The one that got away

Seems like regardless of whether I am present at my farm, I cannot escape farm life. My son and I took an 8 mile bike ride this gorgeous Sunday to a nearby park and playground. After a long bout of "all tuckered out" play (score 1 for mommy) We set out on our 8 mile trek back along the back roads. Suddenly the path became a tad bit bumpier than usual and I noticed 3 different sets of fresh hoof (obviously horse) prints. Not by any means an uncommon site, especially in these parts, except for maybe the set of ultra tiny prints to the far left.

It caught my attention just enough to keep an eye on the road perhaps a little further ahead than I might have otherwise. We rounded a bend and in the distance, I could make out what looked like two riders, boasting bright green vests. I could have been wrong, we still were quite a ways back, however as we closed in, not only were the extreme neon-ness of the vests confirmed, but so were the tiny set of footprints to the left. A small donkey walked slowly, freely, beside the brightly decorated caravan.

As we approached, I could make out the words sprawled across the back of the vests, "horse in training," it warned, "please slow down." Well, I was a bike, heading in the complete opposite direction as the wind was and carrying a now sleeping, dead weight 4 year old, needless to say I felt pretty confident in the fact that I was retaining a more than acceptable speed. I held my pace and let them know of my intent to "pass on the right hand side". Apparently, the donkey took notice of us first, and thus alerted all other parties involved (as well as anyone who happened to be onlooking) by bucking, snorting, "hee-hawing" and taking off in an immediate sprint.

I apologized as I passed exclaiming, "its just us, sorry!" (because who can be angry at a mother and her sleeping child) and while I then slowed my speed to show that I meant no harm, the donkey, did not. He rounded another bend and was out of sight. I could hear nothing, the wind was beating my ears like ocean waves against the shore, and I felt somewhat responsible for the occurrence, though, who walks a DONKEY without a tether down a public road? (Not bitter, just sayin). At any rate, I put heart and soul to the pedal and went after the misguided donkey.

I caught up and slowed, he slowed, countered, and took a stance, and though I spoke kindly, gently to him, he fired back up and RAN. He even offered up some of his extra awesome skills, by half attempting to jump in the ever present run-off ditch, and then jumping RIGHT back out as if saying, "psyche. sucka's." I was sorta at a loss. Was I supposed to make shift some sort of lasso and subdue this anarchist beast like a good "cowgirl" should? OR. Was I supposed to let him run himself ragged until he just couldn't. While that SOUNDS sooooo great... it is not just "he" who would be doing the running, and ragged-ness. He already had a "one up" he was solo.

I gave chase. Call it instinct, call it drive, call it "annoyed because I would be home by now", call it whatever you want. I followed that donkey for miles, and then, we all came to a "cross roads" of sorts. A truck was headed our way, the donkey, my sleeping son, and I were headed its. And a road, a left turn, suddenly became a pop up option. "donkey" diverted. Took his sweet time, but finally, last minute (truck almost met his face) turned down Brockett. "brockett road", I quickly committed it to memory, and just as quickly rounded my bicycle ( and STILL sleeping son within) and headed back towards the "loud vests".

The good thing was, I was riding "like the wind", the bad, it was polar opposite of where I really needed to be heading , and I knew at some point soon, I was going to have to turn back around. Finally, I could make out the shapes I was looking for in the distance (thanks also to the aforementioned vests). The closer I got, the more unsure I became. They did not have beaming, "we're so glad to see you" faces. Not even close. I would liken the expression to more of an annoyance, ( either that or severe constipation).

I dared speak anyway, and somehow breathlessly managed to force out, "he turned down Brockett..." Which was met shrewdly with, "ya know if you would have stopped, he probably would have just come back to us." I wondered where it said that on their vests. "He's not our donkey anyway, so it doesn't really matter." And for a split second I was glad that my son was asleep so he wouldn't see mommy sucker punch a "horse in training" in the back of the knee. I shook that thought off quickly. I apologized and added that it mattered to me.

I think they then understood that I had gone to a bit of trouble to try and right the situation, they offered up that the donkey lived on Brockett road, was very smart and more than likely just headed home. I thanked them and whirled my bike around, back into the angry wind. One of the riders called after me, "we just wanted to see you work a little harder." I waved and smiled. And I guess with that, we made our unspoken amends.

