Built Fjord Tough

While channel surfing I stumbled upon a show on RFDTV ("Rural America's Most Important Network") on the Norwegian Fjord Horse. As the spouse of a proud Norwegian, I paused to learn more about this small but strong breed that was domesticated in western Norway 4,000 years ago.

The Fjord horse is one of the world's oldest and purest breeds. Although ranging in height from only 13.1 to 14.3 hands, the Fjord is strong enough for heavy work loads, such as pulling timber or a plow. At the same time, the Fjord is light and agile enough for competitive riding. It is surefooted on rough terrain and considered to be an excellent driving horse. Its reputation makes it a good choice for riding schools and therapeutic programs. Fjords are good flock guardians and even can be taught to herd sheep. I can see why Fjords have been used for hundreds of years as farm horses in Norway!

The Fjord's distinguishing features include its light draft horse build and a thick mane with a full-length dorsal stripe. The mane usually is clipped to stand erect. I watched the footage of Fjords and their riders with interest. I suspect that, at approximately five hands shorter than Moto, Fjords offer their riders a much softer landing if they fall off--about two feet closer to the ground!

Fjords: they're good-natured, they can be safely ridden, driven, or used for hauling loads, and they work well with sheep...I'm sold.

Counting Sheep

When does the proverbial counting of sheep keep you wide awake instead putting you to sleep? When you've been working on a farm business plan before bed and can't stop going over the numbers in your head. (I did down a highly caffeinated chai latte around 11PM, which admittedly didn't help things.) In addition to the adorable little babydoll Southdown sheep, I've been dreaming of a larger fiber flock of Romneys and Merinos.

I'm a spreadsheet and numbers-oriented kind of gal, and I'm struggling with the figures for a hobby fiber farm. There's the costs for basic animal care (acquiring the sheep, food, fencing, shelter, and veterinary expenses), yearly shearing (to minimize nicks and cuts, this is a task best left to skilled professionals who shear regularly), fiber processing (sorting, washing, fiber cleaning/dehairing, carding, rovings, drafting, spinning, plying, steaming, conewinding, and skeining, not to mention dyeing), marketing (labels), and selling (expenses associated with selling online or at stores and markets). And I'm probably overlooking some major costs.

The numbers indicate that it's possible to eke out a meager profit, but only if I have a fairly large flock. I love the idea of, say, six sheep, but I'm not sure how I feel about 30. The good news is that the Wrangler recently told me, "You can get any animals you'd like." I knew he'd come around.

Common Ground and Common Sense

Saturday afternoon activities at Antlerstock included a discussion of heritage chicken breeds, a home wool processing workshop, and a horse skidding demonstration (using horses to move large logs). Around 5pm we adjourned for a couple hours and would reconvene later for a bonfire. I ventured into town--a blink-and-you'll-miss-it but quaint New England town, complete with the charming country church-and-steeple. Despite having only one coffee shop (which was closed for the day) and no other apparent restaurants, save for the one in the town's hotel, Main Street was home to a fabulous local bookstore. As I browsed the shelves designated for local authors, I was stunned to see that I owned many of the books. I guess authors living in Vermont really speak to me!

Finding not much else to do in town, I returned to the farm to help get ready for the bonfire. A pumpkin carving assembly line was in full swing--the Jack O'Lanterns lined the path to the bonfire. It was BYOHB--bring your own hay bale. We carried hay bales from the barn to the campsite, sat two to a bale around the crackling fire, and enjoyed ice cold local craft beer. Instruments were played, stories were shared. We eventually got rained out and fled to the cozy farmhouse for freshly-pressed cider, hot this time.

I called it a night around 10pm and drove back to my hotel in Manchester (another town with a fabulous local bookstore). I'm a nervous driver and the roads were narrow, winding, and dark. Heavy rain pelted the windshield. The speed limit was 55 but I was afraid to do more than 45. I wondered what I'd do if a car got behind me but, incredibly, not a single car followed me during the 40-minute drive!

Sunday was clear and crisp--a perfect autumn day. Back at Antlerstock I conquered my fear of botulism at the canning workshop! If nothing else the skills I acquired over the weekend will keep me from accidentally (1) burning down the house while soapmaking with lye, (2) poisoning the family with improperly canned vegetables, and (3) felling a tree onto the roof.

