Big News

With all the logistics more or less in place, I finally can announce that we are moving to New England at the end of the month! After five years of moaning about missing rainy days, waxing poetic about fall colors, and envying our east coast friends sleeping in on snow days, I suppose I can shut up. A 10-acre farm with a cozy country house and a proper 4-stall barn amid apple orchards, country stores, and equestrian farms awaits us and the animals.

California has been an excellent host these past five years. Even though cramped and crowded Laguna Beach wasn't my cup of tea, it's stupid to complain about living just blocks from the Pacific ocean. We had a marvelous year here on the avocado farm, which gave us a solid introduction to country living. Best of all, we've met lots of dynamic and interesting friends--people with big ideas and loads of talent. And, yes, I'll admit that it's possible I will miss the weather out here when I'm shoveling a path to the barn next January in sub-zero weather. (I like winter, but I'm not a complete weirdo. Temps below zero are not ideal.)

Nonetheless, we're not getting any younger, and there's still so much more to see and do.

"What's next?" I asked the Wrangler, as we started sorting through our closets.

The Wrangler paused to consider. "Well, our priority is getting those paddocks ready for the goats and sheep, because the current horse fencing won't keep them in. I still have to call the cable company. I'm not sure how the oil heating system works..."

"No, I mean what are we going to do after we've done the New England farm thing?' I asked, dreamily. "Maybe a ranch in Montana? A cabin in Alaska? I've always wanted to live in Seattle. What about a sheep farm in the Irish countryside? I would love all the green hills." I stopped when I saw the Wrangler's face. "Never mind! I suppose we should get through this move first, huh?"

We've finished this west coast chapter--but the book isn't closed. Who knows what the future holds?

Giving Thanks

As we all pause today to give thanks for our blessings, I can't help but feel especially thankful for the Wrangler. Fellow feminists, don't hate me for saying that marrying a genuinely nice guy is the smartest thing I've done. Don't worry--I can stand on my own two feet. But it's kinda nice knowing that I don't always have to.

Old Farmer, New Farmer

We're finally getting some cozy winterish weather--highs in the 60s, lows in the 40s, clouds. I'm thoroughly enjoying the shorter, post-Daylight Savings days, the sound of the furnace, plush down comforters, and chilly pets who want to snuggle on laps. As I write this now, it is pouring rain and I feel alive. With the monotonous summer weather finally out of the picture, I'm regaining my energy and motivation. I've been baking again (bread and cookies), crafting again (making cheese, candles, and hats), planning again (holiday activities and parties) and plotting again (working on the numbers for Snow Day Farm, my newly-christened farm business that I will be writing about in the coming days).

My dad just left after a wonderful week's visit. I took advantage of my status as a farmer's daughter and pored through farming books and data with my dad, who was raised on a 280-acre commercial farm, a smaller version of which is still in the family. In its heyday, the farm yielded large crops of soybeans, sugar beets, and corn, and kept at any given time 250 pigs, 500 chickens, and about 25 dairy cows (they sold only the cream; the milk was used by the family or fed to the pigs.) Dad's view of farming is pragmatic, whereas mine is admittedly more utopian. Dad farmed in an era in which pesticides were welcomed innovations, grain-fed cattle were considered to be superior to their grass-fed counterparts, and animals were products not pets (and certainly not family members!). He wasn't a back-to-the land hobby farmer, but he does understand what I'm trying to accomplish. Dad comes from a family of hardworking, self-sufficient entrepreneurs. He's shown us kids the value of being your own boss and relying on your own two hands whenever possible. I often wish that I'd listened to him more when I was growing up.

When I described my problems in making the numbers work for my envisioned hobby farm operation, Dad made things simple. "You have to remember that a hobby farm is just that: a hobby. You can have a few sheep, a couple goats, some chickens, and a horse or two for fun but not for profit. To make the numbers work, you have to think bigger. You want to sell fleece? You'll need at least 50 to 100 sheep."

The Wrangler tried not to look alarmed. "How many people does it take to care for 50 sheep?" he asked. Dad was matter-of-fact. "Just one. You put the sheep in a five-acre fenced pasture with a gate in the corner, and then rotate them into a second five-acre pasture as needed. Give 'em a three-sided shed for shelter. Sheep are easy. Goats, on the other hand..." We already were well-aware that Dad thinks Goats Are The Worst.