I guess I will never know if the donkey made it safely home. While my son, kinda gets the short end of the stick, because he will never even know that any of this ever happened.

Hive is where the heart is... ?

As I sat there listening to my voicemail message I thought to myself, "Where do these people find me?" But I already knew the answer, Craigslist of course. I got a phone call yesterday afternoon, not unlike one I had gotten in the past. Bees. Someone has a hive and wants to "re-home" it and thought because I make cute little mason jars filled with honey, and bees MAKE honey, that maybe I might be the person to do that. Well, that and maybe they just don't want to actually pay someone else to do it (yes there are ACTUAL pros. who do this) I visited one such site as a matter of fact, I wont quote the exact price, but it was more than 399.99, AND the kicker is they then sell the honey.

What Jedi mind-type trickery is this madness? Do they finish the job, turn quickly grab a top hat and wand and with a quick and ever so smooth slide of hand, jar a little with some comb, produce it from behind their back, and exclaim "oh but this is MAGIC HONEY" and then sell it right back to the person who called to get rid of it in the first place? This is either PURE stupidity, or evil genius. The jury is still out.

At any rate. These bees were "in a tree", different from a camper but still,  I did a "fast forwarded" play by play of the last extraction's events in my mind and quickly decided a very strongly unanimous NO.  Besides, to get the queen, I would need to cut the tree down. To which I then picked up the phone and readied myself to relay all of this to the person on the other end. Enter Mr."C".

He cussed like a sailor, and rightly so I suppose, I mean he DID run a beachside maritime shop. I identified myself as the "person you called about the bees in the tree." I believe that the "Oh yeah!" would have been the only PG words that I could draw from the weaved and very colorful one sided conversation that then followed. However, somewhere in the midst of the "offensive" language, he mentioned, in passing, that these bees were not actually INSIDE any tree. Merely swarming around a branch. He muttled on, but, as if placing one finger to his quick-to-offend lips and whispering "shhhhh" he had me at swarming. Suddenly my tone, and approach changed.

He happily agreed to send pictures of just what I might be dealing with, and I decided, Valentines day or not, to not get my heart set on actually being able to do this so soon. The pictures came through and they were glorious! The comb was pure white,  the colony nestled at the bottom of their masterpiece like collected water droplets and the best part was, this was all in fact on a very thin, very accessible looking branch! Realizing quickly that it was already Friday, and supposed to be perfect weather to do this sorta thing Saturday, I agreed.

So here it is, Valentines day, and after we finished the routine farm chores, my son, our dog and I hopped (well, 2 of us "hopped" Callie, being the odd dog who doesn't like car rides that she is, was lifted and gently placed) in the car and away we went. A little over an hour's drive took us to a tucked away little marina lined with palmettos, palms trees and boats. My son had explicit instructions to "STAY IN THE CAR" no matter what. He was plied with snacks, an ipad and our very protective dog in order to ensure that he did just that. I pulled the car around to the over hang of a thin tropical looking tree and followed the gaze and hand gestures of Mr.C up to near the very top. Sure enough, there it was,  rippled and layered not unlike a white flag waving against the deep blue of the cold Florida morning sky.

He had mentioned that it was about 12 feet up or so but assured me that there was no need to tow a ladder along as he had a lift readily available. One he said he would raise and then step a safe distance away from while I did my work. Smart man. I assembled the tools that I would need, got the hive box situated at the base of the tree and watched my son play with the dog inside the car as I waited for him to pull the lift around. And then, out of the corner of my eye I saw it coming. Yes, it was in fact a "lift". A FORK LIFT to be exact. Mr.C stopped directly underneath where it was I would be elevated to and I stared on somewhat in disbelief, and somewhat in horror, as I watched him then slide an empty wooden pallet over the prongs of the lift and then turn and ask me with a toothy little grin, "think that'll hold ya?" Funny, I was just about to ask the EXACT same thing for reassurance. So much for that.

I guess I must have nodded because he took his seat behind the controls. I de-sheethed my wimpy handsaw and motioned for him to lift er' up. And up I went indeed. I always try and find the silver lining, and in this case, it was that being up this high, I had a very clear view of my son (now honking the horn repeatedly) in the car. The downside... being up this high. On a pallet. Rigged to a forklift.