The weekend concluded with a field trip to the Common Sense Farm, an organic farm and commercial soap-making enterprise run by a somewhat controversial religious community. The folks have that Amish-look--stoic-looking men with beards and glasses, women and little girls in long dresses with kerchiefs around their heads, long-haired little boys with pony tails. I had some pre-conceived notion that they would be serious and quiet, but it turns out that--shocker--they are just regular people with a normal sense of humor. They didn't proselytize; they talked animatedly about farming, not religion. They were gracious hosts and served us delicious tea made from herbs from their 6-acre herb garden, sweetened with honey from their hives, on their rolling 100-acre farm. The family herbalist introduced us to the various herbs that she grows to address health issues in their community. (It was unclear whether they completely eschew western medicine--my impression was that they prefer natural cures but don't prohibit modern medical treatment.) We toured their immaculate barn to see their chickens, goats, and sheep.

We also toured their soap shop, which is in a beautifully converted barn. The lovely--and very modern--offices were formerly horse stalls. As the story goes, when their community decided to set up shop (literally) in this barn, Estee Lauder/Origins provided the financial backing. The relationship ended in 2001 after the Labor Department found a 15-year-old changing a lightbulb in the soap shop. Origins, although sympathetic, didn't want any controversy. While community living with a factional religious group isn't really my thing, I enjoyed this glimpse into their farming and soap business. I don't know enough about the group to judge whether their tenets are untenable. All is I know is that, despite vastly different backgrounds and beliefs, we found some common ground. Perhaps family farming is the great equalizer, several of us mused.

I had to depart for the airport after the field trip. Jenna, the amazing host of Antlerstock, refused to let me go without a small Mason jar of homemade chili "for the road." I said my goodbyes and might have shed a tear or two in the car as I thought of leaving this lush and pastoral paradise with wonderfully unpredictable weather to return to dry, dusty, monotonously sunny southern California.

What Do You Do at Antlerstock?

What goes on at Antlerstock? Well, the easier question to answer might be, "What doesn't go on at Antlerstock?" The first workshop on Saturday was woodlot management/lumberjacking. I had planned to attend the concurrent cheesemaking class, but I decided to step out my comfort zone and try something completely new. I'm so glad that I did! We started with some good old-fashioned competitive axe throwing. The axe was quite a bit heavier than I expected. After multiple throws, I still couldn't hit the target. The guys seemed to get the hang of it after just one throw. Our instructor hit the bullseye every time. We learned how to use an axe, bow saw, and chain saw. We learned about general safety, notching (replacing the 45-degree notch with a 90-degree notch, based on Swedish forestry methods, has reduced injuries by 30%), back cuts, and escape routes. We felled two large trees. Guess what? Lumberjacks wear chaps.

Next up was Chickens 101. We learned how to construct a brooder and care for chicks, pullets, hens, and roosters. I was fascinated by how easy it is to immobilize a squawking, flapping, frantic chicken: just hold her upside down and she'll fall into a zen-like trance immediately.

Lunch was social affair. I was still full from the quiche (farmstead eggs, broccoli, Vermont cheddar, and of course homemade crust) that was served before the first workshop, but I managed to scarf down the BBQ pork from Flying Pig Farm (the BBQ sauce was made from farmstead honey and maple syrup harvested by Antlerstock attendees), potato soup from Firecracker Farm, and a piece of homemade apple pie...okay, if I'm being honest, two pieces of apple pie! We shook apples from the trees into a sheet and dumped them into the cider press. I held my mug under the spout while someone else cranked away. About 15 of us sat in front of the cozy woodstove and chatted like old friends while others stayed outside and carved pumpkins. The weather was delightfully fall-like: a comfortable 60 degrees with occasional sprinkles.

After lunch I headed to the soapmaking workshop where I finally overcame my fear of lye. I've avoided lye by making glycerine soaps, but let's face it. Glycerine soaps are lame. The big kids make real soap from lye. We donned safety goggles and masks, and by the time the workshop was over, I felt confident that working with lye requires only basic safety precautions--you just avoid inhaling it or splashing it in your eyes.

