Leap of Faith

In keeping with our move from the west to the east, the Rainy Day Ranch is now Leaping Goat Farm.

It's been a great three years blogging at the Rainy Day Ranch, but it's time for a new adventure. After years of planning, I'm ready to add a commercial component to the farm. The Wrangler--a marketing guru by profession--is insistent that my brand must "communicate the essential quality" of my products, convey a distinct message, and appeal to my target audience. The crux of the matter is that we couldn't overcome the sense that a ranch belongs in the west. The Wrangler also had a problem with the rainy day aspect. Although I love nothing more than a cozy rainy day, I accepted his reasoning that a Rainy Day Farm evokes images of wet animals and soggy fields.

I feel sad parting with the Rainy Day Ranch, but I think the name Leaping Goat Farm conveys the pure happiness and optimism that I'm feeling as I finally transition from a "virtual" ranch to a real, albeit small, working farm.

Please join me over at www.leapinggoatfarm.blogspot.com. I'm bringing everything with me--three years of blog posts and my failures, successes, ideas, and dreams. See you there!

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?

Rattled Nerves Redux

No, it wasn't another snake, thanks goodness. This time it was a baby rat.

I was on my out the door yesterday morning. The dogs were out in the courtyard, and I called them inside. Good little Fenway came running. Dash, who was sitting in the middle of the cobblestone walkway, gave me the ole stink eye and refused to budge.

"Dash, get in here," I called, impatiently rattling the box of dog treats. He didn't move an inch. "Come on, I'm running late and don't have time for this," I tried to reason with my dog.

That's when I saw it. Under Dash's scruffy little paw was a rather sizable baby rat, about six inches long not including its tail.

You know what? The dead baby rat didn't phase me. The six-foot snake incident was a life-changer, I guess. If it's not a six-foot snake, then it's not a problem.

I moved in to get a closer look, but Dash growled. He was protecting his kill.

"Shut up, Dash," I muttered. I thought dogs were supposed to proudly present their masters with gifts of dead mice and the like.

I switched tactics. "Let's go a for a walk!" I said excitedly, trying to divert Dash's attention from the rat. Dash refused to look at me.

I wasn't too upset at this point. Yes, it would be nice if my dog didn't kill rodents. But killing rodents is what terriers do; it's in their blood. And, yes, it would be even better if we didn't have rodents scampering around. But this is the country, and stuff like this comes with the territory. Frankly, I saw plenty of mice and rats when I lived in the mean streets of Chicago, DC and Laguna Beach. For some reason, a country rat is better than an alley rat.

I was jolted out of my zen-like, c'est-la-vie state the second I saw the rat's legs move. Crap. It was still alive. I envisioned Dash beelining it for the house, squiggling rat baby in tow. I could see him hiding under the bed with his toothy hostage. I pictured dozens of rat babies and a giant mama rat emerging from the corners of the courtyard, swords drawn, prepared for a rescue mission.

What's a confident, capable cowgirl to do?

"Honey, can you come home?" I whispered into the phone. Yes, I did make the poor Wrangler come home from the office to handle the rat baby situation, and the good man did not so much as sigh. I love that guy!

Rattled Nerves

Reader alert: this post is not for the squeamish. It does, however, recap the seedier side of country living. Turns out that farm life is not all baby goats and sunsets.

Not long after I laughed at my overanxious mother for inquiring about the possibility of encountering a poisonous snake while petsitting the goats, I found myself face-to-face with an angry, hissing, six-foot snake poised to strike. Sorry for laughing at you, Mom!

I was working from home on a pleasant afternoon last month. The dogs were out in the courtyard while I tapped away on the computer in my office. Suddenly, Dash started barking crazily and I heard a loud noise that sounded just like a weed-wacker right outside the courtyard doors. Wondering why the gardener had come two days early, I stepped outside to inquire.

I strode down the cobblestone walkway to the courtyard doors, but stopped mid-stride as I took in a horrific sight: wrapped around, of all things, a creepy garden gargoyle was a gigantic snake. I know it is a hackneyed expression, but my heart really did skip a beat...and promptly sank to my toes.

It gets worse. This was no garter snake. Long, thick, with dry patterned scales and a triangular head, it looked exactly like a rattlesnake.

It gets worse. Dash was protecting his territory with the ferocity of a drug lord. Barking frantically and bobbing and weaving, Dash had the snake cornered. The snake, for its part, was not taking things lying down. The top half of its body was coiled and its head was ready to strike. The awful weed-wacker sound was actually the snake's frenzied hiss. I though a hiss was supposed to be a soft or gentle sound, but in this case, the hiss was more like a buzz.

