm 34: 17, 19

I’m struggling. I just can’t seem to make up my mind whether to stay or to go. I’m talking about my property, of course. Northeastern Connecticut is an expensive place to live. I’ve only part-time work. I’m still on mortgage assistance and I would really like to get off of it, which will take either full-time employment or a break where business is concerned. Going deeper into debt is definitely NOT a good thing. But, while I have this assistance, I am grateful for it, for the help that it is providing until I can get my financial feet under me.

And then I wonder why I care when every third day I think about moving.

In the upper right-hand corner (or maybe it’s the left…) of my brain is this little picture. It is a property in Maine, somewhere along the coast. I’ve been painting it on the mural that is slowly taking shape on my office wall. I don’t know if this property really exists or not. And I do know I would likely have to win the lottery to afford it–or any property at this moment. But, deep down inside, there is a large part of me that wants more land, wants the ability to follow all of my dreams. It’s a part of me that wants to shrug off the advice to start with what I have. Yes, I know I can do great things here; the wheels are already in motion to develop this little just-under-an-acre property into a working micro-homestead. But then I hear another 18 wheeler zooming by, just outside my window, and I long for even a tent pitched in the middle of the Maine woods.

Of course, leaving would mean moving away from family and friends. And that’s nothing to sneeze at. It also means that this property will likely become commercial once I leave. As this house is a fixer-upper, any business purchasing the land will likely bulldoze it down. That doesn’t bother me as much as they might pave over–or worse, dig up–the myriad fur- and feather-babies who have been laid to rest here. As I just laid Ariel to rest a week ago today, that really bothers me. And yet, as this area of Connecticut becomes more and more commercial, the noise, the traffic, and the restrictions that come along with it, will also increase.

I feel like now is the time to be taking some action. And I realize that I’m waiting for a “sign”, a sign that may never come. I’m waiting for “perfect” conditions to point me in the “right” direction. I’m looking for guarantees in life. And there aren’t any…except through Him. The only way out of this “rut” of indecision is to make a choice and then follow through with it. If I keep sitting on the fence, I will still be here 10 years from now wondering if I should stay or go. If I finally make a decision, He will allow everything to fall into place. Perhaps by my indecision, my lack of faith and trust, I am standing in the way of one of His miracles.

“For I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord. They are plans for good and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope. In those days when you pray, I will listen. You will find me when you seek me, if you look for me in earnest.” Jer. 29:11-13

Hasn’t the good Lord brought me this far? Why do I doubt? Why does that little girl who was abused and molested, called stupid, and suppressed still doubt her worth? How far reaching are the effects of someone like me who has been affected by another’s drinking? After over 20 years of therapy, fear, doubt, mistrust, and self-esteem issues still ripple through with the effect of a tidal wave, keeping me “stuck”. This is where I must step out in faith. After all those years of therapy, I have the “tools”; it is time and past to finally use them.

Wow.

I feel like I’m looking over the edge of a precipice, one toe inching towards that edge but I’m already feeling that aching “drop” in the pit of my stomach. Feel the fear and do it anyway? No, He won’t let me fall–at least not to go “splat”; if I drop at all, it’ll be to learn something important. Right?

“And the day came when the risk to remain in a tight bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom” Anais Nin

That’s becoming more true by the minute. I know what I want and where I want to go. The bottom of that precipice is a long way down but, maybe that is the key. If rock bottom is so far below, then, as I stand on this precipice of doubt and insecurity, perhaps I’m closer to the top of the world than I have allowed myself to believe. Perhaps that precipice is really a mirage and what’s under my feet is rock solid.

I take a deep breath and glance up at the mural on my wall. It’s not complete yet but the extensive gardens filled with herbs, fruits, vegetables and flowers; the sailboats gliding along the water; the Shetland and Border Leicester sheep being herded by the Border collies yet to be; the Angora rabbits waiting to be groomed and sheared; the canoe tied up at my own dock; the goats nibbling at the bottom of an apple tree; the multiple hives full of honey–all of them beckon. And I know it is only a mural if I keep hanging in limbo.

