Man, S&%$ Grows Fast When Not Ignored

Just a wee update on our summer farming skills. This is our second summer here on the Central Coast, where days can be sickeningly hot. So far, we've only had a week or so of plus 100 degree weather, but there's gotta be more coming. Last season our crops sucked ass. We had no idea what we were doing and pretty much dumped it all in and threw some water on it every now and again (we really did do more than that, but barely). The results were astounding: we cooked everything before we even got it out of the ground.

So this season we decided to check soil PH, add drip systems and pay attention. Below is the fruit of our labor. We built these raised beds about two months ago and planted them a week or so after that. 

June, 2014

July, 2014 (Today, to be exact)

It's been at most six weeks and somehow we've grown a whole jungle. I've actually found a tiger hiding in there. And, you know, sometimes the plant's foliage will be all huge and braggadocio but it's fruit sucks and you'll get like three piece of crap tomatoes from it (which happened to us all last summer). Well, not this time. Below you can see our average-sized cucumber. The zucchini and tomatoes and squash are all equally as bulging. We have so much produce now that my dogs have decided to go vegetarian. Now that's a true farm dog.  

(What in the hell do you do with sixteen of these?)

FAIL.

This here is the last time you will be seeing our five little quail because as of this morning, Jack thought it would be "nice" to set their cage outside in the sunshine and fresh air. Apparently it was nice, so nice that they all jumped out and scattered to the four corners of the world. And not together, which is the shitty part. Together, they stand a chance against the mean guys and the cold nights. But they are so young and quick, that they literally all just shot off toward whatever direction they landed. We feel horrible. First, it is possible that we quail-napped them and that mom or dad was a short bush over, watching in horror as these ungainly monsters shoved their babies into a saddle bag (I sincerely hope not, but our country friends have since informed us that this is, sadly, quite probable). Then, we move them to a completely different neighborhood with no low-lying shrubbery, and allow them to run off by themselves into the great unknown.
Freaking city folk. What jerks.

What the Duck?

 Well, we found five, day-old ducklings a few days ago while we were out for a ride on our motorcycle, and due to our paralyzing fear that they wouldn't make it through the night without our god-like intervention, we took them home. This brings the total number of animals now living on our modest little farm to 21. Wait, 22. I forgot about the new pig (I'll introduce him in the next post).

Given that we almost killed every single one of them while our hearts were bursting with good intentions, I thought I'd give you a quick what-not-to-do guide to rescuing ducklings.

#1. Wait at LEAST eight minutes before calling it a day and packing them into your motorcycle saddle bag. What the natives have since explained to us is that shit happens in the duck world same as ours. Mom may have gotten held up by an old boyfriend, or maybe dinner took longer than expected. She may have been just down the street but other, less patient ducks kept cutting her off and giving her the finger. To be fair, the little guys came to us and wouldn't venture more than a few feet from our feet, but it's totally possible that they were just out for a bit of fun and knew exactly where they were headed. At the time we seriously doubted it, given that they were roughly the size of the eggs they hatched from and it was almost dark in an area rich in feral cats and coyotes. Still, the guy at the farm supply place mumbled to a co-worker, "Dude, they're wild animals. They'd of figured it out. That's what they do." And then he went on to sell me $74.38 worth of chick raising supplies.
#2. When any creature is one day old, do not set it in a canvas saddle bag with no insulation and proceed to ride 50 mph for 15 minutes in 60 degree weather.
#3. Do not assume that because they are mostly dead and can no longer stand upright, it is because they are hungry. First take into account the harrowing ride they just took, and then google it. Baby ducks don't need to eat for 72 hours after they're born. Shoving their beaks into chicken mush while cheering them on does nothing.
#4. Do not assume that because they are mostly dead they need water. They don't. And since the only problem is that they are nearly frozen to death, setting them down in a lid full of water and dunking their beaks while cheering them on could probably be considered premeditated murder. Or manslaughter if they die. Which thank god they didn't or I would have turned my own self in.