It sounded do-able. The only catch? His business model for my sheep farm would have me selling the older sheep for slaughter. "It's the only way to be profitable," he tried to explain. "You can't keep a bunch of old animals around. The expense of caring for them won't be recovered." Selling my little sheep for meat?? My eyes widened in horror. "No way! The animals get to stay on the farm forever and die peacefully in their sleep at ripe old ages," I proclaimed with benevolence.

"What are you really going to do with a herd of old animals?" Dad asked.

"Maybe the old sheep will naturally get thinned out...taken by predators when they're no longer quick enough to escape," I suggested, only semi-hopefully. Even the "nature conquers" scenario sounds pretty brutal.

"Wouldn't it be better to just spare them that misery, have them slaughtered for meat, and recoup some money?" Dad reasoned.

I see his point, but I just don't want to sell my farm animals for meat. There's got to be another way to make the numbers work. The only problem is that my dad is usually right about things.

Summer Nights

The rest of the country is suffering through a heat wave, but here on the farm we get cool breezes every day starting around 5PM. Some of the trees in the avocado grove recently were trimmed, and we have lots of great firewood for our evening campfires. Avocado wood seems to burn clean--no smoke and no sparks. We're stocking Jiffy-Pop popcorn, ingredients for s'mores, and pie fillings and Wonder bread. (The Wrangler makes a special campfire pie by spraying the inside of a campfire sandwich press with non-stick spray, pouring some canned pie filling between two slices of Wonder bread--I don't know why it has to be Wonder brand, but it just does--and toasting the concoction over the fire until golden brown. Apple pie filling is my favorite; the Wrangler prefers cherry or blueberry. You would never guess it's Wonder bread and not delicious pie crust.)

The quiet, the breeze, and the starry night sky erase the tension from the day's work in the city. But amid the romance, reality rears its head. While I was busy waxing poetic by the fire, Fenway quite literally reveled in the good smells of the country (in other words, rolled in some animal poop outside) and then beelined it for the house and called it a night. Let's just say it took us a little too long to learn of his transgression.

Tuning Out

Turns out, we might have been a little couch potato-ish when we lived in the cottage. As we were sitting outside by the fire tonight, the Wrangler and I realized that we never watch TV anymore. We do, however, play more music--on the iTunes but also on our instruments. There's just something about rolling hills, dreamy sunsets, and crackling campfires that make you want some background music instead of background chatter. We can strum our guitars as loud as we like, or we can crank up the volume for our speakers until the bass rattles. The coyotes probably think we're rude, but they can't call the cops.

A Year of Grace

A year ago today I fell off Moto. I'm about 95% as good as new, and I feel very, very blessed to have had so many shoulders to lean on this past year.

'Round the Ranch

Dash getting his nails trimmed. To keep that scruffy little jerk from biting us, we have to set down a jar of peanut butter and let him have at it.

Here at the ranch we're gearing up for the holidays. The weather admittedly has been pleasant, with low 70s during the day and cozy-ish low 60s at night. Things have been busy but banal--just a blend of pets, PT, riding, yoga, and lawyering. I'll have more time for some cowgirl ingenuity once I shed the thrice-weekly PT from the mix. I spent last weekend playing the semi-perfect homemaker: baking bread, roasting butternut squash, dutifully doing laundry (but then getting banned by the Wrangler from any such future endeavor; apparently my signature dumping of clean clothes from the dryer into a five-foot heap on the guest bed causes wrinkles--wrinkles that can't be remedied because we don't own an iron), scouring a holiday bazaar for Thanksgiving decorations, wrapping presents, designing the family Christmas card, ordering our Noble fir from Oregon (which will be chopped down this weekend and, like last year, fedexed to us in an astonishing display of environmental unfriendliness...but hey, a girl's gotta have some vices...), and lining up festive plans for holiday shows, teas, and tree lightings. It's a wonderful time of year!

Happy 4th of July Weekend

A Bath for Dash

Scrappy Doo was looking and smelling great after his bath tonight...until a certain Wrangler who was supposed to be supervising the pets outside got too absorbed in his guitar and didn't notice that the Russells were chasing baby birds and rolling in dirt in the side yard.

Dash 1, Vet Techs 0

This recent picture of Dash was taken by our favorite professional photographer, Stephanie Rue.