Who cares about the drop if I learn to fly?

May God bless you & keep you!

Alcoholism, Animals, Healing, Herbs, Homesteading, Nature, Writing

Odds and Ends…and Apologies

Lisa Burbank

First, the apology. For being “absent” for the last two days and sporadically posting this past week in general. A recent resignation by our Titles’ Clerk at the dealership, just days before our supervisor’s week-long vacation, has provided some much-needed extra hours (and pay!) to keep things running, well, maybe not “smoothly” but certainly running…period. And I am happy to pitch in and help. But it’s certainly thrown a curve ball into my daily routine. I’ve even fallen off of the wagon, so to speak, with my 3:30 a.m. rising time; the longer days requiring some extra ZZZ’s to stay on top of things. However, this morning I awakened at exactly 3:44 a.m., which isn’t bad considering I forgot to set my alarm last night, so maybe this is a sign we’re getting back in the groove again–a good groove. My apologies for allowing myself to fall out of that groove in the first place. While this is a free blog, there is an old saying that “paying customers deserve prompt and regular service”; my regular readers deserve regular posts to keep reading.

Anywho, now that I’m back–albeit, my work schedule is still fuller than usual for the rest of this week–some updates on the homestead.

I hate making these reports. I lost one of my Plymouth Barred-Rock chickens Saturday evening. My Patience started looking “off” a few days’ before, back roached, stomach distended. One of my other chickens started pecking at her–not brutally, more like a nudge to say, “Hey, are you okay?” but I decided to bring her indoors, lest, some of the more aggressive birds decide to have a real go at her. After checking to be certain she wasn’t egg bound, I heated some olive oil in a sauce pan, added a tablespoon of minced garlic, and let it simmer for a while. After it cooled, I filled an eyedropper and gave it to her. Garlic is a fine antibiotic as well as being good for expelling worms, and chickens fairly love it. I added a bit more of the dried, minced garlic to her feed, along with some fennel (good for digestion) and dried parsley, which is also good for worms. Parsley has the added benefit of being good for constipation and obstructions of the intestinal tract (De Bairacli Levy 118-119). She balked at these treatments at first but, over time, I would say she at least resigned herself to them. I even gave her an olive oil enema because she was not passing her waste but it was to no avail. I found her when I came home from work Saturday night. Patience was one of my older hens but, losing beloved pets, is something you never quite get “used to”. Albeit, I have noticed a certain thicker skin happening where my chickens are concerned. Despite a healthy, varied diet, plenty of room to stretch their legs, dust baths, and good, clean housing, they tend to go down rather quickly and, sometimes, unexpectedly. They can be quite stoic, not displaying any symptoms of illness or even injury until those final moments. They are also pretty high on the food chain and predation can also be a problem. However, I never considered, when I first took up homesteading, how many times I would also adopt the role of “gravedigger”. I know that nobody–human or humane–lives forever but knowing that doesn’t make it any easier–and I hope it never does become “easy”; that’s when I quit.

Today would have been my paternal grandfather’s birthday. He would have been 111 years old so not likely I would still have him in my life even if alcoholism hadn’t ended his time here on earth at only 68 years’ old, but I always mark this day as special, remembering him and the legacy he left behind. Calef Burbank (and that’s pronounced with a long A: KAY-lef) wrote for the Providence Journal for 40 years as an investigative reporter. He was even nominated for the Pulitzer Prize for his writing. Some of my earliest memories of him are watching him bang away at the old manual typewriter and emulating him. I loved that old typewriter and, though I prefer the speed at which my fingers can fly over this modern PC keyboard–a speed that can keep pace better with my thoughts–there will always be a nostalgic love for the manuals. In addition to his writing, he was a gifted pianist, guitarist, taught me to play chess at the tender age of 3, enjoyed learning, bird watching, and ginger snap cookies. I can say “ditto for me” with the exception of piano playing. He tried teaching me as a little girl but I was too impatient, preferring to bang away with wild abandon and a lot of discord; he finally gave up on me. Today, I wish I’d absorbed those teachings as readily as I did the chessboard.

