Happy Earth Day!

What shall I do on this Earth Day?

For all you cretins out there, today is Earth Day, the day everyone pretends to be green and virtuous and love their “Mother.”

Earth Day is now touted as the “world’s largest environmental movement” and is often characterized by mass gatherings of people who expended untold amounts of carbon to travel to Washington D.C. and protest the carbon footprints of everyone else (usually followed by photos of the amount of trash left in their wake).

Alternately, for those unwilling or unable to go to mass protests against environmental pollution, supporters can engage in something called “iActivism” in which they can tweet or post their disgust at pollution on social media, using their mass-produced electronics and the Internet Al Gore created. These tweets, of course, will make people think they’re actually doing something useful as they take pictures of themselves holding pieces of paper with “#hastagactivism” written on it.

Meanwhile protesters/supporters will laud the continued legalization of marijuana while condemning wheat or vegetable farmers, since apparently it’s “greener” to grow pot than to grow food. It’s the old “Leonardo DiCaprio has huge yachts, jets, and homes, and Al Gore has villas without solar panels. Where do they get off telling us what to do?” problem.

Yet apparently we, the Lewis family, are the hypocrites because we don’t support Earth Day twaddle. This, despite the fact that we don’t commute, don’t use disposables, have almost zero garbage output, never use our clothes dryer, have no personal electronics (except computers and one “dumb” phone), shop second-hand stores, heat with wood, keep our electricity usage between $30 and $50 every month (LED lights!), and otherwise subscribe to nearly every recommendation the environmentalists make.

But as “green” as these accomplishments may be, activists probably won’t approve. The difference, of course, is we support green living – not the green agenda. The green agenda is nothing more than a watermelon: green packaging around a red center. It’s socialism, prettily wrapped up in 100 percent recycled wrapping paper, with a communist bow on top and backed up by governmental force. Open that green package, and the gory red insides spill out: the blood of hundreds of millions people who have died from collectivist régimes in the last century.

Somehow it’s become unacceptable to live green lifestyle without having a suitably militant red attitude.

Meanwhile, back on the farm, we’ll celebrate Earth Day by going about our ordinary lives: Feeding the livestock, planting peas and potatoes, gathering eggs, and living the life God intended for us. I can think of no finer celebration.

Update on Polly

So many people have offered prayers, consolation, and advice concerning our sick Jersey cow Polly -- thank you all! I'm happy to report she seems much better.

She still had me worried yesterday afternoon. I stepped out into the woods and watched her -- she was nibbling the still-short grass, which was a good sign -- but she was still hunching and passing bloody urine on a frequent basis. (Don't be alarmed by how bony she looks -- that's just a "Jersey" thing.)

Last evening when Don went to feed, all the other animals bellied up to the feed boxes -- except Polly. At least, at first. After a few minutes and some calling from us, she made her way under the awning and, to our delight, began eating. (That's her calf Anna with her.)

This morning I went to feed the animals, and saw only four cows with their heads in the feed boxes. Four cows, not five. My heart sank a little -- where was Polly? But to my delight, she was right there with the rest of them, eating vigorously, at the far end where I didn't see her at first.

A couple hours later, I hooked her up to the lead rope and put her into the squeeze chute again. This time Don administered the antibiotic shots, and a very fine job he did of it too. After that, I backed Polly out and returned her to the herd. Her eyes are clear and the swelling in her jaw is down, and her urine looks much more normal.

We'll finish out the bottle of antibiotics on her tomorrow and keep an eye on her, but it looks like the crisis is over. She seems well on the road to recovery, thanks to the awesome power of modern medicine.

And reader support.

Polly is sick

Polly, our remaining purebred Jersey cow, is sick.

Yesterday morning when I went to feed the critters, I noticed Polly wasn't among them. I found her in an adjacent pen, looking miserable. Though she was facing away from me, something seemed unusual about her head.

I entered the pen and was horrified to find her face entirely puffed up, her eyes like slits and her jaw with a huge soft bulge. I ran into the house and placed calls to every large-animal vet in the region, only to find none available.

Meanwhile a man stopped by to visit some neighbors. Luis has something of a local reputation as a "horse whisperer" -- he's magic with equines -- and as it turns out, he's highly experienced with cattle as well. He looked at Polly and said she had a large infection, and recommended we get an antibiotic called LA 200.

