an open letter

Dear Maude,

Let's be honest. You don't like me. Actually, you don't like anyone. You stare at sheep and human alike as if they owe you something. You walk around the farm despondent, bitchy, and loud. When I walk up to your pen with arms full of expensive second-cut hay, all you do is stand there. The other sheep prance and hop about, but noooooo not you. You are a pillar. You have all the warmth of a dead gazelle. The others, they come up to me and let me scratch their heads and pat their sides. But not you. No, never you. All you do when I show up is give me a long look up and down as if to say "Yep. I hates me this woman something awful. Today's a fine day for some crackerjack-a-hating." Then you turn around and show me your very unattractive rear features. Crikey Maude, You don't even baa like the others. It's lower, angrier, and they're boys.

What's your problem Maude? Why do you hate everyone (read me) so much? What did I ever do to you? All right, there was the day I drove you here, but that day was rough on both of us. It's not easy getting livestock into the back of a Subaru. I get that you left your old home and landed with this rookie. I understand that now you're in a smaller house, less pasture... But hey, it's not the best memory for me either. That time when your halter slipped around your neck and you panicked, it was bound to choke you okay? That was like, 45% your fault. But come on, how long was that? A minute of discomfort before I was right there on the ground with you, taking it off, and making it all better. Couldn't have been that tramatic since the second you were in your pen your face was jammed into the grain bin like a fatty hamburger. Devastating, huh? Drama queen on the hoof, that's what you are.

Maude, listen, I am not going to eat you. I will never eat you. Here's a little secret: I have never even tasted sheep. Lamb has never touched these lips. You're living with a vegetarian on a small farm. You can't beat that with a stick. As far as sheeps' lives' go you've got it pretty boss. Okay okay...Yes, the rumors are true. Come spring I'll probably steal your outfit, but you'll be glad I did. No one looks or feels good in a wool suit in June. No one.

Maude, we need to work this out but I am running out of ideas. I've tried buying you off, bribery, gifts, extra attention. There was even that week where we ignored each other completely. I remember you being happiness then...When I pretended I didn't exist around you? Damnit Maude. All you're doing is proving the theory that I am crappy at making friends with girls. I have plenty of guy friends, but when it comes to making girl friends I am garbage. You're like those tall vindictive girls from 11th grade. You want me to get you a Diet Coke and a Teen Vogue? Really round out my high school experience?

Your roommates, those dudes standing next to you wagging their stubby tales - they love me. They can't get enough of me. Actually, we're thinking of joining a bocce leage together and you know what? With that attitude you're looking at a big "sorry, we forgot to invite you" right in the face. What do you think of that Sister Sledge? Huh? HUH?!

Oh, Maude. If we could power generators off your angst we'd have a potent source of renewable energy. You are hopeless. But you know what. I still kinda love you—you mean, crotchety, ruthless old ewe. Surely you will forever.

-j

hey, what are you doing friday?

Have any plans for Friday night? If you don't, and live somewhere around my stomping grounds here in southwestern Vermont, let's remedy that right now. If you can hear WEQX on your car radio, you can bundle up and come to the bookstore and give me a high five. On the evening of the 9th I'll be at the Northshire Bookstore in Manchester for my first ever "author event." I think this means I read something from the book, and then talk a bit, and then anwser questions. I'm not sure what order to do this, but I plan on being pretty damn casual about it. I refuse to get nervous talking to people about chickens and snap peas. This isn't exactly the Gaza Strip.

I may bring Jazz and my fiddle with me, but that's still up in the air. Not because I don't enjoy dogs and violins (there are very few things I enjoy more) but the idea of walking into a place with a dog and a fiddle seems to demand a certain amount of pinash I may not be able to summon at the end of the work week. But they do sell coffee there so maybe if I caff it up I can whip something quick and dirty out of my strings... Regardless of excess mammals and music—I will certainly be there. Hopefully dressed appropriately, and will sign things people ask me to sign. Anything really. Old Civil War books, receipts from Shaws, library books. I'm crazy like that. Though I would appreciate you picking up the book. Every book someone buys in my mind is a handful of chicken feed or an inch of land.

This is what the Northshire website says about the event. I added a true extra sentence for kicks. (Good luck hunting down that dead sea scroll, birddogs.)