Lastly, I spent an hour yesterday morning building four more raised beds for the herb garden. I am hoping this wonderful Indian summer lasts long enough to build a few more before the cold creeps back in. With a little luck–and a lot of hard work–next summer may be the first of many physical “weed” walks. Keep your fingers crossed!

May God bless you & keep you!

Works Cited

De Bairacli Levy, Juliette. The Complete Herbal Handbook for the Farm and Stable, Fourth Edition. Faber and Faber, New York: 1991.

Abuse, Alcoholism, Faith, Healing, Homesteading

The Right Tools

Lisa Burbank

Yesterday saw me being warmed the first time by the wood for the woodstove. For those of you unfamiliar with the old saying, when you heat your home with wood, that wood warms you twice. Once during the splitting and stacking, the second in the woodstove or hearth. Albeit, this is wood for next year’s heat but I worked up a sweat nonetheless. Primarily because these logs are too thick for the splitter and need to be cut down into more manageable pieces; the little hand saw I have is too small for the job. But I am stubborn woman. I was determined to get some wood cut. So I sawed away and, while the back and wrists screamed abuse at me, I also managed to create at least a small pile of wood that’s just the right size for the stove. When I look at that pile, I wonder how much more effective I would have been with the right tools, how much more progress I would have made.

Living with alcoholism–someone else’s, not my own–is much the same. I was a child growing up with a stepfather who drank heavily and remember my mother cajoling and threatening him to stop drinking. You’d think I had learned a valuable lesson watching all of this but, years later, I found myself in a relationship with an alcoholic and guess what? I cajoled and threatened him repeatedly to stop drinking. I even stayed in the relationship longer than necessary out of that sheer stubbornness–even when the relationship turned abusive. No, he never beat me; he threatened to. But it was enough…along with the verbal and mental abuse that leaves more permanent and painful scars than any physical abuse ever could. I used the wrong tools. And, though there were periods of sobriety and a glimpse at the beautiful person lost in this dis-ease, how much more effective would that campaign have been had I used the proper tools?

Proper tools? “Tools” such as faith; such as “Letting Go And Letting God”; such as detaching with love; such as minding my own business and taking care of myself, despite his drunken escapades. In short, working my Al-Anon program. Instead, every time he opened a can of beer or a bottle of something stronger, I waited and watched, making myself scarce until he nodded off from the effects. Then I did the chores I needed to finish before bed–a bedtime that came much too late for such an early rising time. Doing them while he was awake and alert might’ve incurred some harsh criticism from him; how I did my work was never good enough. And I was liable to take exception and give in to the jabs, to take hold of the bait for another argument. As I went through these nightly routines, I did so on tiptoes, afraid to awaken him. The same result would have happened; we would end up fighting. Sometimes I even went so far as to open a few cans while he slept and poured them down the drain. Did I really think that would stop him if he believed he’d drank 10 cans instead of 6 or 8? Did he really care about the number of cans or the amount of whiskey still left in the bottle? Was he fooled by my pitiful manipulations? Not in the least. He knew exactly how many beers/how much whiskey he’d consumed before he nodded off. We fought anyway. I tried to control him as he often controlled me. I tried to change him, to force my hand. The right “tool” would’ve been to change myself. I eventually did. The relationship ended. And he’s still drinking heavily, night after night.