I began sawing one of the branches that needed to be removed in order to get at the hive and attempt to extract it all in one piece, every now and again checking my son as well as just how much room I had left for maneuvering around the pallet before I plummeted to my death. One such "check" I turned a little to far to get a good eye line of the car and a bee that had come close to inspect my face and had landed on my protective netting got his chance and took it, stinging me directly on the top lip. While it ended up being the ONLY sting incurred during this entire adventure, it was a good one. Kinda like free botox but for only one side of my face.

The initial assessment had put me cutting down the entire branch that the hive lingered on and placing it as one piece inside the hive box. But, with the tiny handsaw that I had, I quickly rethought my plan of attack and decided to use my hive tool to detach the comb in it's entirety (as much entirety as I could anyway). I began to chisel, and on-lookers began to gather. Apparently it's not everyday that you see a woman in a bee keepers smock and galoshes (cute ones I might add) standing on a wooden pallet attached to a lifted forklift and removing an active beehive. I tried to make as much small talk as one could, while maintaing balance and a sense of calmness in handling the bees.

I was IN IT now, in the brood comb (where the queen hides and lays her precious eggs). I wanted to keep this piece as MUCH in tact as humanly possible. It kinda meant life or death for these bees, and in turn, success or failure for me. It was snagged on a twig, they had "webbed" tightly around and they were around it GOOD. I held the comb from the bottom, amidst the busy swarm of bees, as gently as possible with one hand . Planted my feet in a balanced stance as best I could 12 feet in the air and yanked. And just like the one little thread holding a garment together, the comb bent with all of its weight and came to rest gingerly, and in one piece, in my glove. I placed it and its buzzing little tenants softly inside the hive box which I had taken up with me after I had been lowered to swap the saw for the hive tool.

I had her. And if I had her, I had them. The whole hive.

I cleaned the branch and rid it as much as I could of all remaining comb as to entice any stragglers to come looking for their family and new abode. After finishing loading up the car, I looked around to see how many "casualties" we may be leaving on the battlefield. Far less than expected! The loyal colony had faithfully followed their queen to their new home, and now rested snuggly in the trunk of my car.

I handed Mr.C a jar of comb and some of his very own, extremely fresh honey, thanked him, and pulled away with a trunk full of bees and even better than that, a sense that I just may finally be figuring out what it is exactly that I'm doing. At least a little bit anyway.

Out with the "OLD" Macdonald

I am not your "A" typical farmer by any means. I'm a woman, for starters (I mean how many of you while singing "Old Macdonald" pictured a woman?) See? I don't own any cows, pigs or horses. I was going to add sheep to the list, but there might need to be a "yet" following that statement, however that's a story for another day. I guess what I'm saying is that I don't mind getting dirty by any means, I just refuse to wear overalls while doing so.

In fact, I kinda like to think of my farming venture in a category all its own. If I had to describe it in a few words or less, they would be fresh, fun and fashionable. I can't help it. I like to mix up my wardrobe and keep it as fresh as the flavorful jams and mustards I hand make ( i.e. Strawberry chipotle jam, or spicy orange blossom mustard).

And sure, I play with bees which requires donning certain precautionary garb. But I will be darned if I'm not wearing skinny jeans and a boho-crochet knit top with matching earrings underneath.

Farming, much like being a mom, is what you make if it. And by that I mean that you don't have to trade in your soul in order to do it. It's inevitable that in either situation, there is BOUND to be poop. You just need to make the conscious decision that you aren't going to let it stifle who YOU are. I like to think of a poop-mishap as an opportunity for a wardrobe change! If there is a kid involved in this scenario, multiply that by two, if it's a farm animal, you may just need to find your pitchfork. Either way, you deal and move on.

I kind of like catching people off guard by not being what they "expected". For me it's all part of the fun of what I do. "You herd goats and keep bees?" (in that? is what they are really thinking) As I get the up and down "once over" scan. Yep, and I'm gonna milk them when I can and make cheese too, IN THIS.  Well, probably not in THIS but an outfit of similar taste and style.

Don't get me wrong, I am most DEFINITELY NOT downing the women who do what I do and a WHOLE lot more, and don't make a fashion statement whilst doing so. Because they are still doing "them" just as much as I am doing "me". The point I am making, is that we are all DOING. And there is no mold to which we must conform to in order to be taken seriously.

