Elmo and Oscar

Two days old!

Kids on the Way!

I got the call! Tomorrow I will go to see our "goat girl" and pick out our two new pygmy goat babies! I have to get there bright and early; all of the other expectant parents are selecting their goats tomorrow too. Of course, the kids are too little to come home yet. They'll be ready in seven weeks. Don't you worry--I will be taking lots of pictures.

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.

Who Knew?

I was just re-reading my recent blog posts, and I had to laugh about my earnest heads-up on alpaca and llama pyramid schemes. I mean, what the...? As I started down this path of urban farms and hobby ranches, I never would have guessed that I'd be talking to insiders about the seedy underworld of...multi-level fiber marketing. Apparently, the "home party" sell to-and-recruit-your-friends business model is not limited to cosmetics and kitchen gadgets. So, folks, you heard it here first: proceed with caution if you get asked to attend an alpaca party.

Buckle Up

As a Christmas gift the Wrangler had Montana Silversmiths make a custom belt buckle for me, or rather, for Starr--my sassy, fun-loving alter ego.

It finally arrived last week, but not in time for the rodeo. "I really needed it for the rodeo. When will I ever wear it now?" I lamented, pondering whether my law firm's business casual dress code would include a huge belt buckle emblazoned with the name of one's sassy, fun-loving alter ego.

The Wrangler looked nonplussed. "Huh? When won't you wear it?"

All right then; here comes Starr. Watch out world.

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!

A Done Deal

I've been house hunting lately, and my dad called me tonight to inquire about the search. "So did you a buy a house this week?" he asked.

"Well, no, I didn't buy a house....but I bought I horse!" I braced for his reaction.

"You did WHAT?!"

I'm sure my mortgage broker will have the same reaction. He's warned me not to make any large withdrawals from my bank account until after closing on the house. But I didn't buy just any old horse. I bought the magnificent Mikimoto! After leasing him on and off for two years, he's mine, all mine, as of February 1--the day the change of ownership agreement becomes effective.

I never thought I'd have the opportunity to buy this handsome horse. After my very first lesson on Moto, I'd informed the Wrangler that we should set aside a chunk of change just in case Moto's owner ever decided to sell him. "He's amazing. I just have to have him if he's ever for sale."

A year later, the Wrangler saw Moto's owner at the barn holiday party and disclosed my plan. "My wife's set aside money just in case Moto is ever for sale," he told her. I was mortified! Moto's owner was kind but firm. "Moto was my first horse. I'll never sell him," she replied.

"How could you even bring that up?!" I hissed as the Wrangler and I walked away. "Why would she ever sell Moto?"

"I was just planting the seed," he protested.

"Well, you wasted your time. You heard her--she'll never sell him."

Fast forward one year. Times change, circumstances change, and perhaps the seed had indeed been planted. I learned that Moto was for sale--but only to me. Moto's owner has four horses at a fancy hunter/jumper barn--an expensive situation. She was willing to part with Moto so long as he would have a loving owner. The sale is conditioned on his return to her in the event that I can't care for him; he cannot be sold to anyone else.

I've never been so thrilled to write a check. Owning Moto is an honor and a privilege and a dream come true. If forced to choose, I'd much rather have Moto than a new house.

P.S. Want to hear something kind of weird? It was exactly--exactly!--two years ago today that I decided I wanted a horse. I blogged about it on January 28, 2010. And it was today, January 28, 2012, that Moto's owner and I spoke with each other and called it a done deal. I get a lot of random ideas in my head and often there's no follow-through. I guess when it counts, though, I stay the course--even if it does take a couple years!

Under Siege

I've mentioned that the coyote situation is pretty intense this winter. They lurk around in broad daylight. Last Saturday afternoon, a coyote strolled by our back patio door. He was so close he could have turned the doorknob. The Wrangler jumped off couch, stormed outside, and chased him away.

We see them in the driveway when we leave for work. We see them in the neighbor's yard when we take the dogs for a stroll. We hear them in the howling just outside the bedroom windows as we tuck into bed.

Yesterday afternoon, right before sunset, the dogs were playing in our enclosed courtyard. Suddenly, they went on high alert and ran to the courtyard doors. They peered through the crack and found themselves eye-to-eye with a coyote. After I lured the pets back into the house with the promise of treats, the Wrangler and I went outside the courtyard to survey the scene. The courtyard doors had deep scratches from claws, and we were greeted with a pile of fresh coyote scat.

I'm not afraid of coyotes, but we're taking extra precautions. Our dogwalker carries a spray bottle. We closely supervise the pets now when they play in the courtyard--so long as the courtyard doors are shut and latched, a coyote can't get in. But I worry that the door could come unlatched. The Wrangler has been researching livestock guardians and is threatening to get a donkey to guard our little pack. Can you picture the donkey vs. coyote showdown?

Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys

This past weekend I met up with my Six-Button Cowgirls to attend the National Western Stock Show in Denver. A highlight was the pro rodeo, which both fascinated and offended me. I don't like the idea of chasing, roping, and wrestling animals to the ground for sport. The team roping event was hard to watch, and I decided to head to the concessions during the tie down roping event. Those poor, poor cows! (While any entertainment at the expense of animals is sad, I have to admit that mutton busting is kind of funny: four-year-old kids (the human kind) clinging for dear life to sprinting sheep. I guess not all parents coddle their kids too much these days!)

