orion's big dog

Woke up this morning and headed outside to chores at the old time, instead of the saved daylight time. The illusion of an extra-early start to my day was scandelous. by "5 AM" all the animals were fed and watered and both stoves were lit again. I had three hours before I had to sit at a desk chair in someone else's office. I breathed deep, looked up at the stars. I am an excellent putter-offer. A girl takes what she can get.

The stars were rioting, and right above the sheep field Canis Major was chasing Lepus (or so the charts said when I looked them up inside). Canis Major, also known as the Constellation of Siruis, is Orion's big dog. Lepus is a large hare and they scamper below the warrior battling Taurus. I stood out there in my pajama pants, hoodie, and Carhartt vest knowing none of this, but enthralled in the big show. You don't need to know their names or even their stories to start a Monday morning enthralled in the drama. Gibson was with me, looking up at the sheep from the gate. His body quivered, a loaded gun waiting to run up the hill, damn the cold or ice between his paws. Anticipation was thick, the sky was art, the world preserving it in dark and cold. The whole thing was ice and woodsmoke and stars.

Beautiful. I stood out there a while.
A girl takes what she can get.

blinders on: time to make it happen

There's a chicken I raised and potatoes I grew on this farm in the crock pot right now, swimming in a stew of cream of broccoli, potatoes, carrots, and onions. Later today I'll ladle it into a butter pie crust and bake it into a pot pie. It'll be served with bread I am baking today, and green beans I blanched and froze from this past summer. Dessert will be with apple turnovers brushed in butter and sugar. The meal is for Brett and I, after a we spend the afternoon constructing supports for the basement floor. The floor of of this house was always wonky, but recently, due to either the high moisture of the summer followed by the daily heat of the wood stove, age, or both: the floor has been creaking, dipping, and rising up in new bumps. So Brett's going to inspect and correct it, and for his kindness I'm making him dinner. It's a fair trade, as a home-grown pot pie is out of this world and I don't care who's making it (or if they cheated with some Campbell's in the stew). Looking forward to the work, the company, and the meal!

I spent the morning enjoying the extra hour of sleep granted by Daylight Savings. But when I woke up the house was a chilly 56 degrees. Talk about motivation to get outside and do your chores! By the time both stoves were cleaned of old ash, re-lit, and roaring I was outside feeding the sheep, chickens, pigs and handing carrots to Jasper. Out there the world was crusted in ice. The thermometer read 22. The sheep had ice on their backs and the chickens were already up on the open areas of pasture first hit by the sun, so they could scratch and explore in the defrosting horse patties. I live on the east side of a the mountain, so I get daylight before my neighbors on the other side do. I think it's nice this time of year to see that sunrise sooner, and to watch the grass go from white to dark green as a flock of mini dinosaurs trot past me to eat some horse poo. Nice, indeed.

I am spending the day at home, both taking care of it and being taken care of by it. The work of reinforcing the floor, stacking wood, and animal chores is just as vital an enjoyable as baking fresh breads and pot pies by a warm fire. This farm grew the food and some of the wood, and it deserves some TLC from time to time. When I stand up in the pasture and look over this place I am held in an emotional limbo that leaves me floating somewhere between ebbs of gratitude and incredulousness. I can barely believe it happened, but it did happen, and that's what I want to write about this morning...

I bought a farm. I bought a farm at 28, with no savings, poor credit, and no experience with negotiating beyond livestock tailgate parties. I want you to know that if this is something you want as bad as I did, you can do it too. Do not let ANYONE tell you otherwise. Those naysayers are full of more horseshit then my chickens.

Buying this house was a blur. It was the first (and only) house I looked at. I walked in it, around the property, and felt every kind of heart-gripping compulsion to make it mine. I just wasn't sure how? The realtor, Leon Barkley, was the man who showed me around the place. The first time I met him I was terrified. Not because Leon was in any way scary, but because he represented a possibility I had never let myself believe in before. He, however, sold many homes and knew who was and wasn't going to cut the mustard. He had faith in my story, and felt this old girl was a good match for me. His instincts were right, but it turned out his connections were even better...

I told Leon about my below-average salary, zero savings, and 530 credit score and he didn't even flinch. He explained that traditionally I might be in a fix, but other options existed outside of banks and the FHA. He said I should talk to a mortgage broker he trusted named James Teele. He said James knew the USDA loan program inside and out, and those mortgages didn't have as strict qualifications as some banks, and required no money down. This sounded made up to me, but I called the man he suggested.