I’ve learned some valuable lessons about having the right “tools”. While my cajoles and threats might have resulted in a few, brief periods of sobriety in this alcoholic–much like my stubborn insistence to cut wood with a saw too small for the size of the wood, resulted in a small pile of heat source–they did not effect the change that would’ve meant “success” for me. Instead, the alcoholic drank more and the fighting grew worse. This dis-ease is too great for mere stubbornness and manipulation to conquer, just like those enormous trunks of wood are too great to split and stack with a mere hand saw and an aging back. But, unlike the former situation, I can purchase a bigger saw, a better tool–the right tool–and get exactly the result I crave…and my back will thank me for it. Had I used the right tools with the alcoholic, and given the situation to the God of my consciousness, who knows what miracles might have taken place?

May God bless you & keep you!

Animals, Healing, Herbs, Holistic Health, Homesteading, Nature

Wednesday’s Weed Walk with the Crazy Cat Lady

Lisa Burbank

That title should make it obvious what herb I’m going to write about today: Nepeta cataria, or more commonly known as, Catnip.

Catnip typically conjures up cartoon images of helpless felines languishing about in the sun, looking like someone on a healthy dose of Cannabis…and, in this household, with 10 felines, that image is pretty accurate. I keep a quart-size mason jar in my pantry full of dried catnip; the moment I unscrew the lid, every feline comes running. And the effects are almost instantaneous as even my geriatric felines start rolling around like young kittens, only to nod off into dreamland shortly thereafter. They also like to eat the dried leaves and, as it is very good for them, I allow them to take all they want.

Catnip is a mild sedative and is an excellent remedy for nervousness and hyperactivity in children (m. Tierra 114). It is also a carminative (relieves gas and bloating) and a diaphoretic (induces sweating), helping to ease fevers and colds. However, it is the analgesic properties to which I have lately been putting Catnip to use (M. Tierra 32). Catnip relieves pain. And, as the mammary tumor grows under my Ariel’s right front leg, keeping her comfortable is important. At her age (she’s 16), surgery is no longer an option and, to be honest, I am not overly-confident it is the best course of action anyway. It is highly-invasive and extremely painful for them; I’ve witnessed it time and again. Ditto for many allopathic pain-relievers that eventually shutdown the major organs. Fortunately, our vet’s sister is an herbalist and he approves many of the herbal alternatives, carries many of their tinctures in his clinic. She is under his care, just not under the knife. And the Catnip does appear to ease her pain and discomfort. What’s more, it is a lot easier getting her to drink an eyedropper-full of Catnip “tea” than some of the more orthodox remedies with their medicinal tastes.

For humans, Catnip tea is very good for easing headaches, toothaches, and the deep-down body aches and pains of fever and flu (Tierra 114). It also tastes good so give it a try. Your cats will love you.

May God bless you & keep you!

**These statements have not been evaluated by the Food and Drug Administration. This article has been presented for educational purposes only; it is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent disease.”

Works Cited

Tierra, Michael. The Way of Herbs. Pocket Books, New York: 1998

Alcoholism, Ghosts, Hauntings, Healing, History, Homesteading, Supernatural

The Hanging Tree

Lisa Burbank

As we coast into October and my favorite time of the year, it wouldn’t be complete without a few ghost stories here or there. After all, the funnest holiday of the year (in my not-so-humble opinion…) falls on the very last day of this month–Halloween, or Samhain.

What does this have to do with homesteading?

Everything…if your homestead sits where your community’s hanging tree used to be. This little almost-acre of land is where the Windham County Hanging Tree used to be, or so I’ve been told. And it makes sense.

hanging-tree

When Dan and I first purchased this property back in 2001, I started having reoccurring dreams of walking in the door from work and seeing a pair of blue-jean clad legs hanging from the upper banister. I didn’t have a clue where these dreams were coming from or why I was having them. Being a bit superstitious at times, I also worried that maybe this might be a bit of a premonition…and I hoped I was wrong. My ex-husband, Dan–husband at the time–was an alcoholic but he didn’t strike me as being depressed or, in any other way, being a likely candidate for suicide, as that was what I perceived this potential premonition to be warning. Nope. It just didn’t fit. Dan was tied too strongly into his faith, into family. He loved life too much and, even though he drank heavily, he was always a happy-go-lucky sort of drunk. He drank more as a social thing rather than a need to get wasted…even if a 30 Pack on the weekend was “normal” for him.