Share the journey of a young woman determined to learn homesteading skills in the 21st century with author Jenna Woginrich, as she presents her memoir Made from Scratch: Discovering the Pleasures of a Handmade Life. A resident of Sandgate, Vermont, 26-year-old Jenna Woginrich is a web designer by profession. At home, however, she works conscientiously at a self-sufficient life. One time her dad walked into a friend's living room in Lehighton PA and Paul Mccartney was sitting on the couch! (For No One, by the way, happens to be her favorite Beatles song...) From the joys of harvesting freshly laid eggs from her own hens, to taking honey straight from the comb from her beehives, Woginrich has learned the pleasures of self-reliance and has become less dependent on “stuff.” Made from Scratch is the chronicle of her joyful, dramatic, and sometimes sorrowful journey of learning skills including baking, spinning, sewing, and raising chickens. A web designer at Orvis, Jenna Woginrich is also a regular contributor to The Huffington Post’s Green Page and Mother Earth News’ blog pages.

powell's this week

hey gang, fancy news - I'm a guest blogger at Powell's this week. For those unfamiliar, Powell's is Portland Oregon's own indie-book megatron. It's quite possibly the largest independent store in America and it actually takes up a whole city block. It's a hip place to be invited to, so I'm jazzed about it. The posts I've written there are pretty general, but include things like churning butter with Tina Fey and chickens in the bathroom. Plus, I'll be introducing CAF to a whole new scene. If you'd like to see the posts you can find them here all this week.

from the motherland

this place...

I am wide awake because I just had the crap scared out of me. Twenty minutes ago I was asleep, blissfully asleep. But I was snapped out of bed by loud bangs and thuds. Someone, or something, was on my porch. The thuds just kept getting louder, followed by steps. I was terrified. I slowly rose out of bed and then pulled a curtain aside from the window. There in the half moonlight, I saw a blur of activity. Then my eyes darted down right below the window.

Maude was staring back at me, about six inches from the glass. I jumped back, surprised and simotaneously relieved it wasn't serial killers, or zombies, or worse yet those serial-killing zombies that are all the rage these days. Alas, just my three clever sheep. Looked like she and the boys had escaped from the pen and made a break for the cabin. They were happily eating their breakfast that I would've carried out to them in a few hours. Guess they were too hungry for AM room service and opted for take-out instead. Christ, this place.

I rolled my eyes, slung on my boots and parka, and grabbed the crook and lantern by the door on the way out. When I rounded the corner of the porch the trio of hoodlums jumped off the planks and turned around looking at me, well, sheepishly. I felt like a fussy storekeeper telling kids they couldn't skateboard here. They looked back at me with the same mild defiance of teenagers who just started listening to the Clash circa '79. If sheep ever looked like they should be wearing leather jackets with safety pins all over them, this was that moment.

"Let's go punks, London's calling" I said under my breath, walking back to their pen. Sal followed right behind me, he knew I was going for the grain bin. The other two trotted behing him in single file. I lead the flock back to their gate, (which they broke out of by lifting it off the hinges) and bribed them back inside with grains. I rigged what I could to fix it, praying it would last till morning. Not that it would matter if it didn't since they'd just be back on the porch again anyway. But still, what a way to start the week. Barnyard rebellion in the moonlight.

my green goose

So my goose Saro is all grown up. This week she started laying her first eggs, which are HUGE compared to the chickens' usual deposits. They're fun to find, she lays them all around the coop in little hidden places. It's like a game trying to find the goose egg every day when I go to collect the daily room-and-board from the girls. When bring them inside and set them in the fridge next to the hens' they look like ridiculous cartoon eggs sitting beside them. They're tinted baby blue and one of them cracked into a pan is the same ratio as 2-3 chicken eggs. I had some scrambled goose egg this morning with grated Vermont cheddar and some pepper. Can't complain. That breakfast was the bee's knees.