Luckily, that's all we did to the poor souls, and despite it all, they lived. They are right now in their cozy wine box, basking in their brand new heat lamp and cuddling up for the night. Um, except they're not. I can hear them beginning to chirp, and what will follow is an all night party filled with running in circles, jumping on top of each other, and hucking themselves at the walls (I think in search of their mama). I'm not certain, but something tells me this behavior may be pointed at us.

The More Given, the More Expected

Well, I daresay that we are now officially a farm. We have chickens, goats, dogs, a cat, and as of Saturday, a pig! A 20 year-old potbelly pig named Willie. We have taken him in as a favor to Jack's sister, and so far he seems to be doing just fine. She says if he snorts a lot he's happy, and every time I say hi to him he snorts. We're feeling pretty confident that he's not gonna bust out and run for the hills. That always feels nice.

With the addition of another life to care for, I've actually been thinking about death. Potbellies live for about 20 years and Willie is 20. He is the oldest animal on the farm and by far the closest to death. I guess I've never really thought about what one does with a very large dead animal. Set a bonfire? Rent a backhoe? Can you bury a 150 pound animal in your yard? But more importantly I've been contemplating the awesome responsibility it is to care for another life. It doesn't really matter to me whether it's a chicken, person or dog; it's still a life that I have been entrusted with. It's still a life that I must tend and nourish and watch over. Especially if it's an animal (or a baby, I guess). They are completely dependent on us to keep them alive and know what they need when they need it. And since they can't talk, we have to be vigilant in order to understand their needs or pain. But this is not easy. I mean, Willie is 20 freaking years old! I have no idea what he's like when he's uncomfortable, let alone in pain. And this could be a concern very, very soon.  Ah! What if I can't read him? What if he is in pain and I mistake his grunts for grateful applause? Is there a Cesar Milan of pigs? They're smarter than dogs, you know.

(I just have to mention here that as I'm contemplating death and despair, my man is downstairs blasting Gun's & Roses, an album I never even knew he owned.)

It doesn't help my state of mind that my brother and his family just lost almost all of their adolescent chickens to their dog, who oddly enough, is normally almost comatose, and an old student who just lost his dog and best friend of many years. It just makes you think. The more animals you care for, the more death and loss you will experience. And the more you hope that you will be sensitive enough to know what to do and how to help ease their pain (and, let's be honest, your own). I'm guessing that as the years pass and I become more familiar with the deaths of my animals, this won't cause me as much anxiety and anguish, but as of right now, even shit-clots on the tail feathers of my chickens cause me distress. Jack and I had to team up a few weeks ago and cut one off of Big Black Bertha, and now, just this morning, I noticed one piling up on another one of the gals. And of course, the bleeding heart that I am, my first thought is that it must be painful, like when you put your hair in a ponytail and one or two strands of hair are pulled too tightly, except that chickens don't have hands to pull out the rubber band - or in their case, the dried shit ball stuck to their feathers. See? It's things like this that you have to be on top of. Who would ever think that part of being a responsible chicken owner is weekly butt checks for dried shit balls?  But if you don't, who will? Those little ladies lay their hearts out so you can have a hearty breakfast. The least you can do is be on the lookout for unwanted crap clingers.

I guess that's all for now. Here's to another day of health and happiness on the farm and to hoping that we awake to more of the same. And here's to hoping that you awake to the same, too.