It gets worse. Dash did not respond to my command to GET INSIDE THE HOUSE. (My good, sweet, obedient Fenway, on the other hand, barreled inside the house as fast as his stumpy little legs would carry him. He does not like conflict and had strategically positioned himself behind a bush where he could watch Dash fight to the death, but from a safe distance.) In order for me to grab Dash, I would have to come within a foot of a snake's open mouth, and I would have to bend down...to eye level.

I paused for only a moment, considering. Fenway is my baby and he now is safe inside. Dash is not listening, so if he gets bitten it's his own stupid fault right? Egh. I knew I wouldn't hang him out to dry. Darn you, Dash!

I have big cheeks and a moon face, a perfect target for a snake's fangs. "And so this is how it all goes down," I thought to myself, wryly. The exact words had come to mind right after I'd taken my bone-breaking fall off Moto and found myself on the ground in a heap like a rag doll, unsure at that moment if my life had changed forever or for just a couple months. Quick as a flash, I stooped down, grabbed Dash, and ran toward the house.

With the dogs safely inside, I grabbed my iphone and ran back outside. I wanted to get a picture of the snake so I could properly identify it. And, truth be told, I knew that if I didn't get a picture, the Wrangler would assume I had seen a little garter snake and was making much ado about nothing.

With Dash out of his face, the snake was gracefully unwrapping itself from the creepiest gargoyle ever (note to self: replace gargoyle with a friendly gnome) and started slithering across the cobblestone walkway. As if on cue, it paused in front of the double doors to the courtyard. Its body stretched the entire length of the two doors--six feet. Click! I snapped a picture. The snake looked at me, nodded, and then slithered over toward the goat yard. My hands began to shake.

I raced over to the goats and shooed them into their kennel, conveniently ignoring the fact that a snake could squeeze into the kennel if it wanted to. I ran back to the last place I'd seen my six-foot intruder. It had disappeared.

I headed back into the house, took a deep breath, and started crying. I tried calling the Wrangler, but he was on the golf course and didn't pick up. I called my in-laws, who instructed me to call animal control and offered to take a look at the photos of the snake to help identity it. I also called my dad, who instructed me to get a shovel from the garage, poke around in the bushes to find the snake, and then cut its head off. Wow.

When the Wrangler arrived home, he concurred with my dad that using a shovel to...uh...remove the snake's head is the proper way to kill a snake. Perhaps. But I feel only 5% confident that such technique would work for me and not backfire most dreadfully. I envisioned a furious snake either (a) wrapping itself around my shovel and working its way up to my hands and arms, at which point it would form handcuffs and take me down, (b) somehow becoming airborne during the struggle, landing on me, and getting tangled in my hair, (c) regenerating and growing a new head or heads, (d) whispering a final curse as its eyes turn red and its body disintegrates...you get the picture.

After examining the photos, the Wrangler and both dads agreed that the unwelcome visitor actually was a "harmless" gopher snake or bull snake, not a rattler. I was spared some embarrassment, though. First, a gopher/bull snake's defense mechanism is to mimic a rattlesnake and put up an angry fight when confronted. Thus, I wasn't stupid for thinking it was a rattlesnake. Second, the gopher/bull snake is the largest snake in the United States, averaging six feet. Our native California friends later commented that they haven't seen snakes as large as this one.

At the time, I thought my dog was seconds away from being bitten by a rattlesnake. I can't remember ever feeling more frightened. But here's the amazing result. This weekend we were walking through the woods (not here) and a thin, bright green garter snake wiggled its way right across the tip of my boot. Just a month ago, this might have made me hysterical. After coming eye-to-eye with a hopping map six-foot "rattlesnake" wrapped around a gargoyle, a garter snake is nothing but a charming little friend who helpfully eats slugs, bugs, and mice. "Hi buddy," I said, as I calmly walked on by.

Everything is relative.

Registration Day

I spent some time this weekend completing the paperwork to register my herd name and goats with the National Pygmy Goat Association. After a great deal of thought, I chose Leaping Goat Farm as my herd name. I considered Rainy Day Ranch, but it felt wrong since goats absolutely detest rain.