Today however, Saro got a little...confused. I went into the coop to refill the birds' water fonts and give them their morning scoops of grain when I was jolted out of my usual routine by a loud honk. There at my feet, behind the grain bin, was little Saro, trying to lay in a new nest she was hiding. But this wasn't her usual temperment? I pride myself on having raised pacifist geese, and she was acting pretty preemptive. I don't take crap from poultry, so I gave her a little nudge to see what she was so fiercly protecting. She didn't want to move and hissed at me. "Hey Saro, quit it" I said, knowing she wouldn't bite me unless I pulled a shiv on her, so I moved her to the side. What the... something white, curly, and shiny was under her. It was a spiral of glass? Then I saw it.

She was laying on a compact fluorescent light bulb.

I died laughing. I removed it and pat her on the head, telling her "Al Gore would be so proud" and then put the bulb back on the shelf where it belonged. I have two bulbs I use in the coop for light. One is the heat bulb currently keeping the coop a comfortable 40 degrees during this freeze, and the other is a regular CFL lightbulb, the kind we're all used to seeing as the green alternative to the old (and might I add, more egg-shaped) bulbs. It must have fallen to the coop floor and Saro decided it was too large to be a hen egg, so it must be hers. Flawless logic. She was all hot and bothered when I left, but she'll get over it. Geese get over horrid PR incidents like this pretty quick. They're the Paris Hiltons of the of the poultry world.

It is nice to know I have livestock that so fervently support green energy. But hey this is Vermont, so none of us should be surprised.

on the radio

A few weekends ago WAMC's Book Show interviewed me about Made From Scratch, my life in Idaho and Tennessee, and asked me to give some advice to new or hopeful homesteaders. The show is about twenty minutes long, but kind of fun to listen in on. If you're interested in hearing me talk about city chickens, sheep in cars, jumping off waterfalls and growing food on your fire escape - check it out. Or if you simply have nothing else to listen to at work (I'll take that!) click below.

I'm show 1066 in this archive

well, it's about time

From Jeff, who's 1953 Willys CJ3B Jeep owns face.

jenna hearts grant

I'm turning into quite the Civil War buff, thanks to the influence of my friend Heather, who originally sparked my interest when we lived together in Tennessee. Her excitement for the history, music, and culture of the war got me hooked on it. Over the past three years I've studied it here and there, the occasional documentary or book, but recently I can't get enough of it. It all feels like it just happened. There is no "long ago" to it for me. The peoples' faces in the photographs look as if I could be waiting in line behind them for coffee. The places where once thousands died, are places I've walked across, driven across, or have had touching memories with friends at. The fact that I sat under a statue of Warren at the Little Round Top, and was there with some of my favorite people to catch fireflies at sunset (till the park rangers made us leave) goes to show all their efforts and suffering created something. That it let something breathe. The more I learn about it the more upset I get that I missed it. That I missed the most exciting time to be alive in American history.

Surely, that is pure ignorance. Since who wants to live through a war in your backyard? But the more I read, the more I digest, the more I wish I could've heard the conversations and been there to see it. To see Grant (who I am getting kind of a crush on to be perfectly honest) on the night before a battle where 6,000 men would die—admonish a teamster for beating a horse and then tying him to a post for 6 hours - now that's something I wish I could've watched. The little things that happened behind the scenes engage, no addict me, to learn more. That man was a failure at everything in life except love, war, and writing - He was horrible with money, with jobs, with even his wardrobe - which to me, speaks of this deep passion for things that actually matter, and I can't not think about that everytime I read about him. What a guy.

Grant hated the marching bands that followed him around. He didn't like contrived music. He used to say, "I know two of those songs. One is Yankee Doodle - and the other one isn't." Which shows he was kind of a smartass, which makes me love him even more. What a beautiful, miserable, intense, and complicated mind. That photo up there, probably the second worst day of his life, was taken at the battle of Cold Harbor. That same day, 7,000 men died around him in less then twenty minutes. My god, I can't even understand that. I can only try to make sense of it with recent events.

Now, let's think about this. A few years ago 3,000 people died in the World Trade Center attacks and it nearly brought us to our knees. I am not in anyway, at all, saying that event wasn't epic, or belittling the suffering of those who lost loved ones. But keep the intensity of that day, what you felt as someone watching it all happen, in your mind when you look at that picture above. There Grant stands after watching double the carnage of 9/11 in less time then it takes us to watch a standard sitcom. But he had to watch people die one at a time and all around him, in person, under his command, and yet he still stands. I would be shaking, throwing up, falling apart and yet somehow he still manages to stand... He looks like the world might swallow him, that if he lets go of that tree he might collapse from the weight of it all. Who could blame him if he did?