If Only We Could Be Like the Trees of the Fields

Why is it so difficult to keep shit in perspective? We are so easily confounded and overwhelmed by nearly everything that comes our way. Before we know it we are overcome by the tide of things outside of our control and shepherded - no, thrust - into a place that seeks to suck the life right out of us. And try as we might, this seems to happen more often than not. Even here in the great outdoors it touches us. We certainly believed that we were escaping that great tide when we chose to move. I mean, what could be more simple? Country life, blue collar jobs, no neighbors, and animal friends a'plenty. What in the world is there to freak out about? I continue to ask myself this every single day, even though I am freaking out continuously. Because there is money, there is status, there is success, there is accomplishment to freak out about. Yes, even here, in good ol' God's country, we are hostage to this age-old story, and in all of the above, we have little to brag about.  Even here, the first thing asked is, "So what do you do for a living?" We ask this first because we have been trained to ask this. We ask this because we don't have any idea what else to ask. We don't know how to ask questions that matter to our souls, like, "What do you love to do?" or "Who are you?" or "What is your passion?" No, we ask the most meaningless and mundane of possible questions: What do you do to make money, which truthfully translates into the saddest but most dogged of human concerns. If I know what you do, I know roughly what you make. And if I know roughly what you make, I can put you in a category that I can judge up against myself. I can know if you are above or below me according to our societies' social scale. I can know if I should praise you or pity you. I know if I am better or worse than you. All because of the amount of money you earn.
Well, here's my heretical take on this bullshit, for what it's worth. Never in my life have I met someone whose money contributed to their wisdom, beauty or compassion. In fact, in my experience, the wonderful individuals who have wisdom and beauty and compassion typically go without monetary opulence. Not that this is necessary, I'm sure, but somehow it seems to contribute to things. And maybe it isn't the money that changes people at all; maybe it's the power that money brings. Either way, most of those who have changed the world have gone without. And I believe that we really should evaluate these sages up against those our culture holds in high regard today. What are we truly longing for in our lives? What secret desires are we wanting them to validate for us? Because I guarantee you that pop stars and athletes and A list actors aren't primarily concerned with the stuff that Buddha and Jesus and MLK and Mother Theresa lived and died for. If you can actually ask yourself what baby Northwest's (or whatever the cuss his name is) parents would dress him (her?) in if attending a Bat mitzvah, or if Posh Spice would drink this particular protein shake (if she is even "cool" anymore), you've already lost it. God bless 'em, they're just people who happen to be rich trying to figure out this freaking life. But to idolize them simply because they're loaded? Yikes.
Then again, what do I know? I rescued a homeless dog, wrapped a Cal-trans orange handkerchief around his neck, and named him Kevin.

Beautifully Blue Collar

Today I had what folks might call an existential realization (that may be the wrong terminology but that just furthers my forthcoming point). I'll get to it momentarily, but first some background. This is slightly uncomfortable to admit, but it wouldn't be truly existential otherwise, I'm guessing (brother?). So we have lived out here in the "country" for near two years now, and up until perhaps this very day, it has been romantic and novel and brave. It has been cool and "an experience" and urban-chic. I mean, what semi-aware city-dweller wouldn't love to say they gave up/sold everything to experience the country life? How very Thoreau of us (and though we didn't build our own dwelling from scratch, we did refurbish a barn, which, to be totally honest, is way cooler by today's standards). And if we don't quite invoke Thoreau, at least Sunset Magazine.

So in the spirit of authenticity, we are poor. But we are poor by CHOICE, and it goes without saying that that puts us in a completely different category than the real country folks out here who are actually poor. For the past 1.5 years as we've both worked basic labor jobs, my story has gone like this: "Yeah, we moved from Corona Del Mar in Orange County (as if we even owned there, but it's the name that really counts to people) in order to realize our dream of a slower, quieter life with land and animals and simplicity. We're still figuring out what we want to do up here, so for now I'm working here in the tasting room for ten bucks an hour because I want to learn more about wine." That part has been true all along, that I wanted to learn more about wine. But the rest of my story implies that we have some sort of cache of cash that allows me to cuss around "learning" enigmatic stuff for as long as I want, because clearly, if we moved to Po-dunk Templeton from CDM, we must be loaded. Though that is completely untrue, I have been absolutely fine with allowing people to assume that. Yes we are technically "blue collar" for the first time in decades, but it's by choice, you see. It's for the adventure, the experience, the story. It's so that we can really relate to our fellow country-folk. It's not because we have to work at these places. Jack doesn't have to spend seven hours a day loading boxes of wine onto trailers. I don't have to pour wine to drunken neophytes six hours a day to make a living. Ha! How silly that you would even think that.