A color side-view photo of each goat must accompany the registration forms. Let me tell you how difficult it is to get a goat to stand still long enough to get a good side-view shot. It took me about an hour to photograph all four goats in this manner, and even then I had to have the Wrangler step in and help. Turns out that goat portrait photography is a two-person job. First, goats do not pose. Second, goats do not understand the command "stay." Third, all the goats want to be in on the fun--they don't believe in letting just one goat get all the attention. Every time I had a picture-perfect shot, another goat would run in front of the camera at the last second. When I tried to separate a goat from the herd, quite the ruckus ensued. I got a side-view all right...a side view of a goat screaming. When a goat screams, his eyes bulge and he sticks out his tongue. It's a comical sight, but perhaps not what the National Pygmy Goat Association is looking for.

After about an hour, I had an adequate side-view shot of each goat. I uploaded the four files to the Target Photo site for printing. I happily went to Target today to pick up my prints. Notice a particular scruffy white monster lurking in the background and marring the otherwise perfect shot of Oscar? Ugh. I'm sending in the photo anyway. I hope the National Pygmy Goat Association registration director has a sense of humor.

More

Don't adjust your screen....
Elmo is standing on the photographer's back 

If you can bear with yet more goat news, I will tell you that 3.5 goats are litter box trained now. I say 3.5 because Oscar only sort of gets it. He puts his front hooves in the litter box, but fails to scoot the back (and most important) half of his body into the box. Come on, Oscar! Even baby Neko gets it.

Each goat got a bath in the mudroom sink today. I think they enjoyed the nice warm water even though they didn't want to admit it. I was expecting loud meltdowns, but only Oscar cried--and it really was just one or two half-hearted m-e-h-h-h-h-hs. I used all-natural lavender shampoo and conditioner for pets. Lavender is a natural insect repellant, so I'm hoping this will be enough. I hate the thought of chemical pet shampoos.

Believe it or not, goats are not the only thing on our minds around here. We visited Moto, who seems to be warming up to the Wrangler. The Wrangler knows the ropes now and can handle the grooming and hand-walking with ease. Moto just received his routine quarterly vaccinations and is scheduled for his annual teeth floating next Monday. It's remarkable to see how much his mood has improved since he was cleared to resume trotting. Moto's trainer says she can tell that he's glad to be "back to work," and I sure can tell the difference, too. He's less impatient and seems more relaxed. His winter weight is coming off, and he is as handsome as ever.

And so things are happy here. I did, however, halt our quest to buy a farm in this area. I'd be lying if I didn't admit that it's truly beautiful 'round these parts. The climate is pleasant for animals, and I've met some wonderful people in this little town, people I now call friends. But I can't shake my vision of a charming country cape surrounded by acres and acres of green grass on rolling hills and trees that explode with color in the fall. I see an old barn and spacious fenced paddocks for content goats and sheep and horses and chickens. I smell an approaching thunderstorm, and I hear raindrops falling. I see fireflies light up a summer night. I feel the change in the air as summer fades. I revel in the mere possibility of a snow day. I breath in the crisp air when I throw open all the windows on the first day of spring. In the past year, I've made some real progress toward my dream that is the Rainy Day Ranch....I might as well keep going until I get there.

The Yuppie Farm

Photo of the Alexandria Coop from the Williams-Sonoma Catalog

The new Williams-Sonoma catalog arrived in the mail today, and I was intrigued to see that even Williams-Sonoma has jumped on the sustainability bandwagon with its new Agrarian product line. The 12-category line includes chicken coops, beekeeping supplies, and Do-It-Yourself kits for items like cheese, vinegar, and sprouts. This latest move has not gone unnoticed. Today a lot of commenters on the homesteading blogs I follow are rather dismayed and disgusted that Madison Avenue is trying to cash in on the back-to-the-land movement. To this I say, "So what?" There's room for everyone here. If you don't want to pay $800 for an attractive, ready-made, Martha Stewart-y chicken coop, then don't. But what's it to you if someone else does?

Here's the thing. Not all of us are handy, own a lot of tools, have a shed filled with scrap wood, and want to devote a month's worth of weekends to going to Home Depot and sawing stuff in the backyard. When I was looking for ideas for goat housing I found only instructions for building one myself. I had to jerry-rig my own version of a goat enclosure, but I gladly would have paid a little extra to buy a Williams-Sonoma version if there were one available. I did laugh, however, at the "chicken coop predator kit" for $59.95. I don't see how it's that much different from the "goat pen predator kit" that I invented last week, which consists of a roll of garden wire from Lowe's for $4.95 and (you guessed it) about 50 zip ties ($2.95 for a pack of 50).

