Madcap Monday: Twins!

I've been writing a lot lately, just not in this space, but I should be more proactive [read: responsible] about posting updates, especially after the last few (dark, bleak) ones. I was reminded yesterday that friends and family come here to check in on me. Thank you for that.

I'm doing better. Stronger. Sitting up front, hands in the air, riding the rollercoaster of this crazy, messy, often ridiculous life. Trying to accept the downs as much as I'm loving the ups.

Still here.

So, in the spirit of spring and new beginnings and rebirth (or I guess just birth), here are a some photos from Mama's first set of twins: two little dudes born on Feb 28th, five days before I left for Nova Scotia for 2-1/2 weeks of writing, reflection, healing.

Ridiculously cute, I know. Stay tuned for updates.

Remember when -- The triplets' birth day

Spring is a time for birth and new beginnings and I've loved reading about the many new arrivals on other farms and homesteads (see here, here and here.) In fact it's inspired me to write about the time we welcomed our own new arrivals.

This is Lucy and her wee one Sammy. We brought them to our farm in November 2008 as our wether, Oscar, was showing signs of stress due to what we thought was loneliness.

We were wrong. Oscar was just nasty and nutty. So Oscar went (into the freezer), and Lucy and Sam stayed.

Sam thrived and grew into a fine wee buck.

Being greenhorn farmers we kept the two together too long and before we knew it he was a virile young buck. Rowangarth Farm was expecting its first babies.

I was really worried about Lucy being rebred by her own offspring, but our vet was quite pragmatic about it; the deed was done and we'd deal with the consequences.

It was hard to tell how far along Lucy was because being a pygmy goat, she resembles a barrel on four legs even when not pregnant. Knowing the gestation period is 145 to 155 days, we did the math and anticipated an August delivery. Early that month, I began looking for the signs -- a hollowing of the flank, a discharge of mucus, bagging up of her udder -- nothing.

Then one night, as I was closing up the barn, I noticed her pawing at the ground like she was making a nest. Having experienced my own nesting instincts when I was pregnant, I decided to move her to the birthing pen, next to the main goat pen, to give her some time to get used to the space.

I said goodnight and flipped off the barn light.

Around 12:30 pm that night, we awoke to the sound of whinnying and thundering hooves. Lucas and I threw on our boots, grabbed our flashlights and trundled out to the barnyard. One of the donkeys had escaped into the hayfield and the horse was flipping out. After much cajoling and carrot waving, we managed to lure her back (yes, it was Cinder... the cheeky one) and secure everyone for the night.

As I walked past the usually quiet barn, I heard Lucy cry out with a pitch and intensity that I'd never heard before. I slide open the barn door, flicked on the light -- and there was Lucy with her three newborn babies: two boys and a girl, two white like dad, and one fawn like mum. They were perfect.

The afterbirth was still hanging from her and the kids were still wet from their watery delivery. I grabbed the birthing kit and pulled from it a pile of flannel receiving blankets that I once wrapped my own babies in.

I helped rub down the tiny kids and dabbed their umbilical cords with iodine. I put down some fresh straw for bedding and gave Lucy a bucket of warm water with a cup of cider vinegar and a handful of raisins for a treat.

Then I sat quietly in the pen, simply watching and reveling in the beauty and wonder of new life. Lucy was an attentive mama and she encouraged all of her babies to suckle, chortling and nickering as she nudged them towards her udder.


One baby was smaller than the others (the white one pictured above), and he couldn't get up off his belly. I'd read about how many farmers who don't want to bother raising buck kids for meat simply drown them at birth. It made economical sense, but I simply couldn't do it. It was the first time I came face-to-face with the realities of rearing livestock; it made me question whether I would ever have the fortitude to make a living doing this or whether the animals will remain a project of my heart. I'm still wrestling with the answer.

I moved slowing and carefully and positioned myself beside the new mama. Her udder was bright pink, silky and warm. I gingerly took a tiny teat in one hand an and sterile shallow cup in the other and I slowly began to draw some of the thick, sticky colostrum from her. I'd read about offering this first milk to kids in a pan, but baby showed no interest at all in feeding. I'd also read about using a stomach tube, but I didn't have one on hand and as it was now 2 a.m., it would be several hours before we could make it to the farm supply store.