But then today happened. It was a day just like every other day. My winery was hosting an industry party after hours which I was not only not informed of until the day of, but was also sent to Trader Joe's to shop for said event (sounds exactly like a job one does solely for "learning" purposes). When I was done, the check-out man said hello with a wonderful smile, as they are apt to do there, and began unloading my cart. For some reason, today I chose not to remove my name tag before entering (which I never do) and so I found myself explaining what all the pizzas and savory tarts were for, which got us talking shop. My first shock was that I was actually "talking shop" with my grocery guy. I've never done that before in my whole life. I've never had anything in common with the grocery clerk except the weather maybe, or the first graders outside selling Almond Roca for the school fundraiser. Certainly not my life's work. Yet here I was, laughing about consumers and secret product prices. Hee-heeing about customer service and the "people with money" who assume their cash makes up for their lack of taste. And that was the second shock: our talking shop related to the hospitality business, a business that I've never be a part of. People that I have always left tips for with a bit of, "Oh, poor soul. How does s/he ever make ends meet?" (Bare in mind that I was only a teacher. We're not talking hedge fund money here)

He took my money, I took my goods, and that's when it happened, my existential realization. As I pushed my red cart past the free plastic utensils and extra-strength hand sanitizer on the way to my expensive Audi with the now two-year-old dented fender, it hit me like a punch in the face. Him and me, he and I, we are the same. Regardless of the stories we tell ourselves or others, we are blue collar workers. We do a job that anyone with the ability to show up can do. So what that I go home and eat vegan or read Carl Jung or drink impressive sounding wines. So what that he creates symphonies in his garage or lovingly raises children that are not his. In this one thing, we are the same. We work for just above minimum wage in a society that not only shuns such a thing in adult life, but nearly makes pariahs out of those who have no other choice. We - I - have a job that educators spend hours and hours warning their students against. Teaching them that if they don't get perfect grades and get into the "right" college, they will end up like this - like me. Ha! I can hardly breath with the irony of this. No wonder I never spoke such things to my students. How little I knew about why I didn't...

But what I felt most in my core as I walked away from that clerk was that I was damn proud to be in his company. I AM damn proud. We connected on a level void of the bullshit of money and status and subterfuge and pretenses. We saw one another as simply human, as common neighbors in this big ol' world. I can't remember the last time I felt so proud to be like someone else, so proud to be a part of a group. I am the 99%. Jack and I are the 99%.

And goddamn if it doesn't feel just right.

Here We Grow Again

It's been a little over a month since my last post but in that tiny amount of time, we have been busy little bees. For starters, we tried our hand at building a chicken coop. What began as a modest structure for three hens, thanks to the lack of written plans, ended up a McMansion for like 13. Turns out, when you don't actually know what you're doing it's pretty easy to build the complete opposite of what you had in mind. Still, it's been a month now and we still have all six gals, so ostentatious eye sore or no, we consider it a success (all our neighbors swore we would lose at least half by now to predators).

A bit less exciting would be the story of how I almost killed all six of our goats a few weeks back. I chalk it up to still being a city slicker, though in truth it was probably due to my alter-ego, Short Cut Sally. I was in a hurry come feeding time and assumed that the 50 pound bag on the ground was the same 50 pound bag of goat feed I bought the day before. Having never used this kind of feed before, even though the electric green hue of the pellets looked a bit alarming to me, I reasoned that I just bought a 50 pound bag of feed, and here at my feet was a 50 pound bag of what looked like feed. Besides the unnatural color, I should have been tipped off by the refusal of the three small goats to eat said pellets. And I admit that when I noticed this I actually said aloud to myself, "Hmm. I wonder why they aren't eating it". The problem with most animals is that they trust us, which means that even when their jackass owner feeds them rat poisoning, they'll eventually eat it. Which they did. Let me say for the record that I did not purchase this poison. I think it's hideous and anything that causes death by internal bleeding should be outlawed, unless of course it's used on people who abuse children or animals. No, it just so happened that the feed was in the same barn as my dad's ground squirrel poison. And Short Cut Sally didn't stop to check the bag. She poisoned all of her goats instead. To make a long story short, only one of the goats got seriously sick, and that was terrifying and I definitely learned my lesson, but in the end, everyone survived. I can't even imagine what I would do with six dead goats. Those things are not small.