The Wrangler took Dash to the vet's office early this morning for a quick blood draw. Our little scruffy pet is getting fixed on Friday, and the vet recommended a pre-operative blood panel. "Good luck," I said, doubtfully, as the Wrangler headed out of the house with Dash tucked under his arm. Dash was eyeing us with suspicion, and I just had a feeling.

A half hour later the Wrangler returned. "It didn't work out," he announced flatly. Looking smug, Dash casually strolled past us to join Fenway on the patio. As the story goes, three vet techs unsuccessfully attempted to restrain the squirmy monster for a few seconds to obtain a blood sample. Not only was he wiggling like crazy, he screamed like a banshee each time a vet tech so much as grazed his fur with the needle. The vet techs finally gave up.

Good thing Dash's blood test was only optional. I guess his is a small victory in light of what's in store for him on Friday, so we'll let him bask in his triumph today.

Weekend

Dash enjoying the sunset in Laguna Beach.

Scruffy McScruff

Unlike Fenway's smooth coat, Dash's coat is looking a little scruffy.

Little Gremlin

Almost 13 weeks old now and spunkier than ever.

A Dashing Lad

Our little guy Dash skates by on his good looks. If he weren't so darn cute, I'd be tempted to set him outside for the owl. Of course, I say this in jest. Dash is a good-hearted fellow--he's not a complete monster. He can be very sweet when he's not barking, squirming, biting, chewing, and destroying stuff.

Here Comes Trouble

Our first Jack Russell Terrier clearly tricked us into thinking that all the rumors about JRTs just couldn't be true. Stubborn? Nah. Hyper? Not at all. In fact, even as puppy, Fenway was pretty darn good. He never went through a biting or chewing stage. He never made a peep--we didn't even know he could bark until we'd had him for four months. He still isn't very vocal. He likes his little puppy pen, which made crate training a breeze. He chills quietly when we have to leave him at home. He loves going for rides in the car. He can sit still and relax.

Although it might be too early to tell, it is looking like our new JRT is going to be a more typical terrier--trouble! Dash loves to bark. He hates his crate. He can't sit still. He bites us with his sharp puppy teeth and chews on everything. He screamed like a cat--and at the top of his lungs--the entire trip to and from the vet's office.

But that little face! It is impossible to resist. The hardest day with a puppy is more fun than the easiest day at work. I can't help thinking that we should get a third JRT ASAP. Let's get the puppy stage over all at once. Three dogs isn't too many, right? Or maybe a nice even number, like four? Better get working on finding that ranch.

Puppy Prep

Today I bought a new puppy crate (I inexplicably tossed out Fenway's puppy crate the last time we moved), a Sherpa bag for in-cabin airline travel, puppy wipes, a stuffed cow, and lots and lots of rolls of paper towels. On Wednesday the Wrangler will fly to Dallas and return the same day with our new puppy who, appropriately enough, hails from a real Texas ranch. Which makes the puppy more of a rancher than any of us clowns here at the RDR.

11 Days and Counting

We're getting ready to welcome the new baby on January 13.

Too Hot To Homestead

All is quiet on the ranch tonight. We hit 96 degrees today, which is crazy hot for a beach town in which few places (stores, restaurants, and houses alike) have air conditioning. It was too hot to bake bread, too hot to make cheese, too hot to sew, too hot to play the guitar. I gave the puppies a bath outside. They pretended to hate it, but I could tell that they felt refreshed. Fenway, the Jack Russell, chased the water spraying from the hose and did little leaps in the mist. The Wrangler ate half a watermelon and is watching golf re-runs (don't ask) on TV with two fans pointed on him. All said, there are worse ways to spend a Sunday evening. I'm not complaining. Yet.

Breakfast on the Beach

I'm not a beach person, and I hate summer weather. The Wrangler's job requires us to live in Southern California, so we live at the beach because we get some cloud cover now and then, and temps generally are not as warm as inland areas. In the midst of longing for rain, fall foliage, and snow, it's easy for me to forget that there are worse places to live than Laguna Beach.

This weekend Wrangler and I took advantage of the May Gray and had breakfast on the beach with some friends. The rare overcast skies kept a lot of the tourists away. Our little Jack Russell lounged on the boardwalk as we munched on almond bear claws from Scandia Bakery. I guess this is what it's all about.