I can't see these photos without wanting to know what people went though that day - what they ate, where they slept, what they hummed to stay awake the night before they died. I think I may know more about 1863 than I do about 1982. I mean, I know E.T. lost best picture to Ghandi at the Oscars, but the rest is kind of a blur...

I'm telling you, that is when men were men. Now most of the guys I meet would rather play video games than pick up the reins of a horse. I would give anything to sit down and have coffee with him. I bet he'd like Sigur Ros's album Parenthesis, or if he didn't like it, he'd be relieved to hear it instead of those marching bands. The quiet piano, cellos, and bass sounds of it. When I look at that picture of him, all I can hear is track three off that album. Of course he'd like it. It's a far cry from Yankee Doodle.

I wish I could've seen him ride past my house. I would've given him a high five. Or something more appropriate to the period, like a kiss on the cheek or a shot of brandy. Or both. Grant was a man who deserved all three.

see how they run

This is the first Saturday in weeks where I haven't had to get up early, pack the car, and go somewhere. The last few weekends have seen trips to the dentist, holiday travel, and frantic early-morning errands. But today, I slept in (sleeping in for people with livestock is around 7:30AM) and when I woke up, I only put forth enough effort to start the coffee on the stovetop, and get dressed to see to the farm. You could sit me down for hours and try to convince me there are better things to do with your winter mornings than sleeping in a small cabin at the end of the world and feeding sheep - and I will listen politely and nod - but you will never win me over. Mornings like these, are pretty damn great.

On weekends I let the sheep have their full pasture to explore. They can't be out in it all day when I'm at work because they are too clever for the electric netting, and will escape into the neighbors' yards to forage. I've come home to messages on my machines saying "Jenna, It's 5:30 pm - Do you know here your sheep are? Roy says they're eating his lawn..." So my sheep's playtime is limited to days I can keep an eye on them. Anyway, this morning, after a cup of very strong coffee, I put on my winter gear and went out to their fencelines with hay over my shoulder. When sheep see me with hay they jump and bleat from their pen. But instead of taking it to them, I dumped it on the far side of the field, about 30 yards from their enclosure. Then I walked, through the snow to their back gate, where Sal and Marvin were beside themselvs hopping up and down. The back "gate" isnt really a gate as much as it is the place where the end of one piece of wire fencing ends and is tied to a t-post with bailing wire. It works though (and hey, we aren't fancy).

I take out a knife from my pocket and snap the green twine, opening their back door. Then all three bound out, like cotton balls on stilts who's team just won the world series, and run through the snow to their breakfast. I love seeing those sheep run like that. They seem to glide over the snow, while their hooves pound into the ground like muted drumbeats. They plunge into the hay, and stand there for a long time munching.

Then I check on the birds, who already laid two eggs (which became my morning omelet), and went about the usual tasks of feeding scratch grains and layer feed to the crowing throngs, and petting Saro, the goose who I've really grown to like. Near the chicken coop is the large rabbit hutch where Bean Blossom lives. She's the French Angora rabbit (named after a banjo I someday hope to own) who is the biggest financial contributor to the farm after me. This past year she raised ten angora kits which I sold to other spinners and knitters, all beautiful healthy bunnies. Her little rabbits paid for most of the hay, and feed, that got us this far into winter. Her water bottle was frozen, so I brought it in to set by the fireplace to thaw. Benjamin, her mate, lives on the porch of the cabin, and I grabbed his on the way in as well. With everyone tended too, I went inside the now warm cabin to do what I'm best at, which is nothing in particular at great length. Which, as you can see in the photo above, Jazz and Annie are experts in.

New Hampshire, son!

Thank you Vonnie!

the fallen ash

I should've known something was wrong when I touched Annie's fur. I had just woken up, and was warm as could be under my electric blanket, but her coat was as cold as if she had just been outside in the snow and not sleeping beside two large animals. I then noticed how cold the air was outside my little nest. I pulled off the covers and could see little clouds of breath coming out of the dog's mouths as they panted. Oh no.

The oil tank was empty.