What we did have was a large supply of newborn syringes for human babies. I knew there was a danger of discharging nourishment into the kid's lungs and not the stomach, but I felt if I did nothing, he'd certainly die.

So I took the wee runt in my lap, pried open his mouth and gave him his first drops of sustenance. He dribbled some of it on his chin, but I was sure most of it made its way to his tiny belly.

I remember laughing at Sam who kept popping up and looking over at his new brood/siblings. It looks like he's smiling in this photo, doesn't it?


I didn't stay in the pen too long as I didn't want to interrupt this new family's precious bonding time. I tucked the runt back in with mama, closed the pen gate and for the second time that evening, flicked off the barn light.

I dozed for a few hours but by 6:00 a.m., I was headed back out to the barn. I remember feeling nervous -- would I find happiness or heartache?

You be the judge.

We continued to supplement the runt's nursing with a syringe for the next few days but I left most of the mothering to mama.

As Lucy was raising three babies, we didn't think there wasn't much milk left for us. We could have bottle fed all three of them, which would have been the sensible thing to do given that we were interested in using goat's milk, but we didn't.

I was in such awe of Lucy's mothering and the growth and development of her babies, I let nature take its course. She did a beautiful job raising her spirited little ones.

This is the whole family in April 2010 when the kids are 8 months old. We named them Rosie, Billy Nibbles and Archie -- he's the runt, who's grown into the biggest 'kid' of the three.

Sadly, we lost Billy Nibbles this past fall to urolithiasis, a condition whereby urinary calculi form in the urinary tract making it impossible to pee.

While I look forward to welcoming some spring arrivals to our farm again, we don't plan on breeding the girls any time soon. While I'm still interested in milking goats, it's not part of this year's plan. Besides, we may want to consider Nigerian or perhaps Nubian goats, both being higher milk producers than pygmies.

In the meantime, I tell people these are my starter 'herd', to help me learn about the ins and outs of raising goats. Truth be told, they are more pets than livestock now. But they keep the weeds down, the sumac in check and they show us all the weak spots in our fencing. They're also an endless source of amusement and joy and I feel privileged to have shared in their beautiful and wondrous beginnings.

Fruit trees!

When you think of Canadian fruit production, exotics such as Asian Pears, kiwis and lemons don't typically come to mind. One man is out to change that-- Ken Taylor of The Green Barn Nursery, located just south-west of Montreal, Quebec.

He led one of the sessions at the EcoFarm Day conference and his message was simple: if you're looking for a sustainable, viable way to farm, grow more fruit and nuts. Even on a micro-scale like ours, it makes good sense. As as country, we import 99% of fruit consumed, with seedless grapes being our #1 crop import, and we have very little in the way of commercial nut production. And Canadians love their fruit and nuts.

Sounds great, but what's particularly exciting about what Taylor is doing is he's growing varieties that don't just survive, but thrive in our northern climate. His philosophy is one of zero interference: no weeding, fertilizing, watering, pruning or spraying. As Joel Salatin of Polyface Farm encourages farmers to 'let a pig be a pig,' Taylor preaches to 'let a tree be a tree'.

Over the last 30+ years, he's achieved amazing results field testing for hardiness, disease resistance and maximum production with minimum input. He calls himself a 'mad scientist' (he does have a PhD in chemistry to back up his claim) and rightly so; for example, he's had great success with innovative breeding techniques, such as grafting a two-year-old heartnut scion on a five-year-old root, reducing the years-to-production to 1 to 2 years, down from 12.

His top 10 list of must-grow fruit and nuts includes: pears, walnuts, Asian pears, plums, table grapes, hazelnuts, raspberries, chums (cherry/plum cross), cherries and mulberries.

Notice there are no apples on his list? That's because he's discovered that other cultivators, such as Asian pears and even his own apple-pear variety, have a higher pest and disease resistance and require no spraying, as compared to the ubiquitous Macintosh apple, which requires heavy chemical controls.