The mystery of these dreams wasn’t revealed until Dan and I filed for divorce in 2004. Initially, we had placed the house on the market but, at the time, Route 6 was in the middle of some major construction and we had a trench running the full length of the property between the road and our front yard. To get into the driveway, you had to drive over some steel “planks” the construction crew had placed over the gaping hole. Needless to say, we had little to no curb appeal. After several months, the real estate company was ready to reduce our price unless one of us would consider trying to get a pre-approval for the mortgage. Dan had some major gambling debts that prohibited him from refinancing and, as he was living with his older brother–and the two were proving incompatible for co-habitation–he looked at me. At first, I balked. I really didn’t want to stay. It was too expensive for a single person. It needed a lot of work that I didn’t know how to do and couldn’t afford to have done. I saw the financial struggles I would have–all of which have proven prophetic–as well as the restrictions that living in a rapidly becoming commercial zone might bring. I wanted acreage. But, as another week went by without any interest at all, I decided to try. I had a good paying job, though I hated it, and it would mean I could stay somewhat settled. So I applied. And I won. But there was a stipulation. I would have to paint the house before the mortgage company would give me the loan. (Yes, that raised a few eyebrows here, too, but, in light of the fixer-upper state, I guess it made some sense.)

I tend to be a bit of a spiteful person. I am one of those people that if you tell me I have to do something, I automatically dig my heels in. However, digging my heels in would’ve been counterproductive to what I was trying to accomplish so, instead, I decided to get funky with it. No “normal” color palette like white or yellow, or even touching up the blue that already graced the clapboards. Instead, I got it into my head to go with black. I didn’t jump on impulse. I actually took a trip to Home Depot and, in their paint department, they had a computer that was set up so you could get an idea what your house would look like with a particular paint scheme. So I typed in the style of house and then started “painting” it. I loved it! But it was still an overly-bold color scheme. Would the town balk at it with me being on the main road? I gave them a call the next day but there were no prohibitions in their charter. So I walked across the street to the hardware store, wanting to give the business to someone local rather than a big box store. I was also hoping they could give me an idea how many gallons I might need as I this was a DIY project–with the help of some friends, of course–and I confess to being a little out of my element.

The conversation with Bob went something like this:

“What color are you going with?”

“Black.”

“No, I mean for the house itself, not the trim.”

“I know. I’m painting it black.”

“What color do you want the trim?”

“Also black.”

“Black on black?”

“Except the front door. I want to paint that orange.”

There was a moment’s pause. Then Bob shook his head and said, “Let’s hope you don’t stir anything up over there.”

I latched onto that one immediately. Not only had I had reoccurring dreams, Dan and I had also experienced some unexplainable occurrences over the years; I had never thought to ask the neighbors about the house. And nothing was revealed when we closed on it in 2001 so I just chalked everything off to some over-active imaginations. Dan and I were both writers and artists after all. And we watched “Haunted History” on The History Channel and another show on The Travel Channel that featured haunted tourist traps religiously.

However, Bob nixed that explanation.

Every criminal that passed through Windham County met their end on this property until hanging was finally outlawed as a means for punishment. The actual tree, he assured me, has long since been cut down. No, that great big grandmother in the front yard that I’ve christened “Helen” was not the actual hanging tree. However, there is a large crevice in back where even the roots were dug out. The previous owners had planted a Rose of Sharon bush in that crevice. Perhaps as a way to heal its sordid past. Over the years, I’ve envisioned this place as a thriving herb farm; a holistic retreat center; a wildlife refuge for local and native plants and animals as a means to further heal this stain on the land.