The people protesting the Williams-Sonoma line are probably the same people who have a problem with Pottery Barn. Don't get me wrong; I know that buying mass-produced farmhouse furniture is neither posh nor particularly imaginative. But it's an easy, relatively inexpensive option for people like me who don't like used furniture (I have an abnormal bedbug phobia), don't have an eye for antiques, and don't want a house filled with expensive or one-of-a-kind pieces. Instead of passing out cold if the dog has an accident on an heirloom-quality chair or the Wrangler (who really shouldn't be practicing his short game in the house) accidentally hits a golf ball into a decorative piece from Sotheby's, I can just heave a small sigh, clean up the mess, and reorder the same item--which will arrive in three to five business days from good ole PB.

On the other hand, I will always be partial to things that are homemade. It's especially nice when they look better than my goat pen.

Called Out

I took a vacation day and focused on last minute goat prep today. (The Wrangler, who still has not completed the fencing, will take a vacation day tomorrow.) This morning when the hay delivery guy from the Hawthorne's Country Store in Fallbrook called my cell to ask for directions, I wasn't at home. I was at the Hawthorne's Country Store in Escondido picking up some industrial stall mats for the goat pen. If I had a pick-up truck, I wouldn't need delivery service. I could just toss a few bales into the back of the truck. I'm by no means a neat freak, but transporting rolls of dried grass in the back of my little SUV just sounds really messy.

Despite my lack of a proper pick-up truck, I was still feeling cowgirl-esque and dressed for the part: dusty Frye boots, jeans, plaid shirt, cowboy hat and, well, oversized Chanel sunglasses. After ringing up my purchases, the Hawthorne's cashier paged a nice-looking cowboy to help me load the stall mats into the back of the SUV. He met me in the parking lot with a small forklift carrying the mats. I hadn't realized that the mats would be so heavy...or dirty. The cowboy tried to brush off some of the hay, dirt, and debris.

"Ohhh! I just bought a tarp," I exclaimed, pleased as punch. Not only was I a ranch girl, I was a super-prepared ranch girl. The back seats in the SUV were down, and I fished the tarp out of the bag and began arranging it in the cargo space.

"A tarp?" the cowboy asked. I detected disapproval in his voice.

"Yeah, why? Is there something wrong?" I peered at him through the back of the car, puzzled.

"I guess I just thought you were a real cowgirl, and then there you went putting down a tarp in the back of your Mercedes," he drawled.

Ouch.

"I guess I don't need one," I said quickly.

"No, it's fine," he said. He helped adjust the tarp and then loaded the stall mats. I thanked him and went on my way.

I'll admit that my feelings were kind of hurt! I called the Wrangler, who always makes me feel better. "He said that he thought I was a real cowgirl until he saw my car and I put down a tarp," I lamented.

The Wrangler didn't miss a beat. "You should have told him that you're a fancy cowgirl."

The truth is, I'm not a fancy cowgirl or even a non-fancy cowgirl, and that cowboy today called my bluff.

Nonetheless, I was very happy that I used that tarp, which was littered with dirt and who-knows-what-else when I unloaded the stall mats. Thanks to that tarp, the back of my car is spotless. Instead of cleaning my car, I can hang out with my horse or play with my baby goats. But maybe I need that pick-up truck. It would be handy and all, but I sure could use the street cred.

Put It On My Tab

Despite moving to an avocado farm and becoming a horse owner in the past year, I didn't become a real ranch girl until today. What made today so significant? Well, today I called my tack and feed store of choice (the closest Target store is 30 minutes away, but I live within a 10-minute drive of not one, not two, but five tack and feed stores), opened a tab, and scheduled a hay delivery.

On the Fence

We're picking up Oscar and Elmo on Friday instead of today, because we're still working on fencing. The Wrangler is not having an easy go of it, to put it mildly. I'm secretly a little amused when he struggles, but only because he's exceptionally good at just about everything. He's a natural athlete, talented artist, and strong leader, just to name a few of his many admirable attributes. A handyman, however, he is not.

To be fair, it's not easy installing fencing that must meet so many criteria. It has to be goat-proof and sturdy, temporary and economical (since we're supposedly moving soon), and relatively attractive (as it will be in a prominent part of our yard). I found the perfect solution at Lowe's and checked the online user reviews, which are overwhelmingly positive. Fifty-two out of 52 users claim that the panels are sturdy and look great and are super easy to install. Unless you are the Wrangler.

I've never heard him utter a swear or curse, but oh the grunting, muttering, heaving, and sighing that could be heard in the courtyard last night! "I could use some help over here," he called to me, as I toasted my hands by the cozy fire.

"The user reviews online said that it's a one-person job," I reassured him. I was feeling smug, having just finished assembling the goats' pen, all eight-by-six-feet of it, All By Myself. It was a real two-person job if there ever was one, and I only had to take it apart and start over twice.

