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.

Busy as a Bee

I attended a beekeeping class today at the Ecology Center. I could write for days about bees. Everything about bees is wondrous: their social structure, their crucial role in pollinating plants, the creation of the honeycomb, the complexity of the honey-making process....The Wrangler and I were enthralled when the apiarist described how bees select their hives. The scouts check out nearby "real estate" and report back to the colony. Each scout performs a dance that discloses the location of a potential site by conveying the angle of the sun's location, the distance, and direction. The bees buzz off to view the properties and then select the new hive via a democratic process.

Without veering off into Debbie Downer territory by lamenting colony collapse disorder, Africanized ("killer") honey bees (which descend from a colony of hybrid bees that were interbred by a biologist in the 1950s and accidentally released), bees feeding on nectar and pollen from genetically-modified or pesticide-laden plants, and the adverse consequences of interstate transportation of bees for commercial agricultural purposes, I will say only that we humans seem to be messing up things for the bees. Did you know that some commercial apiaries feed their honeybees a junk food diet of high fructose corn syrup instead of the nectar from flowers? The honey produced by these poor bees basically is reprocessed high fructose corn syrup.

En route to the beekeeping class, the Wrangler and I had discussed the medicinal aspects of lavender while mulling over my lavender farm plans. During the class, the apiarist briefly touched on the antibacterial and antiseptic properties of honey. I hadn't given much thought to the symbiosis of lavender and honey! From cultivation to purpose, they seem to be a perfect match...the bee's knees, if you will.

March 28

Oscar and Elmo will be ready to leave their goat mama on March 28th! There is so much to do around here to get ready: a meet-and-greet with the goat veterinarian, visiting the feed store for hay and bedding, designing a goat house and pen, and preparing our canine monster Dash to be a gracious and kind host.

Unlike gentle Fenway, Dash flips out if he so much as glimpses a furry friend on TV. We solicited the help of a dog trainer, who introduced a surprisingly calm Dash to her mellow German Shepherd dog. This was encouraging. We're working with Dash on ignoring distractions. I'm sure it will take days if not weeks to slowly introduce Dash to the goats, but we are hopeful that all four-legged family members can happily co-exist.

The Wrangler Rides Again

This weekend the Wrangler decided to get in on the horse action and took a lesson at a nearby barn. It's sort of a long story, but the crux is that he rode a Peruvian Paso, which is a horse known for its exceptionally smooth ride. It has a four-beat, lateral gait instead of a trot and is usually ridden in a western saddle. The ride is so smooth that there are competitions in which riders carry glasses of champagne without spilling a drop. Since the rider doesn't bounce up and down, the Peruvian Paso has become a favorite for older riders with back problems.

Of course, while this all sounds pretty good to me (and my bad back), this makes the Wrangler a little uneasy. He's seeking manly cowboy adventures on a rugged trail, not champagne-glass-balancing exploits with arthritic and geriatric ladies in an arena. As I mentioned, how the lesson came about in the first place is sort of a long story, but the Wrangler was a good sport and seemed to enjoy it. I observed the lesson, and it was striking to see how the rider really does not move an inch up or down or front to back. It's almost as if the rider is floating atop the horse.

Other riders at the barn commented that the Wrangler looked like a natural on Junior, a beautiful Peruvian Paso who will be featured on the reality show America's Favorite Trail Horse. Hmm, is there a new reality TV star in the making?

Hitting the Books

Maybe it's because I'm old-fashioned and don't like reading things on a computer screen, but when it comes to researching a new project or idea, I start by buying a book on the subject...or, rather, every book on the subject. I probably own every single book currently in print on lavender; raising chickens, goats, donkeys, and sheep; keeping bees; harvesting maple syrup; growing pumpkins; and urban farming. Overkill? I think not. One of these years I'll get around to tapping some maple trees and will be oh-so-glad to have plenty of informative books on hand. (I absolutely love libraries but, oddly enough, I rarely can find the latest books on such topics as creating lavender labyrinths and starting a sugarbush.)

But after I tore into the box of books on paper making that arrived today, I realized that I need get with the now and start with free research online. I can't entertain every whim by ordering a shipment of instructional books right off the bat. I read just one chapter on paper making before deciding that paper making is for the birds. Turns out, it is fairly complex and involves special equipment, techniques, and processes. There even was a chapter on lye, a substance that reduces me to a shaking, shivering mess.

Eghh. Now I'm stuck with five books on paper making. They'll find their place right next to my books on artisan chocolates. A quick google search would have informed me that making chocolates is a sophisticated exercise in chemistry (I had pictured merely pouring some batter into molds). A quick google search would have revealed that making lovely stationery is not as simple as whipping up a paste and spreading it out to dry.

On second thought, I'll donate these books to the library. While I'm there, I'll check the shelves to see if another donor learned a similar lesson on creating lavender labyrinths and starting a sugarbush.

Horse Poor

There are people who are "house poor." They spend all their money on their house. And there are people who are "horse poor." They spend all their money on their horse. Our realtor pointed this out to me as she tried to explain why so many horse properties around here have amazing equestrian facilities but not-so-amazing houses.

Well, folks, I think I'm headed down the horse poor path. Moto just had his 60-day check-up for his bowed tendon. (For at least the next six months, he will get a check-up and a diagnostic ultrasound every 60 days.) Thankfully, the healing process is underway, and the vet is pleased with his recovery so far. She recommended daily therapeutic ultrasound treatments, which can shorten the recovery period. If I rent the device, the vet will show me how to administer the treatment myself.

Guess what? Renting medical equipment is not exactly cheap. Moto is expected to make a full recovery regardless of whether he receives daily ultrasound therapy, so it's not like the treatment is absolutely necessary. I've been a horse owner for just two weeks, and I have to decide if I'm going to be the kind of owner who (a) leaves well enough alone or (b) goes the extra mile. I want to go the extra mile.

When it comes to my own health, though, I usually leave well enough alone. I dismissed ultrasound treatment for my own injuries last year as a charlatanish, pseudo-medical therapy--the rich man's Vicks Vapor Rub. Did it really help me heal? I was skeptical.

My lower back still gives me trouble. Quackery or not, ultrasound therapy might be worth another try. I'll have the equipment at my disposal for a couple months. I think you can see where I'm going with this. "Scoot over, Moto, it's my turn now...."

Rainy Day

It was a wonderful, refreshing, cozy rainy day here on the farm. This kind of weather makes me forget New England for a moment. The drizzle let up by early evening, so I met my riding instructor at the nearby barn where she keeps her own two horses. She splits her time teaching riding lessons at Moto's barn in Orange County and working for her family's nursery. She also tends to her horses for an hour or two every single day.

I'm trying to learn everything and anything about horse care, so I tagged along as she turned out and fed her horses. I was like a four-year-old kid who asks too many questions: "Why...?" "How...?" "What...?" My nonstop chatter disrupted the otherwise tranquil twilight, but my saintly instructor's patience never wore thin.

It was raining again by the time I got home. It would have been a perfect night for chili or stew, but I was so engrossed in horsey stuff that I forgot to pick up ingredients for dinner. I did stir up a batch of my homemade granola, so the house smells delightful if nothing else.

As I write this I hear raindrops on the roof, soft sighs from the pets, and the Wrangler's guitar. Life is good when it rains.

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.

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.