Why should it matter so much? They were criminals after all. Except one of the stories Bob told me continues to haunt me: the last person hung here was a poor African American man who got caught stealing a cow because he was hungry and had nothing to eat. Was this his first offense? Or one of many? Had he turned to crime as a sort of profession? Or had an empty belly made him desperate? Did he have children who were also hungry? And, as this was 1905-ish, had the color of his skin played a hand in the lack of mercy that took his life for his desperation? There is no way of knowing but it seems a horrible way to lose one’s life. A murderer? Rapist? Yeah, maybe I’d feel differently. Despite being a minister, I’m not opposed to the death penalty for such, especially knowing that such crimes would likely be repeated if these individuals were released into society again. But it seems a little extreme for theft. No, I would be all over anyone who stole one of my chickens or goats–even for hunger–but I wouldn’t be wanting to string them up.

Amazingly, after having this conversation with Bob, the reoccurring dreams stopped.

May God bless you & keep you!

Herbs, Homesteading, Organic

Wednesday’s Weed Walks and Meanderings

Lisa Burbank

Though it has been Friday’s Flora and Fauna, I am thinking that “Wednesday’s Weed Walks” might be a better title because Wednesday might be a better day to schedule blog posts about various herbs and wild edibles. I seem to either be missing them–like yesterday–or else, they feel rushed to me. Fridays are my only days off of work. I figured that might be a good day to do the research so that I could provide a good posting about whatever herb or edible I was writing about. But Friday is also my day for all the “busy” work that takes over all of our lives. Yesterday was no exception.

Of course, yesterday a.m., after tending to all the myriad creatures that share this homestead with me, I grabbed breakfast, a cup of tea and a good book. I am an eternal bookworm. It was raining outside, windy and raw. The perfect weather for such a thing. But there was also a list of places I needed to go, things I needed to do. Mom and I shared a second cup of tea together then headed out.

We haven’t been grocery shopping in months. Little side trips to “pick up a few things” but nothing major. I also needed some herbs and we both wanted to pick up some books. In Danielson, which is the next town over from us, there is a second-hand bookstore that is just awesome. I know I’ve blogged about “Pourings and Passages” before; it has become a favorite. Granted, one must accept and make do with whatever has been donated to the store as it deals with second-hands, not current publications. Still, we find some great books. And, while they are second-hand, they are not that second-hand…i.e. so old as to be obsolete. And you can’t beat the prices. I came home with 5 “new” books for under $9. Mom did likewise. And, of course, we’ll share them with each other so we both have more than we bargained for.

Next stop was Homestead Herbs in Sterling. Bob runs a modest-looking store. In fact, it is so far off the beaten path that word-of-mouth is pretty much the only way one is likely to find it. But it is neat and clean, the herbs are organically-grown, the prices are better than reasonable, and best of all, the resident feline, Patches, is openly loving and affectionate. I restocked on a lot of culinary herbs–including some vanilla beans to make homemade vanilla extract; our bottle has gotten quite low as Mom and I both love to bake–as well as some green tea to better maintain my asthma, and both Echinacea and Slippery Elm to brew my singers’ tea. (That may be Wednesday’s Weed Walk…) After making our purchases, we chatted with Bob, paid more homage to Patches–as was her due–and did likewise to Goldie’s grave. Goldie is the former resident feline. She lived to be 22 years old so Bob must be doing something right. And, like Patches, she was openly loving and affectionate; must be a prerequisite at Homestead Herbs. We left the herb store and decided we were hungry so we stopped at Jade Garden for some Chinese cuisine. While there, I chatted with friend, Jasmine, one of the proprietors, and then we hit the road again to Aldi’s, Big Y and, lastly, Walmart’s.

It was pouring out when we finally made it home. Numerous trips to and fro, bringing in our purchases, had us both a little wet but, all in all, it was a productive day. Albeit, also an exhausting one, as well as an enjoyable one spent with Mom. I could’ve slept a little longer this morning but that may be the rain that’s still falling.

May God bless you & keep you!