We've already planted a few apple trees -- Gala, Freedom and Liberty varieties, plus we have two old trees that are still productive but could use some pruning.

But this year, we're excited about adding these to our wee orchard:

• Two Northbrite pears: a disease-resistant, highly productive pear that you plant and then leave alone


• Two Heartnut: a fast-producing tree that starts bearing heart-shaped sweet walnuts in two to six years


• Two sweet cherry trees of the Theranivee variety that produce loads of large, mahogany-coloured fruit with sweet black-red juice

• Two chum trees: a mix between cherry and plums, combining the best characteristics of each

• Two apple-pear trees: a very winter hardy, vigorous growing, disease-resistant tree that produces red-blushed yellow fruit with crisp, juicy, sweet flesh and it stores forever.

And in the fall, we'll be planting two Asian pear trees (we're on a waiting list) that grow prolifically without chemicals or fertilizer and improves in storage.

All photos courtesy of The Green Barn Nursery

It's a big investment but I think it'll be a fruitful one (ba-da-bump.) Of course the ordering is the 'easy' part. Now I just have to get someone to help me dig all those holes, haul the manure/compost, install the deer fencing around the orchard...

If you're interested, let me know. I'll pay you in fruit, in about 1 to 2 years.

Ed. update: Since publishing this post, I've discovered the chum varieties I wanted are sold out, so I'm bumping those onto next year's wish list, and I've requested two mulberry trees instead.


The Illinos Everbearing variety produces fruit all summer long only one year after planting. Birds love them, so I'm planting one for us, one for our feathered friends. Maybe then they'll leave the cherries alone!

Taking the next (baby) step

As I'm sure there are people in my life reading my last blog post (Lucas? Dad?) and wondering what I'm getting myself into now, I wanted to reassure you that despite my enthusiasm, I'm doing my best to be smart about this small farm gig. So while I think it'd be noble and admirable and exciting to launch a 50 family vegetable CSA, raise heritage turkeys and sell honey, all while knitting handspun alpaca wool sweaters, that's not going to happen this year. I'm also not going to start tapping maple and birch trees, growing grapes or getting any more animals (though I've decided I definitely want to add 'shepherd' to my farming resume. There, I've said it. I want to raise sheep.)

While I'll write more over the next few days and weeks as I start sorting out The Plan, I can pretty much guarantee that year one will be filled with getting some big projects off our 'to do' list, before I even contemplate hanging out our farm business shingle. We've got fences and paddocks to move and fix, run-ins and a hoophouse to build, a water supply system to figure out, a barn that needs cleaning out & repairing, etc. -- and that's before I put any seeds in the ground! And there's still that writing/editing career to manage and those two farm kids to raise. But as we're making decisions about this year, I'll be considering 'expansion' plans for the future.

Besides all the fixing and building that needs to be done, I want to use this year to get really good at growing some of the basic high demand food items, start our orchard, get some bees and optimize our current farm practices; whether I sell anything this year is anyone's guess -- at this point, at least. I'll probably put up a roadside sign (our farm is close to a main thruway for cottagers) directing folks to a farm gate stand and/or I may get a booth at the local farmer's market, which is very small but would serve as a great way to network and gauge interest for future years. Or maybe not. People who want to eat will always need farmers and it's not like I plan on being anywhere else in the next two -- or 25 -- years.

Taking the next step

Firstly, thanks to all of you who commented on my last post, This farming life. I never cease to be amazed at how you folks are my most supportive and generous cheering squad -- and we've never even met. I am so very grateful.

While going away is always stressful and it takes a few days for me to feel caught up, this time it feels a bit different; I've spent the first half of this week being buffeted between feelings of elation, inspiration and excitement and those of sheer terror, uncertainty and my constant companion, worry.

Going to the conference reinforced that I am on the right path. Simply sitting in a room filled with 300 other like-minded souls, people who believe passionately in producing food and fibre in ways that provides sustenance to their customers, their farms and their bank accounts, felt like a homecoming of sorts. It just felt right.