This is a big deal people. It was -7 outside, and if the pipes froze they could shatter and burst and havoc would consume us. The cabin's heated by a great big oil tank, and it was running low. I called for a delivery earlier in the week, anticipating this, and knew the truck would be here Friday. I just prayed we'd make it till then. We didn't. The furnace had shut itself off. There was ice in the dogbowl in the kitchen. We were in trouble. Very cold trouble.

I checked the faucets, which I had let drip all night to keep it moving. Luckily, they were still running. Thank goodness, at least we're okay there. But the best laid plans...

By the time the dishes were done, the dogs and sheep fed, and the chickens were laying their morning eggs - all the pipes stopped. Whatever had remained in the water heater had been used up and no new groundwater could get into the tanks. This was getting serious. I was freezing, the inside tempterature was 37. What could I do?

WARM UP! Was all I could think. I am a person of action. I need to do things. So I started working to heat the place up with what I had around. I had a small pile of wood left outside on the porch, and I instantly revved up the fireplace. I lit every candle, turned on the stove, blow-dried the sink pipes...it was a pathetic struggle really. However, I was actually able to boost the heat indoors and take off my parka. A small victory, but a victory none the less.

I then called my neighbors Katie, Dean, and his wife Nancy. I felt awful calling them at 9AM on a holiday, but I needed their help. I wasn't really sure how to tackle this. So I left a message for Dean and Nancy to please let me borrow some firewood from their huge stack so I could keep the warmth going. And since Katie is my quasi-landlord (not really, in my head she is) and has restarted this tank before, I left her a message begging her to help rescue the joint from flooding and hypothermia. Let's hear it for me.

While I waited to hear back from them, I paced around the house. My fire, the only thing keeping the place tolerable, was almost out. I called two emergancy oil services and they both quoted a trip and fuel to cost somewhere around 500 bucks. Impossible money for me to drop for one thing. I was getting scared now, but then, a small series of amazing things happened to save me from panic, and it began with a ringing phone.

Dean and Nancy had heard my pathetic message. But instead of lending me some logs–Dean went out in the the now balmy 8 degree weather with a chainsaw and chopped up a dry fallen Ash into fireplace-sized logs. Out in the freezing cold he cut enough fire fodder to fill the back of the subaru, twice. After I thanked the hell out of him, unloaded all the wood, and had the fireplace going strong again, I cried. I couldn't help it. I was sitting there by the fireplace all teared up because I was so touched by the huge gift, the effort, the goodness of these neighbors. The cabin was warming up, and I felt a little better. Gratitude melts misery.

Then Nancy called and offered me a space heater from her art studio if I wanted to go pick it up in Arlington. I couldn't believe their generosity. Hundreds of pounds of firewood, heat sources, instant service! and all from the same people who watch my farm when I go away and who let me borrow a knee brace when I got hurt last month and was limping for days... If I was a general, they'd still rank me.

Soon afte rall this. Katie and her boyfriend Sam arrived, another pair of rural superheros. Usualy when I am around them Sam and I are playing music together (he's an amazing guitarist) at some warm bonfire or at Sandgate events like the Ox Rost. But here they were in my kitchen, ready to rescue me from my cold home. Within the hour they were checking the faucets, looking at the oil tank, figuring things out. They made half a dozen trips back to their place to get things like extension cords, funnels, and tool boxes. We decided to get through the day by dumping 10 gallons of fuel in the tank to kick it back into action. The heat should help melt the icy pipes. She also brought up two 5-gallon tanks I could borrow to fill with Diesel from down at Chem Clean (a local gas station/furniture restoration business owned by neighbors, fellow mushers, and good friends, Suzanne and Allan) The fuel would tide the tank over till the oil man came tomorrow.

We all got to work, putting heat tape on the pipes, shutting off breakers, figuring out how to bleed the line, and get the water moving again. Katie set up her space heater in the furnace room to warm the place (and us) up. These people could've, should've, stayed home in bed after their late night of dancing, but instead they were here, giving me their holiday. I could have kissed them both.