The last addition to our little farm family is the Blue Heeler lying next to me right now. Jack found him a week ago in an industrial part of town and we've put up flyers, posted on Craig's List, and reported him to the pound but so far no one has claimed him. We're pretty sure he belonged to a homeless person because he is so well-behaved and docile (unlike our other two banshees/dogs). He is so incredible, in fact, that we considered starting a business called, "Homeless Guy Dog Training." But in all seriousness most people are scared of homeless guys, so we decided against it.
Here is his picture. We named him Kevin. He is perfect in every way except when he pees on the rug. And when he bites us.

Our Souls' Work

I just now listened to a song performed by a dear friend of mine, who finally, after four years, allowed me to hear her music. I am speechless. I've only known her as a fellow educator and mother, so it's no exaggeration to say that I am in awe. Jack and I sat here in silence and listened to the whole song and both of us could only say, "wow" when it was over. Her gift, and I say this in complete belief that we are all born with a gift to give to this world, is her song. This is not to say that she doesn't have other gifts as well; she is a wonderful mother and teacher. But hearing her voice sing her truth transcends her other gifts (at least in my opinion). Oh, and she is also writing a novel, which is no poke in the eye, so it's kind of a big statement I'm making about her music.

I'm not telling you her name so that she can't get mad at me or sue me for libel, but this also allows me to be totally honest about what I think (and really, even if she suspects, how can she know that I didn't  receive song attachments this week from another friend who also happens to be a mother and teacher and writer of novels?). And what I think is, most of us, like 98%, are scared to death of our gift. THE gift. We are so scared of it that I would bet many of us don't even know what it is. This doesn't mean that we aren't still fully present and authentic in our lives; it just means that we are avoiding that thing that moves our souls like nothing else does. That thing that makes us sweat and feel a tiny bit nauseous when we think about actually doing it. That thing that can keep you up at night by simply thinking about doing it. I call this thing our souls' work; the core of our purpose in this life. For my friend, it's playing her music out loud. For me, it's writing and doing what I need to do to be a therapist. I have known in my bones for a long time now that I need to write and I need to counsel people, but in my 38 years on this planet, I have done almost nothing to achieve either one. And naturally, I have done about a billion other things instead. I can grade an essay like nobody's business and I can pour a mean glass of wine, but I can't sit down and type out my truth for others to read and I'm terrified to complete my training in therapy. I think it's only been in the past six months that I've understood why. It's the same fear that paralyzes all of us. It's the fear that if we finally bare our soul and commit to fulfilling our deepest truth, we chance failing at our most vulnerable level. We chance having the very core of our being rejected. We chance putting our guts out there to only have 39 people in the whole world read what we wrote or listen to our song. We chance being told that we don't have what it takes after all. That we were wrong to believe that this was our souls' work.

So we stifle our truth and do other things to pacify us. The problem with humanity is, this never fools our souls, damn them. I mean, it can work for a while. We can convince ourselves that this thing that we are dedicated to now is what we are supposed to be doing. And we can do this for quite some time. I've done it for years. But eventually, if we are willing to really listen to ourselves, we will see through the rouse. And having just reached this point, I have to admit that right now, this is much scarier than it is "enlightened" or "sacred" or "inspiring". No, it plain sucks ass, because once you acknowledge it it's real and you have to do something about it. There's no other choice. Which explains the nature of this post. I sat down to write something witty and safe about our new chickens, and this is what came out. I freaking told you. Once you blow the roof of the sucker, you're done for.

But seriously, on a side note, we finally got chickens. Six fine young gals. So far, our janky, homemade coop has held against predators (including our own dogs and cat), which, I'm not gonna lie, we are all flabbergasted by.

Even Goats Can Be Bullies

It pains me to admit what I'm about to admit. We all want to believe that we are Cesar Milan. We want to believe that we have the secret to communicate with animals like no one else can. We want to believe that when we look an animal in the eye, whether it be dog or armadillo or goat, it understands that we love it and thus does exactly what we want it to do. Years of semi-intoxicated friends over for BBQ have proven this theory (and all most of them have to show for it is a dog bite).

My own dogs' unruly behavior should have tipped me off years ago that I am no Cesar, but pipe dreams die hard, and so I upped the pet ante with three 120 pound goats believing that my inner Cesar nature would transform them into veritable house pets within a few short weeks. Well, let me tell you something, sisters and brothers. If you think training a dog is hard, a goat will make you wish you'd never been born. 