James Teele explained that Washington County, all of it, was in an area the US government considered "Rural Development". Unlike Vermont, where I was living at the time, this place had options for a new homeowner without a fat bank account. I was intrigued, and James was kind, honest, and coached me through the process of buying this farm. He was invaluable and without him I would not be here today. That is a summary of my personal story of the winter of 2009/2010. But waht you need to understand is that this isn't a case of just luck and circumstance. This farm happened because I walked into a house I wasn't sure I could buy, with the belief that no matter what, I would make it mine. It wasn't a case of money, or who I knew, it was a case of stubbornness, faith, and belief in myself and in the outcome I had written down on a piece of paper months ago that I carried with me everywhere I went in my back pocket.

I'm going to stand on my soapbox now.

Listen, if you want a farm then you need to stop telling yourself it'll happen later. None of us are getting any younger, and as far as I'm concerned putting it off is the same as giving up. Life is happening now. You need to start making it happen now, because for some of us, it isn't a matter of just moving boxes and road trips. Some of us have credit and savings to repair, and it might take a five years. Well guess what folks, five years are coming no matter what, so why not be on your own farm at the end of them? Start the process now. I don't care what your situation is, start now.

Pick up a home selling flyer at the diner and send some emails, scan the local papers, walk into local Realtor offices and check want ads. Drive around the places you want to live and ask questions, note For Sale signs, and take notes. Make appointments at your local, and other credit unions. So what if you walk into a bank and are laughed at?! (I was laughed out of three.) So what if you are told no, over and over again? There is no law on the books that says that you, the dreamer, can not pursue the dream of a farm. No police who scan you for credit scores before you take the tour of that farm outside of town. You can and should do this! Call those Realtors, walk into those houses and see them. Touch the banisters and barn walls. Fill your current coffee tables with those library books on goat shed building, chicken care, and gardening. Create the reality you want to live in. Surround yourself with it. Take classes, attend workshops, surround yourself with like minds at local CSA, craft, and community events. It will be forced to happen to you as long as you believe it can.

Ask questions and never be ashamed to be totally honest. You might see some hackles raise when you tell folks you just got your first job out of college, have little savings, and four credit cards, but they will either say yes or no to you, and soon as they say no, ask why. The information will be invaluable to your process. Maybe that rejection is what you need to start paying off those credit cards and eating plain pasta with red sauce for a month (that was my case), or start that major yard sale and EBay jihad to get the nest egg to build your confidence. A rejection is a gift, it tells you what you need to start doing so the next time your try it can't be because of credit cards, or lack of savings, or loans. Accept these hard lessons and fight to repair them. The work will be hard, require changes in your current standards of living and frugality, but again, in five years wouldn't you rather be lighting a wood stove in New Hampshire than a cigarette outside your break room?

That whole rant's point is to explain this very basic point: start now. Do not put off your plans. Do not expect the world to be the same in ten years. Now is the time to take advantage of all the foreclosures, caretaking options, rural rent-to-owns and so forth. If you are sitting on an expensive home you already own in a subdivision, but desperately wish you could be on a farm...well. it might require you purge yourself of that mental disease that is the "addiction of prior investment". Just because you put everything into where you are not doesn't mean you have to stay there, but it will become a prison if you convince yourself you can't leave until the economy gets it back to it's 2007 home value. Walk away and start living.

Some of us simply will not qualify for a traditional 30-year mortgage. And for those that do not, you still shouldn't be vanquished. In this economy, do you have any idea how many second country homes are up for rent or foreclosure? Up for rent-to-buy options or seller note-holding? Thousands. You'll have to scurry a little, dig a little. Maybe ask the person who posted that place with the barn, stables, and brick house on Craigslist if they are the owner, and if they would consider a renting proposal that after a year would allow some conversations about taking over the mortgage? There are choices and chances out there for all of us, but they will only be presented to the people who are willing to chomp bits, paste their ears back against the sides of their heads, and run forward with blinders on. You need to sprint past who you were before, and past the other people letting life happen to them. Your dream is only as far away as you are willing to believe it is.

Find it. Fight for it. Believe in it. It's waiting for you.

Go!

sunrise on a cold morning

does anyone know...

Where I can get a good quality, wall mounted, glass container, coffee grinder?