The bareback bronc riding, saddle bronc riding, and bull riding was scary, but the cowboys' athleticism and courage (or perhaps foolishness) put my fear of riding into perspective. Thankfully, I don't ride a violently bucking 2000-lb. animal whose sole job is to throw me off. Even before getting tossed off, the cowboys take quite a beating to the back and neck. And after landing unceremoniously on the ground, the cowboys must avoid being trampled. Indeed, each cowboy's introduction is something like, "Next up: Ace Smith riding Death Warrant. Ace has suffered five concussions and had his spleen removed last year when he was stomped by a bucking bull." I'm not exaggerating; many of the cowboys have had multiple concussions and severe-sounding injuries. I sure feel sorry for those cowboys' mamas.

Public Shaming

Last month I blogged about our less than impressive solar Christmas lights. Indeed, only one strand had any life at all, and barely perceptible at that. Well, the Wrangler hasn't gotten around to taking down the lights yet, and guess what. Yep, the lights decided to become beacons shining brightly into the night--a radiant testament to our laziness.

The Ultimate Honing Device: Common Sense

Tonight on our way home from dinner we took a detour to check out a potential property, and we got lost, big time. I can't even remember the last time I've been truly lost. In the city, "lost" just meant that I missed my turn or got the address wrong. After five minutes, tops, I'd be back on my way. Not so out here in the country where nights are pitch black, dirt roads lead to dead ends, and there are no discernible landmarks in the dark. After an hour (and literally driving in circles), we were still lost and starting to bicker.

"Put your phone away. It's never any help," I told the Wrangler, who had one hand on the steering wheel and the other hand up in the air holding his blasted iphone.

The Wrangler was dismissive. "Find location," he instructed Siri, the voice-activated computer/personal assistant that is built into his iphone.

(For those of you craving an iphone with the Siri feature, let me assure you that Siri is good for nothing. She's either (1) flirting ("What would you do without me?" she asks coquettishly after providing--usually incorrect--directions), (2) feigning confusion ("I think you said, 'Tell me more about things that are lame,'" she's replied after being asked, "Tell me the score of the Vikings game"), or (3) getting it plainly wrong ("I'm sorry, there are no restaurants near you," she's informed us, as we pulled into the parking lot shared by no fewer than three well-known restaurants). The mild-mannered Wrangler who never raises his voice to people has been known to shout at Siri, who, for her part, doesn't sit back and take it. I've had to listen to the two of them fight for long stretches of highway on many a Sunday drive.)

Siri promptly found our location...and led us in a circle through the darkest, narrowest, roughest, and most winding road in Southern California. After a good half hour we came to a crossroad that I recognized. "Hey! We just drove in a complete circle!" I yelled. "I told you we couldn't trust her." I pointed angrily at the Wranger's iphone. Darn that Siri!

"The GPS is telling us to take a right," the Wrangler said.

"That's what we did last time. I'm not driving in another circle. If you take a right, I'll scream."

"Well, what do you propose?" the Wrangler asked calmly, refusing to get riled up.

"Turn off the phone. Turn off Siri. Turn off GPS. We just need to use our common sense."

"Fine." The Wrangler powered down the devices, and I sighed with relief.

I looked around. The road to the right was narrow and dark. The road to the left appeared to be wider and smoother. There weren't as many stars in the sky to the left--a sign of the lights of civilization. It seemed pretty clear that, had we noted these simple facts and taken a left instead of blindly following technology down the path to nowhere, we would have been home an hour ago.

Sure enough, within just minutes we were rolling past a Starbucks and headed toward home. I wanted to feel smug about outsmarting a computer, but Siri's such an idiot that outsmarting her really isn't that tough.

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?"

Strings & Things

We have two new string instruments--an appalachian dulcimer and a ukelele. I've been wanting to get the former for a while, but I know next to nothing about them and got overwhelmed by the options. Last month I saw a Cold Antler Farm blog post that explained the basics and recommended TK O'Brien's Walnut Creek mountain dulcimer from Craggy Mountain Music. With a choice of eight wood types and six different sound hole patterns, I ended up with a lovely cherry wood top and leaping deer sound holes. It was very reasonably priced and included a carrying case, instruction manual, extra strings, a pick, and a "noter" (a short length of dowel for the left hand). It was shipped the same day I ordered.

Strung differently from a guitar, the dulcimer is one of the easiest instruments to learn. I honestly think that anyone from age 4 to 104 could learn to play a few songs on the dulcimer in a couple hours, even with no musical background whatsoever. After skimming the instruction book for just 10 minutes, I was rewarded with rich, complex sound that belies my beginner status. I keep it in the kitchen, and the Wrangler picks at it while I make dinner. After just two nights, he can play folk tunes with aplomb.

The Wrangler received the ukelele for Christmas. I hear him plinking away on it every so often. Anything but his electric guitar is music to my ears.