"Please," he pleaded. I peered across the yard. There seemed to be an awful lot of clanging and hammering and not a lot of progress. I agreed to hold a fence panel while he pounded the accompanying metal stake into the ground, but I eventually moseyed off to check email. I wasn't being a complete jerk; remember, I had put together the pen. I just needed to take a break.

More grunts and muttering and an occasional "darn it!" ensued for the next three hours.

I pulled up the online reviews from the Lowe's website and quoted a few to plead my case for lounging by the fire instead of helping. "This review from an 80-year old with a broken hip says that the best thing about the fence is its ease of installation," I informed the Wrangler encouragingly. "Oh, and this one written by a single mom says that she was able to put it together in no time, by herself, and with her five kids running around." (These are actual reviews. I'm not being facetious.)

I made the Wrangler stop for the night around 10:30. Even out here in the country, it's not polite to hammer past bedtime. He had managed to install nine panels in the dark. Not too bad! Nine panels down, 11 to go.

This morning I strode into the courtyard to observe his work. Would you believe that six of the nine panels were installed backwards?

Three panels down, 17 to go.

Sea Breezes

Today, which seemed pleasingly farm-ish, began with a chicken workshop at the Seabreeze Organic Farm in San Diego. Located just a few miles from the ocean, the farm is an anomaly amid office parks, new strip malls, and suburban housing. The owner, Stephenie Caughlin, bought the land in 1978 when the area was a pastoral mix of chaparral and eucalyptus groves. A former gold broker and futures trader, Stephenie decided in 1988 to embark on a new endeavor and lifestyle and began building a farm business. Currently the Seabreeze farm follows a CSA (community-supported agriculture) model and has 150 shareholders (CSA members) who pay for weekly deliveries of whatever the farm has produced and harvested that week--organically-grown flowers, vegetables, herbs, fruit, and eggs.

Several of the chicken seminar attendees brought young children, which created a chaotic atmosphere that was more petting zoo than informational. As a result, I didn't learn as much as I'd hoped and was somewhat disappointed. The ever-patient Wrangler observed that at least the parents were making an effort to provide their kids with a farm experience instead of, say, a trip to the mall, so I guess I'll give them all a pass.

The trip to Seabreeze was worth the time for, if nothing else, assuring me that a lot can be done with just two acres. A LOT. The farm started out with over 20 acres, but over the past 30 years of urban sprawl the farm has dwindled to just two acres. With the main residence, a number of outbuildings, and even a straw bale guest house occupying about one of the two acres, Stephenie has just one acre to raise chickens, turkeys, goats, and a pony and grow enough fruits, vegetables, and flowers to provide weekly deliveries for the 150 CSA members. Every inch of space has been put to a productive use, although the farm doesn't feel cramped or crowded (and boasts lovely ocean views to boot). This is in sharp contrast to most of the properties that we've seen lately in our house hunting trips. We've toured four-acre plots--twice the size of Stephenie's farm--with no space for gardens or animals because most of the property has been wasted on decorative lawns, stone patios, huge driveways, swimming pools, mini-putting greens, and tennis, basketball, and pickleball courts.

I loved seeing how much can be accomplished with just half the amount of land that we've been looking for. Still, think what could be done with 10 acres! (In order to afford 10 acres we'd probably have to leave California....win/win?)

The Writing Is on the Wall

This weekend we toured several potential properties and, lo and behold, found the perfect little farmhouse! It's cute as a button, completely renovated with a good layout, and an easy commute to work. The front of the house overlooks two wonderfully flat south-facing acres that need happy farm animals and a lavender labyrinth. The back of the house has a yard that is calling for Fenway and Dash. The property is almost surrounded by trees and even has a little pond. The icing on the cake? It's priced so far below our target range that it didn't even appear in our realtor's search parameters. (The frugal-minded Wrangler happened to find the listing online.) The property's very reasonable price would allow us build a small barn, put up fencing, and purchase the lavender plugs without having to pinch too many pennies.

Instead of submitting an offer, however, I found myself emailing the listing to one of our friends who also is looking for a small farmhouse in the area. I know, right? The only thing wrong with this property is that it isn't in New England and, as it turns out, I guess that's the deal killer for me.