Sheep Lawn Mowers, and Other Go-Getters

Several readers sent me this story, and thank you for doing so because I got a kick out of seeing other freaks with sheeps driving across the landscape/ Read this Times piece about Sheep as Lawn Mowers and Other Go-Getters, it's a gas. And thanks to all the Jar entries coming in! Farm's warm tonight with good friends, cold beer, and hot stoves. May you all have a great Friday night! And please get back to me if you asked to come to a workshop, waiting to hear from a bunch of you about reservations. Night!
OBERLIN, Ohio
In this verdant lawn-filled college town, most people keep their lawn mowers tuned up by oiling the motor and sharpening the blades. Eddie Miller keeps his in shape with salt licks and shearing scissors.

Mr. Miller, 23, is the founder of Heritage Lawn Mowing, a company that rents out sheep — yes, sheep — as a landscaping aid. For a small fee, Mr. Miller, whose official job title is “shepherd,” brings his ovine squad to the yards of area homeowners, where the sheep spend anywhere from three hours to several days grazing on grass, weeds and dandelions.

The results, he said, are a win-win: the sheep eat free, saving him hundreds of dollars a month in food costs, and his clients get a freshly cut lawn, with none of the carbon emissions of a conventional gas-powered mower. (There are, of course, other emissions, which Mr. Miller said make for “all-natural fertilizer.”)

“They countrify a city,” Mr. Miller said of his four-legged staff. “And they lend a lot of awareness about how people lived in the past.”...

Read the rest here at NYTIMES.com

sloppin' pigs with gibson

the working pony: part 2

Antlerstock had been moving at a full gallop since 9:30 AM that October Saturday morning. Brett had done an amazing job introducing people to backyard forest management and explained the essentials with a burly grace. BY 11AM trees were falling down in the woods behind the barn and cheese curds were forming in the kitchen. The house had become a school, the farm a campus. Between chicken 101 workshops and the sounds of a sharp axe splitting firewood: the announcement for lunch was more of an internal clock telling people it was time to eat than a clanged iron triangle (though I do have one of those in the kitchen). We ate and talked and everyone seemed content with their fresh-pressed cider, pulled pork, and pie but even as I ate my stomach was doing backflips. I knew that Brett had arranged for a few smaller logs from the recently downed Cherry tree to be hauled up to the splitting team. I knew that Jasper had been patiently waiting in his stall, watching the whole event unfold. And I knew I had not been granted the time to work him as much as one would before a large demonstration.
 
But when Brett asked me if Jasper would be ready, I said yes. I said it like we'd been pulling logs out of the woods behind the farm for weeks. I said it like I was more like Brett, a skilled woodsman with a plaid pattern of arteries around my heart. Brett seemed convinced and I told him Jasper would be harnessed up in twenty minutes...

For the first time since buying jasper this spring, I decided to harness him inside the stall instead of outside it on a tie out in the field. What a difference this simple act made. Instead of being bossy or anxious right out of the gate, he calmly walked out to a crowd of people with flashing cameras and children running around. I was shocked at this change in attitude and then realized this horse was probably always harnessed in a stall or barn before being lead out to work every day of his life as an Amish hand. All I did was return to his normal routine, and he responded as anyone would who realized into the familiar.

He walked calmly out of the gate, his bit calm, his eyes curious. I had ordered everyone to stand back, and explained he was known to be "spirited" Everyone cut us a wide berth, but no one seemed scared. Folks like Lara who had ridden mustangs out west were not skittish around a Hobbit-sized cart horse, but I had been kicked in the back of the thigh by Jasper once (I got between him and some sheep who were running towards his grain bucket as he was eating and he kicked back to scare them off), and it hurt for days. 600 pounds is a lot of animal when a hoof hits your ass. Everyone signed a waiver, but that doesn't mean I wanted someone's memory of this farm to be two cracked ribs.

My fears were mine alone. He was steady as a barge on a canal path. I turned him around towards those unfamiliar woods, and together, me leading him by his bridle with loose reins, we walked to the area where the cherry tree fell. Jasper had no qualms with the uneven ground, the leaves, roots, and stones below him. A summer on a mountain slope pasture had made him unusually surefooted for a small horse. When we arrived at Brett near the log pile, he instructed us to walk a wide circle around the logs and wait as he attached the chains to the single tree and got Jasper and I locked and loaded. When all was set, he asked for the reins and I told him I wanted to lead him by the bridle, but said nothing more. Brett resigned to the less impressive, but functional practice. I knew Jasper was still green being driven from behind and why mess up the good thing we'd discovered here in the woods?