Sheep 101 was a treat and reaffirmed my hopes and dreams of having sheep of my own very soon. They're gentle and a manageable size and have a calming effect. Unsurprisingly, bottle-raised lambs are extraordinarily affectionate as adults. Although most busy farmers feel some dismay when forced to bottle-feed a lamb who was rejected by its mother, I secretly wouldn't mind the time drain one bit. (And I just know that the Wrangler would let me bottle-feed the lamb in the house, although probably in the mud room.)

There's still loads more to tell, but I suppose that this has been enough for now. I'll write about the Saturday evening and Sunday activities tomorrow. Teaser: we took a field trip to a commune for the herbalism workshop.

Who Goes to Anterstock?

The road to Antlerstock. Literally.

Forgive me if this is just the first in a series of Anterstock posts, but there is so much to tell. What a fantastic weekend in Vermont/New York! Before I describe the activities, sights, and food, I'll clue you in on the kind of people who end up at a small farm workshop in New England hosted by a young farm writer with a devoted blog following. We came from far and wide--a school teacher in Arizona who dreams of having some land in northern Minnesota some day, a Canadian who makes the most of her quarter-acre in the city, a farmstead goat's milk soapmaker from Texas, a forestry professor from upstate New York, a candymaker from Boston, an engineer and speech pathologist couple starting a sheep's milk cheese business, snowboard shop owners from Maine, New York City slickers with container gardens on their balconies, organic farmers living on a commune. All told, there were about 40 of us: maybe a few more women than men but a good mix, and about evenly split between couples and singletons.

You know the person who can easily befriend strangers in the checkout line at the grocery store and who shines in a group setting? That person is not me. The Wrangler usually has to drag me kicking and screaming to a party. I was prepared to be a little uncomfortable and perhaps even quietly duck out early and head back to my hotel. But I had so much in common with everyone that conversation flowed naturally. There was not so much small talk as there was exchanging of ideas. The time flew by. I arrived for the first workshop on Saturday at 10AM and didn't leave until 10PM.

We all have day jobs and farm dreams. Some people have just taken the plunge and had lots to share. Usually when I get one of my more radical ideas, well-meaning friends are quick to tell me why it won't work. At Antlerstock there was no naysaying. "We used our entire life savings to start our business," one attendee told me. "Money that we'd saved for years and years for retirement. Of course it's a little scary. But you know what? What's the worst thing that can happen? We lose all our money and our house. Yeah? So what? No one dies. But what's more likely is that we will succeed because we didn't cut corners. We think it's well worth the risk." (I described this atmosphere of encouragement to one of the Six-Button Cowgirls, which garnered the dry response, "Sounds like a support group for crazies; everyone egging each other on.") No one talked politics but I suspect we covered the full spectrum. Yet we all got along just fine.

When the Wrangler picked me up at the airport, I talked non-stop during the one-hour drive home. He pointed out that many of us at Antlerstock probably are left-brainers--lawyers, engineers, accountants, IT techs--but everyone has some creative juices. Some of us knit, most of us have blogs, and many of us are musical. As we sat on hay bales around the bonfire on Saturday night, various people brought out their guitars, bongo drum, flute, mandolin, and fiddle. We truly were a bunch of urban cowgirls (and urban cowboys) enjoying a bucolic October weekend among new friends.

Next up: the workshops.

Antlerstock

I'm off to Vermont for a long weekend of fun, foliage, farming, and new friends. I'm taking a redeye flight, which I firmly believe is the most efficient way to fly east. I hope I'm not being too ambitious; my itinerary doesn't leave me much time to sleep.

The weekend begins with a lecture and book-signing by acclaimed New York Times bestselling author Jon Katz of Bedlam Farm, an author whose books I've read and enjoyed for years. Then it's off to Antlerstock at Cold Antler Farm. There are too many classes for one person to attend, so I've "narrowed" down my selection to cheese-making, soap-making, basic sheep care, basic chicken care, home wool processing, knitting, canning, intro to mountain music, herbalism, and sheep herding. The meals sound amazing--BBQ pork from nearby Flying Pig Farm (I avoid factory-farmed meat, but the pigs at Flying Pig Farm are humanely-raised in the woods and fields), hand-pressed apple cider, free-range egg quiches, and pizzas made with local cheeses. Although I usually shy away from crowds, this time I'm excited to meet the other 30 attendees who obviously must share my interest in hobby farming.