The Foster Farms

I spent part of the weekend traveling from barn to barn to check on my animals at their respective "foster farms." My first stop on Saturday was Moto's barn up in Orange County. It seems like everyone I know has asked me when Moto is coming to live with us on the farm. While I'd love to reply, "today," it's probably going to take years. Folks, I know next to nothing about caring for a horse! I can groom him and sort of ride him (I'm not going to be auditioning for the National Velvet remake anytime soon). I know what he eats each day: one flake of grass and 1/2 flake of alfalfa for breakfast and dinner, a bran mash with supplements for lunch, and about 10-20 gallons of water. (Don't ask me how much hay is in a flake, though.) I know that he needs new shoes every six weeks. And that's about the extent of my knowledge. So you can see why, despite the somewhat alarming bill for his room, board, and training, I'm quite happy keeping him at his show barn where we are surrounded by experts--horse trainers, grooms, riding instructors, veterinarians, farriers, and knowledgable friends. It's nice to have people around to answer my questions, and Moto enjoys being around his horse buddies too. Each day the barn staff ensures that Moto is blanketed, exercised, fed, and watered; his health is monitored; and his stall is cleaned. Someone magically produces the aforementioned flakes of hay and equally magically disposes of the 50+ lbs. of manure that Moto produces daily. I do want to be a hands-on horse mom, but I've got to know how to manage my new 1400-pound family member.

The Wrangler and I also dropped in on the goat girl to check on Elmo and Oscar. Nearly a week old, they are starting to get spunky. The kids hopped around, hid under chairs, jumped onto the playset, butted heads with the other babies, climbed into the hay feeder, followed their moms, nursed, and crashed in a heap under the heat lamp. It wasn't chaotic or crazy, though. It was more like a funny episode of goat TV.

We're close to adding yet another foster farm to our route. The Wrangler is working out the miniature donkey details. Our plan is to pay for their room and board at the breeder's farm until we're ready to bring them home.

And so our hobby farm dreams are coming along. We've certainly got the hobby part down. Now we just need the farm.

The Farmer's Plight

This:

Not that:

Our search for a farm is not going well. We've seen about 15 prospects, but I haven't fallen in love with anything. In fact, I haven't even fallen in like with anything. I know I'll have to make some concessions; most buyers won't find everything on their wish list. But come moving day, I'd like to be at least a little excited. After touring seven properties this weekend, I realized the problem: I'm looking for a New England farmhouse in Southern California. So...I'm not sure where this leaves us.

Martha Knows Best

Even Martha Stewart thinks that owning three adorable miniature donkeys is a good idea.

Equine Adventures

What a day! When we awoke this morning, the Wrangler and I had no idea that by day's end we'd have Moto's official registration papers from Sweden in hand...and three miniature donkeys on the way.

Our day began benignly enough. I was easing into the day with my morning chai latte when the Wrangler breezed in after his tennis match with the neighbor. "Want to go look at some miniature donkeys at a farm about a half hour away?" he asked.

"Ummm, let me think. YES," I answered immediately. The Wrangler promptly got on the phone to schedule our visit with Dick, the nice man who runs Palomar Vista Farm (a beautiful hobby farm with sweeping views of Palomar Mountain). While the Wrangler was talking miniature donkeys, llamas, and alpacas with Dick, my cell phone rang. Moto's owner was calling to see if she could swing by with his official papers. Again, I answered with an immediate YES.

By noon I had Moto's registration and pedigree from the Swedish Warmblood Association (alas, they are written in Swedish--Moto was born in Sweden in 1996), a small collection of photos documenting Moto's show jumping career, and well wishes from Moto's (now former) owner. It is surely bittersweet, the transferring of a beloved animal to a new, excited owner.

Within an hour the Wrangler and I were shaking hands with Dick at Palomar Vista Farm. The farm's motto says it all: of all the paths you take in life, make sure a few of them are dirt. The three of us sat in wood rocking chairs on the porch of Dick's log cabin. As we gently rocked, we enjoyed a warm breeze, stunning views, and good conversation. (All of the people I've met since moving to the country have such interesting stories and unique ideas.)

We first talked alpacas and llamas. Funny thing--the alpaca and llama business is somewhat of a pyramid scheme. More often than not, you'll start a herd and subsequently discover that there's no market for the fiber. The only way to make money is to find other people to start herds. I had suspected as much. When researching alpacas and llamas it seemed a little odd to me that so many farms offered free seminars on getting started in the business. Dick also noted that alpacas are like sheep--they are scared of people and will run from you. Llamas, on the other hand, are a bit more social. But for people who want extremely affectionate pets, miniature donkeys are the best.

Dick unabashedly loves his little herd of miniature donkeys--six jennys and three jacks. As soon as we entered the gate, the donkeys came strolling over to welcome us. The Wrangler and I found ourselves swarmed by friendly donkeys jockeying each other for the prime petting position. It was pretty much love at first sight.