So I walk my goats on a leash in a dress at times, or allow my 4 year old son to "cuddle" a baby chick for 5 miles while I run, training for my next half marathon?  Farming is not just for the "Marlboro" men in wranglers, riding through their hundreds of acres of land on tractor or horseback all day and then coming home to a nice home cooked meal and a cold one at night like we hear about in the songs. It's the single mom with a small coop and 2 chickens on the patio of her town home. The inner city family with a rooftop hydroponic garden. The suburban dad who commutes an hour each way to work and owns bee hives in 4 different states.

I guess all I am trying to say is Farming, homesteading, whatever name you call it is fine, it's just the mental image that silently creeps in at the mention of these names that perhaps needs a little change...

The grass (and leaves) are always greener...

I love my next door neighbors. They are super, and I'm not just saying so because they may or may not be reading this public blog. They are a seasoned, retired couple who between the two of them practice marshall arts and the art of gourd sculpting (did you know that every state has a gourd society)? true story. At any rate. Me being a farmer now, and waking up with the sun (or even before it if the rooster says so) and them being early birds, we often times find ourselves drinking coffee and chatting together in the road while tethered to our respective dogs (and or goats).

This particular morning, "Mr.P" made mention that a few of our chickens had seemingly found their way into his yard. He assured me that he didn't mind it, and that if he did he would certainly let me know. And, being that I know he doesn't use any pesticides or chemicals in his garden, I didn't "mind" to much either, well, as long as he didn't, he was a DOUBLE black belt after all. I smiled and thanked him, and reiterated that if in fact they did began to pose a problem, to please let me know and I would fix it immediately. He waved, and began to walk off, then turned and added, "they do like to dig up mulch don't they." This raised a tiny "red flag" so to speak in my "there might be a problem" alert center.

I decided to be pro, rather than RE active, and went in search of the "littles". You see, as I mentioned we have 10 chickens. And they range in age. The "Bigs" are the mature, predictable and easy to find, ANY-DAY-NOW layers. I say that in both a hopeful, as well as mildly expectant manner. There are 5 that fall into this category. Then come the "Littles" my adolescent, angsty chickens who spend most of the day "hanging out" insecurely in the woods and on occasion apparently "Mr. P's" yard. And lastly, there's the "baby baby" Belle, who currently resides in her very own private, and well lit "nursery" in our shed, at least until she gets a few more feathers and that tell tale teenage "me against the world" attitude so that I know she will have no problem properly defending herself against nature, and of course the other "click-ish" chickens.

I finally spotted the "littles" perched in a semi usual favorite spot of theirs right beside the goat's pen. It was nice to see that there was no "mulch digging" currently underway. Now where were my sweet "bigs"? Right here where they always are of course under the palmet... nope. Only Nugget produced herself from within the overhanging palmetto prongs with a guilty look upon her face as if to say, "it wasn't MY idea, I told them not to do it". And just then I heard a distant (and sad attempt if I must say) at a crow coming from the direction of Mr.P's yard. Deep within his yard I might add. I took only a brief second to scowl in disbelief before heading in the direction of the "wanna-be crow".

Sure enough, there they were, all 4 little culprits, seemingly "flippin' me their own unique and individual versions of "the bird" so to speak, while perched on, and partaking from, his birdbath. I shooed them back through the tree line and into our yard. As the goats and littles looked on. That's right, "let this be a lesson to all of you"! I thought to myself. And OH how it was.

I hadn't even gotten half way through the daily farm chores before noticing the absence of the bigs once again. I clawed my way back through the thick of the brush lined border that separated our two yards, and once again, there they were, mulch-mulch-mulching away. This time the "shoo" erupted into a scatter instead of the bee line flocking back into our yard as they had done before. The scatter led to a chase and the chase... caught the attention of two very inquisitive goats.

I had cornered the two "ring leaders" Dixie and Brewster and was just about to force them back through the thicket, when out popped a horned head followed by a large marshmallow body. Eve had come to see what all the commotion was and Story wasn't very far behind. I now found myself standing in my neighbor's driveway with 4 chickens, 2 goats and a PLETHORA of untouched greenery (lets not forget the mulch) at their disposal. I took a step towards the goats in attempt to scare them back from whence they came, but Eve just defiantly nibbled a vine that technically belonged to Mr.P, at the entrance of where her head had forced through the once natural barricade. She wasn't budging. They had found the "promised land"  and, whether actually "promised" or not, they were cashing in.