When asked what he'd do if I didn't make it back to California, the Wrangler promptly said that he'd send me a picture of my sad, lonely puppies every day. So, I guess I will do my best to catch the return flight on Sunday after all.

Let There Bee Light

What was in this giant box that arrived today all the way from the Brushy Mountain Bee Farm in North Carolina? None of your beeswax. Literally. It's my beeswax!

I was inspired to place an order after the Wrangler bought a small beeswax candle for $14.95 at Sprouts last week! I can make five candles that size from one pound of beeswax, which costs about $5.00. I'm no math wizard but even I could see that the $14.95 candle can be replicated for roughly a $1.00. Sure, there's the labor factor to consider but, especially when compared to most of the other crafty things I've attempted, making candles is a breeze.

And I'm sure the candles will come in handy during the next power outage.

Ashokan Farewell

Tonight a huge moon--not quite full, but seemingly brighter than usual--lit up the night sky. It may sound like I'm about to wax poetic again about the farm. But before you roll your eyes, let me add that I'm only pointing out that the moonlight was appreciated because...the freakin' power went out again. Ugh. I'm all for the simple life, but come on. Reliable electricity would be nice, especially around dinner time.

Obviously, the power has been restored. I've been sitting here at the computer researching cold-hardy lavender varieties. The Wrangler is somewhere in the house playing the most beautiful music on his guitar: The "Ashokan Farewell" is a goodnight waltz that begins with a solo violin that later is accompanied by a guitar. It was used in two Civil War films and, thus, is often mistaken for a Civil War-era tune.

I'm signing off now to follow the music down the hall and, yes, probably wax poetic about the farm, power outages and all.

Gratitude

Since I'm always looking ahead and thinking about what's next, it's easy for me to forget to be grateful for what I do have, right here and right now. Today I consciously stopped and counted my blessings.

We slept until 10--late enough so it feels luxurious yet not sloth-like. The morning sun was bright, but the air felt crisp and autumn-y. We let the pets out into the freshly-mowed courtyard, which smelled like a dream. The doggies happily rolled around in the short grass, and the Wrangler played a few chords on the guitar. We all headed inside to the kitchen where I mixed up a coffee cake and Joni Mitchell sang in the background.

This afternoon I went to the barn to ride Moto. I couldn't help sneaking in a few hugs while I brushed his shiny coat. Mmmm. Animals soothe my soul. Meanwhile, the Wrangler hit golf balls at the driving range. We reconvened and had dinner in our small town (population 1800). The restaurant isn't particularly upscale or worthy of a Michelin star, but the ambiance is pleasant, the service is friendly, and the food is tasty. We're lucky to have any place at all in a town of this size. We got home just in time to see the sunset over the ocean, which looked like a thin, sparkly silver ribbon in the distance. The sky glowed with an ostentatious palette of oranges, pinks, and reds. For five minutes I couldn't think of anywhere I'd rather be. For once I had no complaints at all.

There was no morning at the spa, afternoon of shopping, or dinner at a fancy restaurant. And yet today simply was the loveliest of days.

Pilgrimage

I just finalized the travel plans for what has become an annual fall foliage trip to Vermont. Next weekend, not only will I enjoy scenic drives on winding roads through the Green Mountains ablaze with peak autumn colors, I'll also be attending a small farming workshop. I'll learn about everything from sheep care to lumberjacking. Of course, the danger here is not my solo travels along country roads. The real risk is that the Wrangler will get a text message instructing him to pack up our things, put the pets in the car, and meet me in Vermont. I honestly can't guarantee that I'll ever catch that flight back to Cali.

Smells Like Rain

Storm clouds over the farm

I almost don't want to say it, for fear I'll jinx it. But I'm too excited to hold it in. And, since it's pretty much a sure thing, I might as well just blurt it out...we're getting a storm tomorrow! Yes, for three glorious days this week, the weather will be decidedly winter-like. October is usually the hottest, driest, sunniest month 'round these parts, but it looks like I'm getting a belated birthday gift! Temps are supposed to dip down to the unseasonably cool low 60s. I can curl up in a cozy blanket by the fire, cup of hot cider in hand, veggie chili simmering in the crock pot, apple pie in the oven--without having to turn on the A/C.