We spent two hours at the farm, and time seemed to fly by. As we made our way back down the dirt road, we had plans to buy a pregnant jenny (the gestation period is 365 to 375 days!) and a former petting zoo jack. Note that it was just yesterday that the Wrangler brought up the idea of acquiring a donkey or two. Apparently, unlike me, he does not let grass grow under his feet for two years when he gets an idea.

Four equines in one day!

Pick Your Poison

The Bonsall Landfill

As much as the Wrangler and I love it here on the avocado farm--or, actually, because of how much we love it here on the avocado farm--we've started shopping for a farm of our own. Our time here always was intended to be part of a brief, nine-month experiment in country living. We've learned a lot about what we want: a place for animals (all kinds of animals) is our top priority, with views, quiet, and lots of open space coming in second, third, and fourth. Planned "equestrian communities" are out. Before moving in here we thought that a nice, not-too-rural planned equestrian community would be perfect for us, but it turns out that it's just a little too planned for our tastes. Bring on the rural!

But even a good hour out of expensive Orange County, it's hard to find acreage at a reasonable price. There are so many of us Southern Californians, and very little desirable land. I'm particularly dismayed to discover the lack of farmhouse-style dwellings. There are plenty of 1990s-style two-stories ('80s and '90-era builders sure loved their prominently featured garages), Spanish-style, Mediterranean-style, and eyesore no-style houses. All new construction is ranch-style ("all one level for our aging population"). It's clear that compromises must be made, and we're searching far and wide. If nothing satisfactory turns up nearby, we'll consider buying a farm or ranch somewhere else for use as a vacation property.

Our search has in fact revealed a few properties that seem to be exactly what we're looking for--acreage, a barn, fenced pastures, beautiful views, semi-charming farmhouse (reasonably updated with potential), and priced to sell! We couldn't believe our luck. But my lawyer-side always is looking for the "catch" and, so far, there has been one--and a real doozy, at that--every time.

Case number one: the Little Farm in the Valley. Priced so low that it initially fell outside my search parameters, this house seemed to be made for us. We drove about 10 minutes from our current house and turned down a lovely, winding road. On the right were gentle hills dotted with chaparral. On the left was a large open space--acres and acres (122 acres to be exact). Oddly, it was mowed and had an extensive irrigation system. "Must be growing something there," the Wrangler remarked. I didn't agree. "I don't see anything growing, the irrigation system seems to be diverting water away from the land, and what's with the massive fence?" Strands of electrical fencing ran along the top of a 12-ft. high chain-linked fence. "Whatever is going on in there, someone sure wants to keep people out." We continued down the road about a quarter of a mile, entering a valley of storybook beauty. When we stopped the car in front of the farmhouse, we were delighted to see a small stream running through the property.

Fast-forward. I needed to know more about that strange parcel of fenced grass. Literally an hour prior to meeting our realtor to sign our offer, I found the catch. The strange parcel is an unused landfill--a dump! It operated from 1968 to 1985 (which means it was unlined because no one thought about contamination in those days), and currently is the subject of considerable controversy due to numerous violations. It has contaminated the drinking water in nearby wells and is leaching toxic substances into the storm water drainage system. I couldn't stop thinking about that little stream that runs through the property. "Maybe the chemical soup would make my lavender grow sky-high." I tried to be optimistic, but I knew that we'd never be comfortable living a quarter mile downstream from the landfill.

I'll spare you the extensive details about the other two places, but let me just say that the move-in ready, four-acre gentleman's farm with barn and pasture is...12 miles from a nuclear power plant, which has sent cancer rates soaring in the neighboring towns. And the 50-acre Christmas tree farm (yes! a Christmas tree farm--how amazingly perfect!) comes with not only Christmas trees but...a family cemetery. Yes, unfortunately, plenty of people live within close proximity to nuclear power plants, landfills, or other environmental nightmares. But perhaps my brother summed it up best: If we buy near one, then there's really no point in adopting an organic lifestyle anymore. Granted, there's nothing really dangerous (I don't think) about having one's own cemetery. If push comes to shove, I could probably get on board with that one.

Can you just see us on that HGTV show House Hunters? "Will they take the pastoral farm near the landfill; the move-in ready hobby farm near the nuclear reactor; or the amazing Christmas tree farm with its own cemetery?"

December Recap

My posts were rather sparse this past month. Thankfully, despite the busy month at work, visiting family members kept the mood festive.