We initially adopted three of these large ladies, and though they ignored us 100% of the time and busted through most of the fencing we put in place, they became fast family. I mean, real gems. And then, because if a little is good, a lot is awesome, we adopted three more mini-goats. (Please don't tell them I said that. They are quite sensitive about their status in the greater goat community.) These vertically-challenged, hollow-horned, bearded ruminant mammals max out at 30 pounds, which is a far cry from their 130 pound forced-siblings. But, again, when you think you're Cesar, what does size matter? So I threw them all together, the big ol' lover of family that I am, and waited for the magic to happen. And waited. And waited. I've been waiting so long now that my own mother confronted me with the following: "C.J., don't you think the little ones are taking quite a beating from the big ones? Please tell me you are going to do something about that." In my infinite Cesar wisdom, I replied, "Oh, mom, they're fine. That's the animal kingdom for you. They'll work it out in no time." Six months later, mom counters with, "Well, C.J., now Patrick is permanently limping and the little ones haven't gotten to eat a full meal in weeks." (This is because the large ladies pummel, charge, head-butt and trample anything that gets in their way of food. And the only things that get in their way are the pigmies.)

All this to say, I am ashamed to admit that my first attempt at a farm animal family has failed. I have ignited the fire signal for help. I am no Cesar; not with dogs and certainly not with goats. Out of my three large ladies, two of them have to go. They are bonafide bullies, and no amount of stretchy rubber bracelets is gonna change that.





That was four years ago. Just kidding; it was only three months ago.

Takes My Breath Away

I just came across a saying that I swear I came up with, except that it was printed in a journal I had nothing to do with, which is pretty solid evidence against my former claim. So, my hands may be tied in the intellectual property category, but not tight enough that I can't quote it and then attempt to make it even more kick-ass than it already is.
Here it is:
"The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss, and have found their way out of the depths. These persons have an appreciation, a sensitivity, and an understanding of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness, and a deep loving concern. Beautiful people do not just happen." - Elisabeth K. Ross

BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE DO NOT JUST HAPPEN.  (I think it's clear to us all that I'm not going to make it more kick-ass than it already is.)

Beautiful people do not just happen. I have no idea who this woman was, but I'm going to find out right now. Hang on as I consult the oracle (google).

Holy crap. Not that any of you would know this, but I am right now beginning my training in psychology and grief and she was a psychologist who specialized in death and dying. Holy crap. She wrote a book in 1969 where she discussed her theory of the "five stages of grief." My mentor's work is in grief; specifically in the five gates of grief, as he describes them. Holy crap. Holy crap. Holy crap.

I am speechless. I..............wow. I read dozens of quotes every day and many of them speak to me, but this one was different. You know when you read something that stops you in your tracks? It doesn't happen often, does it? Not for me, either. But this did. I even wrote it in permanent ink on my desk so I can read it every day (the only other quote I've written is, "God calls you to the place where your deep gladness and the world's deep hunger meet" by Frederick Buechner). No offense to Fred, but Liz dominates in the desk-quote competition.

Beautiful people do not just happen. God I could type that 100 times in a row. The most beautiful people I have ever known in my 38 years are damaged, are broken, are scarred. They have been hurt and abused and betrayed. They have fought and raged and sobbed. They have fallen face-down in the dirt and cried until there were no more tears. But what differs between the beautiful ones and the victims is that they get back up. They refuse to cower. They refuse to give away their power, even in the face of abuse. They refuse to abandon their birthright to feel alive.  And in so doing, they lay claim to their own souls and grab hold of their lives. These are beautiful people. These are people who don't "just happen." And when they - we - come out on the other side, we embody empathy and compassion and kindness for even the most depraved of human beings. There is no choice in the matter for us because we've been there. Or almost there. Or could have been there. It's incredibly difficult to judge others when you are so acutely aware of your own vulnerability and frailty.

Perhaps to some this sounds like weakness, but to me it sounds like beauty.

Elizabeth K Ross is dead now, but what she said above, without even realizing it was worthy of quoting, is gospel. It really did take my breath away.

The fact that I'm pretty sure I also said it is besides the point.