Even though my lesson with Moto probably will be rained out tomorrow, it's hard to feel disappointed. Let it rain, let it rain, let it rain!

Art & Soul

I recently read that if you take all the art in your home and put it in a pile, you will discern a common theme. I mentally walked through each room in the house, taking note of each print, painting, and decorative piece. Aha! The common theme for me is trees! I'm fascinated by this revelation because I certainly didn't plan this on any conscious level. But there it is: an abstract print of autumn leaves here, an impressionist painting of a tree-lined meadow there. Even my decorations are tree-themed--pinecones, wreaths, wood baskets. The focal point of the family room is two stunningly beautiful wood walking sticks, handmade by the Wrangler's father, which are displayed on the fireplace mantle. Every guest has immediately gravitated to them and inquired of their origin.

My fixation on trees makes a lot of sense. I'm not super outdoorsy, so I guess I bring the great outdoors inside. The breathtaking view of the tree-filled canyon was a significant factor in our decision to lease the farm. Every day I say aloud how much I prefer the views here to the city skylines and ocean views we enjoyed in our past houses. This makes perfect sense now.

Of course, most of us decorate with a particular style in mind--country, Tuscan, contemporary, etc. Test the art theory by looking for a theme beyond the decorating style. Maybe this theory doesn't always ring true. Some houses are pleasant but more generic; the place could belong to anyone. But the next time I'm in a home like this, I'm going to take a closer look.

Chickening Out

Bad news on the coop front. We just heard from the owners of the farm we're leasing that we can't have chickens. I'm a little bummed, but their explanation was reasonable. Apparently some of the neighbors (who, like us, are on the hill that backs up to the wildlife canyon) tried keeping chickens. The coyotes went absolutely crazy. They came up from the canyon in multiple packs and swarmed the yards at all hours. We already have quite a coyote presence; I can only imagine what would happen if we got chickens. Even though the coop area is well-fenced, it probably wouldn't be the best thing to have several packs of coyotes stalking the property in broad daylight and howling all night.

It's disappointing, but that's the good thing about only leasing the farm. We're learning as we go, and we're not stuck with any of the mistakes. When I buy a farm or ranch, I now know to really assess the predator situation. Lesson No. 1: Don't assume that fencing can solve the problem. I do see the irony here, though. We escaped the confines of cramped and crowded Laguna Beach...where urban chicken coops are allowed. (Don't worry--I'm not pining to move back.)

Owl in the Family

We have some new pets! A family of beautiful owls made their nest atop the chimney of the fireplace in the master bedroom. Despite the downturn in the housing market, this particular perch is highly sought-after. When we first moved in, the chimney was home to a graceful red-tailed hawk. Alas, a gang of crows foreclosed on the nest and sent the hawk packing. The crows bickered loudly among themselves, clanked around in the morning, and squawked into the night.

One night about a month ago, while I was trying to read and wind down before bed, the noisy racket on the roof seemed exceptionally loud. "That's it! I've had it with these crows!" I slammed my book shut, arose from the bed, and pointed to the fireplace. "Turn it on and crank up the gas," I directed the Wrangler, my voice low, slow, and evil, enunciating each syllable.

Wondering what had possessed his animal-loving wife, the same gal who gets upset upon receiving ASPCA mailings with photos of sad puppies, the Wrangler had no intention of toasting any crows. "Hold on, I'll go outside and see what's up."

After about 10 minutes, the Wrangler came storming back. "They're owls! Owls! The crows are gone. The owls are huge and amazing and beautiful! They're flying back and forth from the chimney to the trees and have enormous wingspans! And you were going to turn on the fireplace!" As if on cue, the rooftop racked stopped and we heard a gentle, "Hoot, hoot." I guess everyone is a little noisy on moving day.

I was sheepish indeed. "I really wasn't going to turn on the fireplace."

We love the soft hoot of the owls and watching them dart back and forth in the night sky. We're happy to have them as our upstairs neighbors, although sometimes the hooting does make it a little hard to sleep. I turn on the TV, and they quiet down immediately. They must be like me and enjoy falling asleep to old episodes of Seinfeld.