We ran a string around Polly's midsection, a method for estimating weight in cattle. By this determination, we guessed she weighs 927 lbs.

I went into town and purchased the antibiotic. Luis promised to come out this morning to show us the best way to administer it.

This morning Polly's swollen face looked better, but she kept hunching over and passing bloody urine. Not good.

At least she's on her feet. A cow off her feet is very seriously ill indeed. But she's off her food, lethargic, and often just stands slumped.

Luis arrived this morning, and I walked Polly into the squeeze chute. LA-200 supposedly stings going in, and I didn't want anyone (bovine or human) getting hurt in the process.

Based on Polly's weight and the recommended dosage, Luis filled the syringe...

...then he injected her intramuscularly in three different places (apparently the medicine is best administered spread around).

Polly jerked a bit, but she's lethargic and didn't fight. I backed her out of the chute without a problem and returned her to the corral.

We'll give her the next few shots ourselves, repeating the dosage for the next couple of days. According to LA-200 information, she should show "marked improvement" in the next 24 to 48 hours.

I don't want to lose Polly so soon after losing Matilda. We'll be watching her like a hawk.

That streak of gray

So yesterday I was in a thrift store in the city, purchasing a replacement coat for the one I have with a broken zipper. I brought the garment up to the register, and the nice lady asked me if I was 55 or older. "Actually, I'm exactly 55," I said. "Why?"

"Because you get a 20 percent senior discount," she replied, punching the keys on the cash register.

Ouch.

I suppose it was inevitable, but honestly, that's the first time I've been "rewarded" for being a "senior." I put "senior" in quotes because I sure don't feel like one. But I guess that long streak of gray in my otherwise brown hair is a giveaway. I wasn't sure whether to be flattered or insulted.

But if there's one thing I've learned from my dear mother, it's to age gracefully. Mom never dyed her hair or fought the wrinkles. I guess now it's my turn to do the same.

But still. Ouch.

It's the little things in life

Almost exactly two years ago, Don built me a little shelving unit to store gallon jugs of bulk staples: oatmeal, brown sugar, whole wheat flour, tea, pasta, raisins, etc.

I was making some oatmeal-raisin cookies for the neighborhood potluck last week. As I always do, I pulled the necessary jugs of ingredients from this shelving unit and placed them on the table until needed.

And it occurred to me how much I took for granted this extremely useful piece of furniture. What a blessing to have a woodworking husband who can make such needed items.

This inspired me to look around the house and realize that everything -- with the exception of a sofa and loveseat we bought new in 2004 -- is either a second-hand purchase or handmade by my talented husband. The result is eclectic and unpolished -- and yet it somehow represents us very well.

After all, we're kind of eclectic and unpolished too.

Winter isn't done with us yet

Typical for spring, we're alternating between nice warmish days of sunshine, and days of rain and/or wind. This morning we woke up to howling wind and snow. Wheee.

The flakes were flying sideways.

The vehicle was getting plastered. If I'd waited an hour longer to take these photos, the vehicle would have been even more plastered.

We have a stack of wooden pallets leaning against a barn pole. They got plastered too.

Our brave stand of daffodils, pushing up, also got plastered, poor dears.

The neighbors across the way were simply obliterated.

And now -- a few hours later -- everything's gone and we even have periods of weak sunshine (though the wind is still blowing). If you don't like the weather, wait five hours. Or something like that.

Double-dipping

Our beloved Jersey cow Matilda, who passed away February 10, absolutely loved calves. She would nurse any and every calf who wanted milk. As a result, we called her our Universal Donor.

Yesterday I caught Amy, Matilda's adult daughter, engaging in the same practice. Double-dipping, anyone?

One calf is hers, and the other is little Ferdinand.

As far as I'm concerned, having a Universal Donor is an excellent thing on a farm ... plus it's a testimony to Matilda's gentle, generous nature -- something she clearly passed on to her daughter.

And to think it all started with a potluck

If there’s one thing I’m always harping about when it comes to preparedness, it’s comparing it to a three-legged stool. One leg is supplies, the second leg is skills and knowledge, and the third leg is community.