So holding those black reins in my right hand, my horse on my left-hand side, I took a deep breathe and said, "Step up, Gelding" and together we walked towards the opening in the trees.

What followed was minutes of work, just a short 50 yards or so from the forest to the wood pile. But it required Jasper to pull uphill, across forest floor, grass, and scattered logs and rounds, new people and equipment. Jasper remained calm, and when the first log was delivered, we turned around and did it again. I got Cathy Daughton's expression as we turned to get the second load, she seemed proud I pulled it off. So was I, so was I.

Now, to most people at Antlerstock, nothing fantastic happened at all. To the general attendee, they saw a pony pull some small logs out of the woods, easy as pie. The horse didn't act up, just walked around, doing what was expected of it. But that lack of flash and noise was exactly what made it so amazing to me. Jasper acted as calm and normal as if he was just another part of this farm, as predictable as pulling the cord on a lawn mower or starting up the truck. He just worked. It was as if that was how it has always been.

I had won martial arts tournaments, driven cross country, acquired an envious professional design resume, and bought a farm...but walking back to Jasper's hand-made stall and kissing him on the forehead was a feeling of winning I had never experienced before in my life. My heart was racing, my palms were sweating as I removed his black leather straps and buckles. I had managed to acquire, train, and heal an animal that just months before was leaping out of trailer windows and kicking sheep. As he lowered his head into a well-deserved scoop of sweet grain I ran a hand along his strong neck and told him I was proud of him.

I am no Buck Brannaman, my horse training skills are as rudimentary as they come. I make mistakes out there, many, and learn only by beating a situation into a corner until it is subdued enough to let another problem pop up elsewhere. But I am learning this working horse thing. Things that were alien to my hands and words foreign to my mind are now common place and understood. "Check his cannon, I think the singletree might have popped at it when you were working on the surcingle" was once Greek. Now I speak Greek, thanks to the translator that is experience and a dapple pony. I am stubborn enough to keep trying, and my horse knew enough to lead me the rest of the way. Thank you, Jasper.
 
In closing, I can not express how great it is having a working pony on this small farm. Thanks to him, there is a level of self-suffiency that Cold Antler could not obtain without his contribution. He is more than a log caddy, Jasper could be a second vehicle once harnessed to a light cart that could carry me easily the three miles into the center of town. Or, I could hop on his back for a short ride through the woods where carts can't go. He's also able to carry small wagons and packs, through all sorts of terrain, if that would ever been necessary. He protects the sheep in the pasture, making a second living as a livestock protector. Any coyote would have to think twice before taking on a flock with a 600-pound body guard with big hooves...

If you're looking for a sustainable solution to small loads and chores, and a second form of transportation, a pony might be a perfect fit for your farm as well. Jasper eats a half-bale of hay a day and a scoop of grain, he drinks about ten gallons of water. Knowing what I know now, my second pony will be a Haflinger or a Fell, something both suited to the cart and saddle, but still only around 13 hands. I'd save up and spend the money on a solid, bomb-proof, working animal around 10 years old who came with an education. Later down the road. I'd like to try training a foal, and hire and experienced saddle trainer to start him with a solid foundation as a riding animal. But regardless, equines are staying on this farm, and I can't think of a more reliable and wonderful way to get brute work done and move across the landscape. Maybe I'm a romantic, but that's fine by me. Horses, my dear friends, are good. Very, very good.

photos by lara thomason

jasper: the week he arrived

the working pony: part 1

Around here ponies are considered children's toys, pasture mates, or the butt of jokes. They are either a stepping stone for young equestrians, or a companion animal for a "real" horse. Company that eats less hay while keeping the Warmbloods, Thoroughbreds, and Arabians less bored. Few people (if any) around Washington County employ regular-sized ponies for logging and cart work. They either use ATVs, garden tractors, or some other form of motorized tool for small jobs. If they are into working horses they use Drafts or Standardbreds. That's the MO for most farmers and ponies around here. But I am not most farmers, and Jasper is definitely not like most ponies.
 