Knowing Story to be a tad more skittish than Eve, she quickly became my target. I lunged toward her suggesting that she move back into the tree line, which she did, then circled around me and pushed right back into Mr.P's, all the while trampling new "holes" and treading new "paths" making it just that much easier to double back. After about 10 minutes of that, and fairly certain that my neighbors were watching (possibly even videoing for AFV by this point) from one of their windows. Like an aligning of the planets, the chickens had unsuspectingly moved themselves into position directly in line with the goats, and I had circled back just enough to where if I took a running start at the goats, they would have no choice but to turn and do the same to the chickens who would then either HAVE to run back into our yard, or face crashing into a parked RV. I made my move, and I may or may not have yelled "FREEEEEEEDOMMMMMMM" while doing so... don't judge my husband is Scottish.

5 seconds later, with only a few vines nestled in my hair, we were home sweet home. And the goats, in case they got any other crazy ideas, were immediately penned, while the chickens were lavished with food scattered strategically about OUR property, not unlike an Easter egg hunt, reinstating that we were in fact, the superior choice of yards (and mulch) with which to roost in.

Needless to say, the possibility of perhaps building a perimeter fence has been lovingly heaped back upon my husband's plate. Happy Valentines day baby....

Farm watch 2015: Truly Tethered

Have you ever been anxiously awaiting a package to arrive in the mail? You know, you run out everyday and check the box a few times, maybe a little earlier than usual, just too see, just in case the delivery person was new or something and had done the route backwards and thus magically hit your house first today. Yep. This is pretty much how I am feeling on a daily (and even nightly) basis here at the farm.

As you may or may not know, I have two VERY pregnant Nigerian dwarf goats that I honestly believe if I took a pin too, would pop immediately. AND, on top of that excitement, I have 5 massive chickens that should begin actually laying eggs at any given moment. So, waking up for me each morning has been a cauldron of emotions to say the very least. Pretty sure I go from the "innocent childlike" excitement that a Christmas morning might incite, to some form of the 5 stages of grief in 5 seconds, or less.

I guess one of the fun parts of waiting on the goats to deliver is that it's sorta like a "company bonus" in that you know it's coming, but you have no idea what "it" really is, or how much. Did I mention that goats can have up to 4 babies at one time? So, let us multiply that by 2 and we are looking at the possibility of 8. 8 little goat-lings running around and demanding their bottles (12 a day each) to be exact. However, judging by the looks of it, if I had to guess, Story, our petite little tri-color is only carrying 1 kid, whereas her poor twin sister Eve, has been graced with at least 2, my guess being 3 (she looks like one of those super-sized "Walmart" marshmallows that someone only lightly roasted in sporadic tan-ish spots.) That or a pillow pet with long legs.

At any rate, watching her "waddle" around the yard, and ESPECIALLY attempting to climb up or down stairs proves to be extremely amusing to say the least. While, at the same time, I will admit it is a little taxing. Yes on her obviously, but also on me. No not the stairs, but the pregnancies nearing their ends. And in that I mean I know I am "The Tethered Goat" and all, but I am most definitely feeling like it these days. I can't go anywhere. I must keep vigilant watch for any signs of a "baby incoming". Trips to the grocery store have become stressful (YES even MORE stressful than they already were with a 4 year old boy in tow).

Speaking of stress,  apparently I am not even safe from it at night as I sleep. I have crazy dreams. For example, I was sound asleep the other night, and I suddenly shot straight up JUST SURE that I had heard a goat scream. So I did one of those "jump out of bed summersault across the floor and race for the door" moves that I am sure some of us remember from our "school-age days". I was about halfway across the yard before coming too and realizing that it was a still, silent, cold night (or in school-language SATURDAY.) When will it end? 

Now you might be thinking, these are goats. They are intuitively built to just give birth unassisted, CALM THE F DOWN. And in most cases you would be completely right. However, when it is a goat's first time giving birth (called a freshening) it is more common for there to be complications. And by "complications" I mean the kind that require help that I will not go into too much detail about, only offer up that this "help" entails gloves (and tiny hands) at the ready... use your imagination. 