Born To Pin

I'm always behind the times when it comes to technology or cyberspace. (Do people even use the word "cyberspace" anymore? See what I mean?) For this, I'm unapologetic. My average monthly cell phone usage rarely exceeds 20 minutes--long live the landline! We have one or maybe even two iPads now that I think of it, but it's/they're gathering dust somewhere in a closet. It takes me a couple minutes to send a one-line text and I NEED COMPLETE SILENCE while I do so. I'll never Twitter. And GPS? Seems sneaky. So you get the point. I really should have been born in the 19th century.

Accordingly, please excuse me if I'm a bit late to the game here, but one of the Six-Button Cowgirls just introduced me to Pinterest, and I'm officially hooked. If you're like me and not in the know, there was a good article in the San Francisco Chronicle today that will give you the gist. In short, Pinterest lets us create online idea boards and share our additions. It's a great way to get inspired or simply catalog your own thoughts. I'm so excited to step into the now! I can stop keeping the huge binders of ideas that I've been compiling since the '80s. Yes, the '80s. Binder No. 1, completed at the tender age of nine, is filled with tips from Teen magazine for decorating your locker and bedroom, as well as photos torn from Town & Country magazine depicting glamourous equestrians at their country homes. (I did indeed subscribe to the patrician Town & Country as a middle-class fourth grader living in a banal suburb in the Midwest.)

I'm also a big fan of mood boards, a staple from the Wrangler's ad agency days. He stills brings home black foam core boards for me. I tend to jump from one big idea to another, so to keep me on track, he'll help me find photos to make a mood board about a particular idea, e.g., farms. (I do realize that such pastime is popular with both (a) creative genius ad execs and (b) five-year-olds.) At any rate, I now can create these boards online with just the click of my mouse--no glue, scissors, or magazines required. I don't even have to upload photos. When I see something I like on the web, I just click a "pin" button.

Can't. Stop. Pinning.

No Scrooges Allowed

It's no secret around here that I love Christmas an abnormal amount. I once founded a Christmas Club for ladies who love Christmas, but no one else wanted to meet in the "off season" of January through October. I've been known to unabashedly set up the Christmas village as early as October 1st, and I bake Christmas cookies well into February. And, yes, I've been lobbying for an 18-foot artificial Christmas tree this year.

So what if an 18-foot artificial tree is impractical, cumbersome, and a decorating nightmare? None of these arguments take into account the hours, days, weeks, and even years of sheer Christmas bliss that such a tree surely would bring. I'd curl up in front of the massive tree and doze off on a cozy Sunday afternoon. I'd watch the thousands of white lights twinkle as twilight set in on a chilly December evening. I'd stack festively wrapped packages with enormous bows under the lowest branches. In the spirit of frugality, I'd even forego any Christmas presents for myself. ("Nothing's stopping you from doing any of these things with a 10-foot tree," the Wrangler has noted wryly.) I'm not being profligate; I'd use the tree for years to come. It would be, as they say, an investment piece.

I usually can get the Wrangler on board with some of my more whimsical ideas. Once in a while, though, I can tell that he isn't going to budge. That's when a modern cowgirl has to take matters into her own hands. I figure there's about a 50/50 chance that, should the 18 feet of Christmas glory just happen to show up on our doorstep (a Christmas miracle!), the Wrangler--much like Ebenezer or, say, the Grinch--will see the errors of his ways. Far from grumbling over the logistics of assembling and decorating an 18-foot tree, he'll take a vacation day to string the lights. ("I'm sooo glad you went ahead and got this magical, majestic tree of cheer, tra la," he'll murmur appreciatively.)

But just in case...I suppose I better read that return policy.

Moo!

I've been threatening to get a cow for a while. Goats are fun, and I have no doubt that I'll love having a couple around the farm once I figure out the fencing situation, but I still haven't acquired a taste for goat's milk. I'm currently engrossed in Philip Hasheider's Family Cow Handbook, which has affirmed my belief that this family needs a beautiful, docile, Jersey cow.