In our neck of the woods, the ties that bind us with our neighbors are our potlucks. We've been having these neighborhood potlucks for about nine years now. Nine years. That's a long time. Many of you have heard the story before; but for those unfamiliar with it, here’s how our potlucks got started.

Way back when, some new neighbors moved in across from us. They had a rough start. While the wife and four kids settled in, the husband kept his job on the east coast. For the next three years, the husband visited his new home whenever he could, but he had career commitments to tie up before he was able to move here permanently.

During this time we got to know the wife and kids quite well. One day we invited them to dinner, figuring the mom would like some adult company. She brought dessert, the grownups sat around the table and talked, the kids (our and theirs) did their own thing, and we all had a splendid time. We enjoyed ourselves so much that we invited them back the next week for a repeat performance.

As she was heading out the door at the end of that second meal, the mother said, “I’ll host next week,” and our weekly potlucks were born. Soon the husband was able to conclude his job and came home permanently. We invited a third family to join us, then a fourth, and these four families became the core of a weekly sociable that has taken place for nearly a decade.

My potluck dishes

In the last year or so, the potlucks have grown as we've had more people join our circle. I think the most we've ever had over at one time was 35 (I now keep stacks of extra plates and bowls for potluck meals). We now have four separate families acting as hosts, so no one gets overwhelmed (at least not more than once a month).

Sometimes we have to cancel for a week or even a month when schedules get busy, to resume when things are more settled. We’re fluid in our arrangements. Newcomers are always welcome – other neighbors, visiting friends and relatives, guests. With so many people, folding chairs and folding tables get passed around from house to house. Even so, often there aren't enough chairs to go around, but people are very good-natured about sitting on the couch balancing plates on their knees or eating standing up.

Folding table and chairs, stored until needed

I can't tell you how much these potlucks mean to me. To look around a crowded room, to listen to four or five conversations going on at once, to open with prayer, to see everyone pitch in to clean up ... even after nine years of this, it never gets old.

As a result of these potlucks, we’ve been blessed to know these good people better than most neighbors ever get to know each other. We cheer each other’s victories, we mourn each other’s losses, we commiserate hard times, we laugh about good times. We celebrate birthdays and anniversaries and graduations.

If someone needs help, we know who to call. It might be a horse tangled in a fence. It might be a flat tire or a vehicle stuck in snow. It might be a missing dog or an escaped cow. It might be something heavy that needs to be moved. If someone is ill or recuperating from surgery, we pitch in to feed livestock, cook meals, and run errands. We share garden produce and seeds. We keep others informed if there’s a good deal on hay for winter feed. If one of us visits the city, sometimes we’ll pick up a needed item for someone else.

Stuck in the snow

In short, these potlucks have strengthened the ties we have with the people surrounding us. To be honest, none of us gave this much thought – it just seemed like a natural thing to do – until outsiders started saying in awe, “You meet every week?” or variations to that effect, and we realized we had something special going on.

As a community, we'll often share tools and equipment, saving people the need or cost of purchasing each item on their own. Our log splitter gets used by several other neighbors. We've borrowed trailers for hauling heavy loads. Seed spreader, plow, disker, back blades, cultivator, rototiller -- all these tractor implements get passed around wherever they're needed. We have a neighbor who's taken it upon himself to be the neighborhood snowplow (since our road is not county-maintained), and we'll pitch in some money to cover his gas. Another neighbor with a Very Beefy Tractor will stack our hay for us in the barn each summer.

Now that our girls have spread their wings and entered adulthood, there are times Don and I think we should sell out and move to a smaller house ... but quite honestly, we don't want to leave our neighbors. We're not certain we could ever duplicate the love and friendship we've developed with these people if we moved anywhere else. So -- we're staying put.

And to think it all started with a potluck. Something to think about as you look around at your own neighbors.

UPDATE: Oh wow -- this got featured on SurvivalBlog!

Prepper gardening

I'm pleased to announce a new ebook in our Country Living Series entitled Prepper Gardening. This is a fairly broad piece that covers a number of factors distinguishing between a survival garden and a regular garden. At $2.99 and nearly 8,000 words in length, we feel it's a bargain.