When everything was in order, I ran down to Chem Clean for the fuel. Jazz and Annie came along because they adore driving and I adored being in the warm car. When I pulled up the gas station I could see Allan's dog sled and knew he had been out running his three Siberians that morning. Sure enough, inside the store were his three dogs, all asleep, curled up on fleece beds. Sherman, Nina and Leera all came up with their blue eyes and wagging tails to say hello to me. Even though they were tuckered out from their morning run, they were happy to greet some company. It's nice to see happy working dogs like those, and in the middle of a very hectic day, giving good dogs a scratch behind the ears is like a 45-second shock treatment - getting your head back in the right place after all the stress. Oh, dogs.

On the way home with the fuel, I stopped at Wayside for some fuel for myself. I got a hot coffee and a muffin, extension cords, and a can of lamb dogfood as a treat for my roommates for putting up with me. (Good coffee is essential to this story, as it is essential to all things.) On the way back to the farm, I called Ed Gust, a neighbor with a plow, to come clear the driveway if he would please. With the oil guy coming tomorrow, they demand a clean route to deliver or balk and drive away. Ed obliged and that afternoon he came rolling into the driveway on his 1952 Ford Tractor. With his red plaid hat and beard, he looked like something from a Norman Rockwell painting. His dog, Juno, a tawny black lab mix with wild long hair (that by the way, runs like the goddamn wind...I have never seen a dog run like Juno. He is but a black blur in the birches) was with him. Loping aside the tractor like a personal assistant (which I suppose he was).

We love our dogs here in Sandgate. They are everywhere with us, always.

Juno was an impressive dog, but the sheep eyed him like he was a spy from the old country. Maude stomped her foot and bitched at him with angry low bleats. Juno pissed on their fence and trotted away. This made Maude bitch louder. I laughed out loud while Ed plowed the drive. Moments like that have become hilarious to me, and a few yeras ago I doubt I'd even notice the antics of sheep. Now I thrive off it. I wish Maude drank coffee. We'd get along so much better if she did.

Together Katie and Sam refilled, restarted, and repaired all the problems. I thanked them over and over, wishing I could do something to repay them. I need to think up something really good, but the only plan I have so far is those two are getting the first scarves I knit from the sheep's wool. They certainly deserve it more than I do.

So, now the house is a comfortable 62 degrees with a roaring fireplace, and the shower spews hot water and soon the kitchen sink wil catch up and do the same. I am here still in awe of how blessed I am to have people like this all within shouting distance of the farm. The day started out terrifying and ended with this sense of home, and comfort, and this weird Vermonter-insurance that we all live by. I never really knew a single neighbor in Knoxville, but here I know everyone and they know me. This is key to me not freaking out or giving up on this farm life. Well, this and really good TV on DVD.

Just recently, Nancy and Dean called to check up on me, offering me some warm soup if I wanted any. Katie and Sam talked to me too, making sure the water was back on and all was well. I offered them all fresh baked cookies, but all four declined the gift. Which shows they not only are helpful, but healthy. Pillars of humanity, them. Surely if life has something to be winning at - they already won. Cold Antler Farm is back in order, and thanks to this small town, it'll stay that way. Mostly because they wouldn't have it any other way.

When I went back into the furnace room to check on the water tank I noticed Katie has taped up a laminated copy of the story of the grasshopper and the ant to the wall. Her version of a lecture for not ordering fuel sooner. I smiled, and loved her for it.

p.s. image above is a screen print by New England artist Dan McCarthy, who does amazing work, usually with trees, winter, and dinosaurs, look him up. He seems kinda dreamy

chicken approved

Happy New Year from the freezing-cold hollows of Southern Vermont. Hope all of you are getting over your hangovers and enjoying a quiet holiday. Mine however, wasn't exactly relaxing. Stay tuned because man, have I got a story for you. CAF had a mini-crisis this first day of 2009, and had it not been for the amazing people of Sandgate, your friend Jenna could've been in very very deep trouble. Four intrepid neighbors saved the day with helps of diesel and chainsaws and tool belts and good additudes—and I'll tell you the whole thing later on tonight. Right now I need to go outside before it gets too dark and get the sheep back into their pen and check on the chickens. Before I do, I thought I'd share this photo from Lisa in Indiana. She assures me the book is approved by her Midwestern livestock. Her small flock of eight hens and a rooster named Rico keep her stocked in eggs and entertainment all year long. Right on sister suffragette, and that's a swell looking bird.