Speaking of cows...out here in the country, we stumble upon interesting things all the time. On our way home from lunch today, the Wrangler and I just happened to see a cattle roping competition taking place at one of the many nearby riding stables. I'd never seen a roping event. In Montana we gathered cattle and did some team penning, but neither gathering nor penning involves roping. It was hard to not feel the excitement today, as each pair of riders burst out of the gate and tried to lasso the cow within a matter of seconds. But the sport quickly became difficult to watch because I felt so bad for the poor cows! It also made me wonder about team penning. Even though there are no ropes involved, I'm sure the cows don't like it.

Powerless

Oh sure, it was mildly fun to roast marshmallows by the campfire during the big power outage in San Diego county last week. If I'm being honest, though, the 12 hours without electricity were pretty dull. Now that I'm on the farm, I'm probably slightly more prepared than the average person for a natural disaster. The family could make it a couple weeks without electricity or access to town. But would we want to? Heck no. When the power was out last Thursday night, we were so bored without internet, computers, and lighting sufficient for reading that we went to bed about four hours earlier than usual. Yes, four hours. You can only strum the guitar by the campfire for so long.

As soon as we had power I ran to my computer, went directly to the Lehman's website, and snapped up anything that is powered by solar or hand-crank. In reflecting on some of the more impulsive purchases, I have to admit that I really didn't need a hand-operated cider press. But just think how productive I'll be during the next blackout!

Getting Moto Moving

I'm riding more often now that I'm leasing Moto again. It's wonderful to have something to look forward to several times a week. I don't even mind the commute to the barn, which has tripled since I moved to the farm.

Ah, Moto. Despite his size, I feel safe riding him because he is lazy. Although it's hard to get him going, I'll take a lazy horse over a touchy, spunky horse any day. Of course, his laziness necessitates the discussion of riding aids used to communicate with horses. Natural aids include leg pressure, voice, and hand and seat position. Artificial aids include spurs, whips, and crops (a very short and stiff variation of the whip). Although they sound severe, spurs, whips, and crops are commonly used as corrective tools. On the one hand, I know that it's important, for safety reasons, for the horse to obey and know who is (more or less) in charge. On the other hand, I can't help but think that only exceptional circumstances--such as needed medical attention--justify inflicting even minor pain on an animal. I have a hard enough time thinking about the bit and bridle and the fact that a horse has to tote me around on his poor back!

I don't wear spurs, and I don't use a whip. At my instructor's suggestion, I do carry a crop. Despite squeezing my calves against Moto's sides with all my might, I was having a hard time getting Moto moving. I've found that, even though I don't use it, just carrying the crop helps. Moto can see it out of the corner of his eye.

But the crop probably motivates me more than Moto. I've been told that a little tap of the crop on his shoulder feels like nothing more than a light smack on your bottom--it just lets the horse know that you mean business. Nonetheless, I don't want to use it. But if I can't get Moto moving with my legs, my instructor directs me to give him a tap with the crop. Thus, I put literally all I've got into making him move off my legs alone.

I end each session drenched in sweat and go home to soak my aching ab, thigh, and calf muscles in the tub. It's quite a workout, riding a lazy horse.

Weird Week

It was sort of a weird week on the farm. It began on Sunday night when we awoke to a flash (lightning) and a crash (thunder). First, I've never heard thunder like that in Southern California. Second, the lightning struck something in our grove. It was so close we could feel the energy in the air. Third, we haven't had rain in months, and we don't expect any until November. We're in the middle of wildfire season; I was convinced that the lightning would spark a brush fire in our canyon. I envisioned us running from the flames, with pets and boxes of family photos in tow.

On Monday night, even though it wasn't raining, we were treated to the largest rainbow I've seen. It arched directly over our house, a beacon. The sky turned purple and gold, and the air felt both magical and eerie. I thought we'd have an earthquake for sure.

Tuesday and Wednesday temperatures soared to the triple-digits with Houston-like humidity. This, again, highly unusual for our region.

And then on Thursday afternoon, the lights went out...in all of San Diego county and parts of Orange County and Riverside County and Arizona and Mexico. For a while cell phone towers were down as well. Traffic signals didn't work, turning the Wrangler's usual 40-minute commute into a three-hour nightmare. We scrounged up a campfire dinner of s'mores, brushed our teeth by candlelight, and headed to bed around 9PM--about four hours early. Power was restored at 3AM.

We're almost through Friday and, so far, nothing magical or strange.