Pig Update

I'm about halfway through Oink, and it seems that the pigs were not the most gracious house guests. At this point in the memoir, the author has relocated them from the family room to the backyard. Food for thought.

Of Art and Ancestry

We received a beautiful Rosemaled bowl for Christmas. Rosemaling, which means "decorative painting" in Norwegian, is a folk art that originated in Norway's low-lands in the mid-18th Century. It is characterized by its flowing, stylized floral patterns. Interested in this art form, I did a little research online and learned of the John C. Campbell Folk School in North Carolina that not only offers Rosemaling classes but also hosts a number of Scandinavian arts, crafts, and cooking classes during Scandinavian Heritage Week. This year's classes include Rosemaling, Viking-style iron work, Scandinavian desserts, Norwegian bentwood box carving, Hardangersom needlework (embroidery worked with white thread on white cloth), and even an introduction to genealogy research and recording techniques.

I don't see myself devoting a week's vacation to Scandinavian crafts, but you never know. The Wrangler is an artist by a trade and a proud Norwegian. A knack for Viking-style iron work could be in his genes.

Oink

I'm reading Matt Whyman's delightful Oink: My Life with Mini-Pigs and, naturally, I've got mini-pigs on my mind. A miniature pig/teacup pig/micro-pig is not a particular breed. The first miniature pigs were crossbred from the better known Vietnamese pot-bellied pigs (which, at around 250 pounds, are smaller than "regular-sized" pigs but are not actually small) for medical research. The recent pet mini-pig trend is controversial. They have not been bred long enough to have a consistent or predictable size. Some breeders sell tiny piglets from parents that are only several months old themselves and claim that the piglets will remain small like their parents. But a pig takes about three to four years to reach its full size, and mini-pigs can grow from teacup size to 60 pounds. Many mini-pigs are abandoned when owners expecting a purse-sized pet find themselves with a whole lot more.

Despite their reputation, pigs are clean. They are extremely intelligent--more intelligent than dogs--and easily house-trained. They are very social and have sensitive feelings; you can't just leave one outside like, say, a cow.

Last night when I informed the Wrangler of my plan to get tow mini-pigs, I braced myself for protests, but the Wrangler surprised me. He didn't seem to mind. Feeling the need for full disclosure, I did warn him that they are highly social and will need to live with us in the house. Even this was no cause for alarm on the Wrangler's part.

Well, then. That was easy.

I've decided to be a good citizen and rescue two abandoned mini-pigs instead of buying from a breeder.

Of course this means giving up eating pork. We've been avoiding it for a while and have cut way back on the bacon and ham, but I do love a tasty pork chop on occasion. This, of course, must stop immediately. It would be weird to welcome two pigs into the family and then eat their cousins for dinner.

Labyrinth

I'm thinking of planting my lavender in a labyrinth configuration. Pictured here is a lavender labyrinth in Kastellaun, Germany. Known as a Chartres labyrinth, this design is based on the labyrinth in the French Cathedral of Our Lady Chartres constructed in the early 13th century. I also like the classical seven-point labyrinth. The labyrinth walk is found in many religious traditions and New Age-type lore. Unlike a maze, a labyrinth has no tricks and no dead-ends. To some, walking the path represents a spiritual journey of sorts, but I just think that it's a neat way to grow lavender.

Coyote Country

We had New Year's brunch with the neighbors this morning, and coyotes were on everyone's mind. One couple reported that they'd been tracked and then surrounded by a pack of coyotes just last night while walking down the street to a New Year's Eve party. Finding no stick nearby, Rich resorted to a deep baritone shout (which, thankfully, worked). The coyotes took off, but Rich's voice was still hoarse at brunch.

Out here in the sticks, there are no streetlights and there are long stretches of undeveloped land. We encounter coyotes regularly; more often than not, the Wrangler and I see or hear them on our evening walks with the dogs. The coyotes in our area are big and beautiful, with full and shiny coats--not at all like the scrappy, mangy-looking coyotes we used to see in Laguna Beach now and then. The coyotes have always been afraid of us and kept their distance. It was a little unsettling to hear that coyotes were brave enough to surround two adults.

Another couple noted that the coyotes seem desperate. "We're used to coyotes, and we're used to coyotes howling in the distance," Randy said. "But lately we're hearing them very close to the house, and the howls sound crazy and frantic." He suspects that the coyotes are severely overcrowded and food is scarce.

For our part, we're finding piles of coyote scat on the patio and in the driveway. Lately the dogs have been barking more than usual at night, and we think that they're seeing or hearing coyotes just outside the windows. Clearly, the coyotes are coming very close to the house and letting us know that this is their territory.

It was suggested at brunch today that a good way to keep the coyotes at bay is to, ahem, mark one's territory. "You mean let the dogs mark in the shrubbery?" I asked innocently. "Not exactly," our neighbor hinted. Everyone looked at the Wrangler. Oh, boy.

We wouldn't have to worry about what the neighbors would think if they happened to see him in action--after all, they were the ones who suggested it.

I was assured that this method is at least organic if not hygienic.

Nonetheless, I think I'd prefer the coyote scat on the patio as opposed to...ah, never mind. No need to go into detail.

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.