Also, some readers expressed concern about using the checkout features on the Country Living Series website because it requires an address. This is unnecessary information, since the ebooks are sent electronically (not mailed). We've requested this feature be disabled, but were told it was impossible.

So -- and we've tested this -- you can input a false address as long as the town and zip code match. We put up a notice concerning this on the Country Living Series website, but it's kinda small print.

For those wanting to order ebooks, please input the following address when prompted:

General Delivery
Day, FL 32013

Hope this helps!

Peekaboo

This time of year, when the snow is off the ground but not much is growing yet, the feedboxes in the barn are a popular hangout.

The winter babies are learning to eat hay. I don't know if they particularly like it, but they're learning.

Like mother, like daughter: Sparky with Hickory.

The babies mouth the hay and delicately eat it, but at this age they vastly prefer mama's milk.

When I do the morning feeding, the babies eye me warily. To them, we're strange two-footed cows.

As you can see on this little guy, the dehorning scars are healing nicely.

The cows aren't the only ones who hang around the feedboxes.

It's no wonder we often find eggs in here.

Just a little snapshot of early spring around the homestead.

Lehman's blog posts

As many of you know, I'm honored to be writing blog posts for the incomparable Lehman's. Unfortunately their blog went down for a while, but now it's back up. Here are some of the pieces I contributed in March:

• Paper Gardening

• A power outage can light up your life

• The benefits of a prepared lifestyle

• A primer for extended power loss

These topics are necessarily short -- most of the time, I'm limited to 500 words -- but the idea is to encourage people to explore them more thoroughly. Enjoy!

Paying the price

A friend sent this.
______________________________

There once was a man named George Thomas, pastor in a small New England town. One Easter Sunday morning he came to the Church carrying a rusty, bent old bird cage, and set it by the pulpit. Eyebrows were raised and, as if in response, Pastor Thomas began to speak....

"I was walking through town yesterday when I saw a young boy coming toward me swinging this bird cage. On the bottom of the cage were three little wild birds, shivering with cold and fright. I stopped the lad and asked, "What do you have there, son?"

"Just some old birds," came the reply.

"What are you going to do with them?" I asked.

"Take 'em home and have fun with 'em," he answered. "I'm gonna tease 'em and pull out their feathers to make 'em fight. I'm gonna have a real good time."

“But you'll get tired of those birds sooner or later. What will you do then?"

"Oh, I got some cats," said the little boy. "They like birds. I'll take 'em to them."

The pastor was silent for a moment. "How much do you want for those birds, son?"

“Huh??!!! Why, you don't want them birds, mister. They're just plain old field birds. They don't sing. They ain't even pretty!"

"How much?" the pastor asked again.

The boy sized up the pastor as if he were crazy and said, "$10?"

The pastor reached in his pocket and took out a ten dollar bill. He placed it in the boy's hand. In a flash, the boy was gone.

The pastor picked up the cage and gently carried it to the end of the alley where there was a tree and a grassy spot. Setting the cage down, he opened the door, and by softly tapping the bars persuaded the birds out, setting them free.

Well, that explained the empty bird cage on the pulpit, and then the pastor began to tell this story:

One day Satan and Jesus were having a conversation. Satan had just come from the Garden of Eden, and he was gloating and boasting. "Yes, sir, I just caught a world full of people down there. Set me a trap, used bait I knew they couldn't resist. Got 'em all!"

"What are you going to do with them?" Jesus asked.

Satan replied, "Oh, I'm gonna have fun! I'm gonna teach them how to marry and divorce each other, how to hate and abuse each other, how to drink and smoke and curse. I'm gonna teach them how to invent guns and bombs and kill each other. I'm really gonna have fun!"

"And what will you do when you are done with them?" Jesus asked.

"Oh, I'll kill 'em," Satan declared proudly.

"How much do you want for them?" Jesus asked.

“Oh, you don't want those people. They ain't no good. Why, you'll take them and they'll just hate you. They'll spit on you, curse you and kill you. You don't want those people!!"

“How much? He asked again.

Satan looked at Jesus and sneered, "All your blood, tears and your life."

Jesus said, "DONE!" Then He paid the price.

The pastor picked up the cage and walked from the pulpit.

A blessed Resurrection Day to everyone.