Some bad news: Moto will be out of commission for at least six months. His bowed tendon doesn't seem to be noticeably visible or causing him any general discomfort. His current rehab schedule allows him only one five-minute hand walk per day, which means that he's confined to his 12x12 box stall for 23 hours and 55 minutes a day! Poor Moto! It is very troubling, but at least his prognosis is excellent and he's expected to fully heal.

With Moto out of commission, I've been lucky enough to get my horse fix at a nice local horse barn that is hosting the two rescue Thoroughbred yearlings, Winston and Stewie. It's just down the street, and the owner kindly allows me to come by a couple times a week to spend time with the boys. I'm getting pretty attached to Stewie, a gentle, mild-mannered fellow who stands quietly, almost sleeping, while I brush him. If I knew even a thing or two about training young horses, I would adopt him in a minute. But it will be a few years before he'll be old enough to carry a rider on his back--he has a lot of training ahead of him, and he needs an experienced horse owner. Winston is a good boy, but he's still a little skittish. He puts up a small fuss when I approach him with his halter, and he tries to nip me while I'm grooming him. While some gals like the challenge, I've never been attracted to bad boys. I end up spending most of my time with good ole steady Stewie.

The barn is a pleasant place, especially with its family of five pygmy goats. (That's a few of them in the picture above. Rusty, the little reddish guy, is my favorite.) Although I am a sheep person, pygmy goats are irresistible. I'm sure that the Wrangler would love to have some of his own...which is why I bought him two for Christmas! They'll be born in late January and ready to come home seven weeks after their birth. We stopped in on Christmas Day to meet the goat breeder and to see the expectant parents. They live just a few minutes away, so we'll get to see the babies almost immediately after they're born.

Yesterday, the Wrangler and I met with the owners of a local wholesale nursery to discuss an initial order of approximately 7400 lavender plugs. This will be a small order for them--they recently grew 600,000 lavender plugs for a large retailer. The nursery owners (who are the parents of my riding instructor) patiently shared with us a wealth of information on lavender varieties that do well in this climate, as well as watering and planting considerations unique to this area. I've read literally every single book available on growing lavender, but these books focus on growing lavender in other regions--Provence, the Pacific Northwest, Australia, South Africa. There is no substitute for speaking with someone who grows it just a few miles away.

Tonight we will see some friends from Laguna Beach and help prepare and serve the New Year's Eve dinner to the residents of the Friendship House. We're looking forward to catching up with the Laguna crew and, as always, picking up some new cooking tips from our master chef John.

Have a fun and safe New Year's Eve.

Ruined

The Wrangler has been picking oranges in the orchard every Saturday morning and kicking off the day with freshly squeezed juice. We're ruined for life. Store-bought juice now tastes like water. Our homemade OJ is atomic orange and packs a punch. Just a few sips scratch the itch. (I wonder if people ironically overeat when their store-bought food lacks flavor and thus is not very satisfying?)

Lavender Friday

Today the Wrangler and I took a lovely drive on a winding road through the orange, lemon, avocado, and persimmon groves of Valley Center. We were headed to the store at the Keys Creek Lavender Farm, which we thought might be a tranquil alternative to Black Friday traffic and crowds. We were right. Our trip to Keys Creek far exceeded our expectations.

Keys Creek is at the end of a rugged dirt road. Alicia, the charming owner of Keys Creek, told us that some visitors complain about the road, but I think it's just part of the farm experience. True, if you try to barrel through to your destination, you might hit some pot holes. But the road is fine if you just slow down and enjoy the country. Although Keys Creek generally is closed during the winter months while the lavender plants are dormant, Alicia had decided on a whim to open the store for a few hours today.

Alicia treated to a personal tour of the farm. We started at the pretty country store, where we sampled delicious lavender crunchies (a granola-like treat), lavender tisane, and lavender caramel sauce. I also was treated to a luscious lavender hand scrub. We walked past the hillside lavender field, up to the lavender labyrinth, and past the barn, which has been converted into a beautiful meeting space for bridal showers and other events. We saw the poolside outdoor pavilion, which has been the setting for weddings and farm-to-table dinner events, and strolled across a large patio that is used on occasional for a high tea service. On our way back down the gently sloping hill to the store, we peeked in the distillery room (where oil is extracted from lavender buds) and the snack counter (from which tea and scones are sold during the farm's busy season in May and June).

Not only were we thrilled to meet the warm and welcoming Alicia--who originally is from South Africa and bought Keys Creek three years ago after living in Laguna Beach for 20 years--we also met a fellow customer who is starting a homesteading meet-up group in our area! As we drove away with a bag filled with lavender goodies and the email addresses of two new friends, I couldn't think of a nicer way to spend Black Friday.