Today I am making the longest trek that I have had to make since coming this close to "the end". My mother was visiting us from Virginia and while I am not driving her back to VIRGINIA per say, it might as well be. The airport, a 90 minute total, cross-country seeming excursion during which I AM JUST SURE that Eve will give birth. Famous last words right?

Wrong. I got back to things looking pretty much exactly the way I left them, minus the food that I could have SWORN I had just fed to my two apparently very hungry gestating goats. So, I guess I will busy myself making a fresh batch of Organic-single-malt-mustard, which I will be sampling (for quality purposes of course) in copious amounts in hopes that I just might be able to get a decent nights sleep...

sigh.

                                                              Just look at these bellies

This blog was written in a Cottage food operation facility that is not subject to government safety inspection...

Ah the fabulously glamorous life of a "cottage food" law abider. Besides being able to keep horses (4) but not dwarf goats, just to be clear, not even a one, for those "accountant-brained" people, who NEED to see numbers, that is equivalent to 0. We then move into IF you have designs on hand making delicious delicacies out of your own home and then sharing them with the world, but charging a minimal fee to do so, (one that basically affords you to be able to just keep making them. period.) you must first adhere to many many many many rules. There are even rules about the rules. It is all so... in-organic? I dunno, call me old fashioned... because I am TRYING TO BE.

Why is it that "old fashioned" has for the most part a negative "connotation"? For example, "I gave my dad an ipad for Christmas and he is just too stubbornly old fashioned to use it". (do yourself a favor and click the link on "dad") In fact, the only time I have really ever heard this term used for good is when referring to an adult beverage of the same name. However, there is definitely something to be said for "being old fashioned" at least when it comes to how you do food.

To me, old fashioned means retreating back to the days of the "cotton gin". Raw, REAL food that requires a more "hands" on approach rather than a "sprayed" on one. Sure it's "harder" labor. I mean, have you ever de-shelled and then de-SKINNED a raw peanut before? Seriously, this takes hours, and pretty much ALL of your sanity and restraint not to kill (or at least seriously maim) the first person that begs your attention thus breaking the serious concentration needed in order to complete the task. I digress, with that being said. It is a lot more rewarding and comforting to know EXACTLY what is in the food that you and your family are enjoying, because YOUR hands are the ones that very carefully fashioned it together.

I will say that I do understand the "fairytale" of pesticides and chemicals. They make life easier and the finished "product" more predictable? I remember when I first heard the term "organic". There was an apparently news worthy story about a woman who, after purchasing an organic head of lettuce, upon taking it home and beginning to prepare it, found a live frog inside. While that story in and of itself is pretty amazing and apparently not uncommon, it is not the "glue" that made it stick in my mind. It was a comment that one of the news anchors made tailing the "exclusive" that held it in place for this long. "Well, I guess that's what to expect if you buy organic."I nodded and chuckled and went on about my life. But, IT stuck. For some unknown reason, it filed itself in the "forefront" file cabinet of my brain I guess, and it crosses my mind at random, quite often when I think back, actually. 

A FROG. Nesting in MY FOOD. How dare it!?  Or... is it the only "safe" place, (touched, but not sprayed) by human hands, perfect in it's "old fashioned" form? Now I am most definitely NOT saying that all we consume here in this house is organic. I am however saying, that it was this very"food" for thought, literally, that was the initial spark in igniting the adventure that I am now finding myself upon.

And, I am quickly learning that there are a tremendous amount of hoops and red tape one must jump through making it quite the opposite of old fashioned, in trying to simply get back to simple. Bringing me to the recent realization that I think I would rather have a frog in my lettuce, than 0 defects in the "twinkie" of the vegetable world, the genetically engineered corn that has proven to be so pumped full of chemicals not only could it totally beat Lance Armstrong at a Tour De France, but also withstand a nuclear fall out if one should happen to occur. Now if only they could begin working on a butter to go with. 

I don't know about you but YUM.

too much too soon...

It has been a long couple days.. Thank you all for the rallied support. We needed it. I wasn't really sure how all of the events in the past 48 hours had truly affected my 4 year old son. He had "comforted me" while I cried, by explaining that "it's ok mommy. Don't cry. We can just go back to a farm and get a new goat and call THAT one Sadie". I thanked him, and maybe hid my face as I sobbed just a little harder.