When I was looking into getting my first horse, I wanted an animal at my own eye level. I rode 16+ hand mares at my riding lessons (which have since stopped since I went from 5 days of office work a week to 4), but I only felt comfortable because of the amount of education of the mares and the amount of professionals around me. It also eased the mind to know we were in a locked arena, so even a mad dash could only last a hundred yards. But on a farm, out on my 6.5 acres of land and the thousands of acres of not-my land around us on the mountain...I didn't want a 16 hand horse bolting into the woods dragging a plow. I wanted something I could control with my own hands in a pinch. Something larger than a Shetland but smaller than a Haflinger. A Pony, sure, but an animal I could still jump on the back of for a ride to the back pasture to check on the flock. A horse calm enough to learn with, strong enough to be of use, and patient enough to put up with me, a greenhorn like me. I wanted the animal more educated in driving than I was, and willing to take me on as his student.

I also wanted a gelding. Boys make sense when it comes to working animals. I wanted Gibson to be a male before he was born, and I wanted my horse to be a male as well. At the office, I have two girl friends and one of them took 3 years to shore up. I am comfortable around all the men. My closest friends are all guys. Not sure that is sound horsemanship, but I went with my gut.


 When I first met Jasper he was thin, ratty, and had not seen a brush or bath in months. The night before I met him, he was removed from his herd and stuck in a 2-horse trailer alone. In the morning, in a rain storm, he got freaked out when the trader tried to open the back hatch so he leaped out the side window. BOOM, just gone. "Well, the auction flyer said he was "spirited"..." the seller smiled, knowing this was not looking good for his bank account. Jasper trotted over to some grass near his pasture mates and without a second thought, I just walked up to him. He watched me, and let me grab his halter. I lead him back to the trailer where the Trader was getting him tacked up for a demonstration. It was starting to really rain now, and Jasper's eyes got white with stress. I didn't know enough about horses to offer to come back later, and the trader must have needed the money to ask his son to hop on board. I watched him walk off with his small passenger.

He let a 10-year-old boy saddle and ride him around an open field without qualms. Walk to Trot to Canter, then backed up easy.  Which meant in a strange place, away from his comfort zone, after a night along, he let a child push him around in a backyard without fences. This was an equine Job. Knowing nothing beyond the fact that I would have bucked out of there a long time ago if I was that horse, I agreed to pay $500 over two months and he would be delivered with his Coggins in April. I shook hands with the trader and became an owner of my first equine. I felt rich.  
 
Jasper came with his name and I did not change it. It suited him, and me. He's an 11.2 hand Pony of the Americas (POA). A dappled gray horse with dark brown eyes and a black and silver mane scruffed in a permanent mohawk. He's ten years old, and comes from a working Amish farm down state where he was trained to drive. He came to me from that scrappy dealer in Hebron, a town a few miles north of Jackson. (I have since learned buying a second-hand auction horse from a backyard trader might not have been the best way to get a working animal.) He was delivered and let loose in a half acre paddock and he ran, bucked, and kicked like a bronco. "Just settling in..." was what the man said before shaking my hand and leaving. As the trailer backed out of the drive, Jasper let out a cry only heard in movies. What was I getting into....

That's his backstory, our backstory really. Over the spring I didn't train with him at all. We just went on halter walks together, learned each other as peers. Summer came and we learned to trust each other a little more. When I bought him a harness he let me put it on him and soon we started working in the field together. It became a regular thing. I learned so much in such a short time. How to understand the confusing puzzle of leather straps that is a horse harness. I figured out his body language, bit size, farrier needs, and dental appointments.  I got a few books, had a driving trainer visit, and over time gained some confidence that this animal and I could work together someday, get something of import accomplished. After all, that was his purpose: To be both my second vehicle and my farm hand. I had dreams of us pulling logs out of the woods together, or hitching up to a sled or cart to make a trip into town. I secretly wished I had the confidence to jump on his back and ride up into the pasture, like the Lairds did in storybooks in Scotland, hoping on the back of ponies in waxxed cotton coats to see how the flock fared. I was in a story book with this horse. I liked it there.
 
The weekend of Antlerstock was getting closer and closer, and I knew I wanted Jasper to be a part of it.  I had written in the description of the weekend about backyard lumberjacking, with Jasper pulling logs, but wasn't entirely sure that we could or he would. He had worked in the open field pulling around tires and weights, but I had never walked him into the woods, hitched him to a log, and walked him out through low branches and uneven ground into a clearing. So I wasn't sure I would risk it, not around other people. If He got scared and bolted on me, a horse in harness dragging a log is a runaway train. It would be the event everyone remembered, and not in a good way.

But when Brett asked me if Jasper was ready to pull logs on the Saturday of Antlerstock...

I said yes.

Photos by Tim Bronson

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