While on our routine dog walk this morning, my son asked very earnestly, if Sadie was "medding" again yet. You see, I actually misstated in the previous post by explaining that goats "baa". They actually do not. It is more of a "m'eh" sound. Hence why my son has titled it "MEH-dding" I thought hard for a moment, quick as mother would have to think and then explained that Sadie was in fact still "medding" but in heaven, and we just couldn't hear it until we get there. He sat quiet for a moment, and then asked when he would be able to "get there too". Ok, so I know what the term, "the talk" is actually referring to, BUT c'mon, this was at least a close second.

"Well, when it's our turn"... When God says in a whisper, "come home..." That is when we will all be reunited with any and everyone who went home first. Which was met by only SILENCE. Score??...

Who could contend with that answer? I then began to pat myself on the back and write the acceptance speech for the, "best mommy-answer of the year" award, but was abruptly awakened from my wishful thinking, Sigh. A child's mind works in ways that one cannot truly explain, no matter how many books you've read, or written for that matter. And therefore, you never know quite what exactly will spill directly from their amazing little brains, right out of their equally amazing little mouths. "Who's turn is it first mommy?" My head bowed VERY low at this point. Perhaps biding time and trying to answer without the likes of theatrical dramatics, or perhaps, simply dreading the seemingly endless on going questioning on the subject "well buddy, Mommy is older, so I probably have a good shot of getting to see her first..." I clinched my teeth, "scrunched" my eyes tight tight TIGHT shut. AND just braced for impact...

He seemed to ponder, sift through, and I could swear there was a slight nod of agreement. And the subject, perhaps having been up to par on explanation, ceased. At least for the remainder of the walk.

We played games, took care of farm duties, and then it came time for mommy's most exciting, and at the same time most DREADED, weekly ritual. Grocery shopping.

While it afforded me time away from the ever beckoning upkeep of our home and now farm, it came with conditions, For instance, my Jekyll and Hyde son, MUST be present, to oversee any and every bit of said shopping. You never know at any given minute which "side" you are dealing with until you've turned your back for less than 5 seconds to glance at a sale item only to find yourself knee deep in soda-fountain sprite. Another favorite pastime is monitoring each and every item on the shelves and vigorously refuting various choices that I make. For example, it is a household rule that absolutely NOTHING good (for you) will ever come out of any food item that sprawls "spongebob squarepants" eerily smiling back at you across the label. However, I seem to find myself in the exact same "tantrum" discussion each and every time this outing occurs.

Then there is the fact that my son is extremely un-shy. Almost to a fault. We were at the checkout, refreshingly without incident, my son was helping to load things onto the belt. The cashier, a sweet  slightly older-than-me woman praised him for being such a "sweet young man" I "encouraged" him to thank her which he did so without looking up as he continued lifting items out of our cart. He finished his duty, and finally made eye contact with the cashier. "Hi!" he almost sung at her, as if she had just arrived. "Well hello," she replied with an amused smile, "How are you today?" she asked kindly.
My son looked at the floor, a scowl suddenly forming on his face, "Sadie died," he divulged. The woman looked a little taken a back, I quickly explained that "Sadie" was one of our goats. She seemed a little relieved, but still drawn in by his need to talk to her about it. She gingerly offered, "Well, I am sure that she is in heaven now." I smiled to myself because this was the EXACT conversation that he and I had had earlier today. I was thankful for the reassurance she was offering him. Couldn't have been more beautifully perfect...

That was the case, until my son picked the conversation up exactly where he and I had left off earlier. He looked the nice old lady directly in the eye smiled excitedly and said, "It's going to be your turn to go to heaven first because you are really old."...

Shame. That is the only word I have to describe how I felt at this moment. The kind of shame I can only equate with one who sets their once live "evergreen" tree that they had used to represent Christmas in their home, at the curb in the middle of a dark February night. A day to late for the refuse-men to pick it up, so there it sits, telling the tale of just exactly what you have done for another WHOLE week for all to see, must also feel.

She kept her smile about her, but was quite quiet after that. I paid, and thanked her to which she very professionally... smiled. I mean really, what else could she do? What else could I do? We were just both "checkmated" by a 4 year old.

I suppose it will be THE topic of conversation when we both arrive in Heaven at about the same time.