It was good to be reminded of why this way of life is important, whether you're a farmer or simply an eater. Our industrial food system is horribly broken, besieged by an overuse of hormones & antibiotics, poorly regulated slaughterhouse practices, rampant use of pesticides & herbicides, GMOs, and so on. Food which is supposed to nourish is making us sick; there were over 11 million reported cases of food-borne illness in Canada last year -- that's 1 in 3 people. And family farms are disappearing under the weight of commercial agriculture that promotes profits over people.

While I'll get into the details in future posts, the conference left me feeling inspired and motivated. Simply setting my intention feels like a big deal. I used to be was the kind of person who once I decided to do something, there was little to dissuade me from my path; throw caution to the wind, and all that. But as I've gotten older, it seems much scarier to take that first step, to even consider what I perceive as taking a risk -- I've got the kids, my marriage, my career, the mortgage and other financial matters to consider. Rightly so.

I'm content and happy in my roles as mother, wife and writer, but what excites and inspires me is making this place productive again -- and that's way outside my comfort zone. But would I regret not trying? Absolutely.

As for the specifics of what comes next -- I'm working on it. But I can tell you the first plan of action is to actually make a plan. I'm a great idea-generator and fabulous at winging it, but that's not a great way to start a business, or even run a homestead. It's very easy to over-extend myself and get swept away in ideas and inspiration but the best way to temper that is to start small, ask for help (ack!) and blog about it. Besides being a great source of support, you folks keep me honest. So please join me in the next stage of our 'simple living' adventure!

Confessions of an absentee blogger

There have been a few times lately that I've sat down and started a blog post about silly things happening in the barnyard or my late-night knitting bouts or my new obsession with alpaca wool, but after a few lines, I'd always hit ‘delete.’ The words came out sounding false, forced and lifeless. I’ve been reading too many blogs lately, and other people's posts are invariably more interesting, moving, eloquent or hilarious than anything I’ve been able to come up with.

So here’s my dirty little secret: I'm suffering from a serious case of writer's block. Well, it’s not exactly writer’s block – it’s more a sense of having absolutely nothing to say. I have no trouble writing about other people’s lives for work, but when it comes to my own, the well is looking pretty dry. It helps that I've got a part-time editing gig that keeps part of my creative brain cranking away. That's what's been keeping me so busy this past six months of radio silence. Well, that and I've become somewhat derailed.

It began last September when Ella started grade one. It was a day that I'd been dreading for most of the summer. Each time we talked about going back to school, her big blue eyes framed with long dark lashes, would fill up with tears and she'd say to me, "But mama, I'm going to miss you." And every time, she broke my heart a little bit more.

You see, when Lucas and I decided to have kids, the deal was that I'd stay home with them. I'd finished post-grad journalism school in April, was pregnant by May and interned at a magazine until two days before Jack was born. I'd work when I could, but my main job was one of "mum." That was nine years ago.


My freelance writing work load was fairly steady, though there were crazy times that I'd clock lots of late nights after the kids went to bed and too many weekends. Money was tight, I was always juggling and it was exhausting and often frustrating. There were dark times when my fuse was especially short, when I couldn't wait to have "my" life back, whatever that looked like. But then I’d chide myself with the reminder that this time home with the kids was so short.

Jack was the first to leave the nest five days a week, starting grade one the September after we moved to the farm.

After an intense summer of spending all our time together as we explored our new home, and our new lives, he was suddenly gone from Monday to Friday. I'd walk him to the bus in the morning and pick him up at the end of the drive at 4:00pm, but for seven hours each day, his world was foreign to me. I knew this was a part of growing up and letting go, but still, it felt like a piece of me was missing.

My consolation was that I still had Ella at home. She, too, would ride the school bus, but only attended kindergarten on Mondays, Wednesdays and every other Friday. I would have the day to myself -- to work, to get chores done -- and then we would have her off days together. But life gets messy and there were days that I'd have to work when she was home. I still never seemed to have enough time in the day and the burden of "mummy guilt" weighed heavily.

But two years of kindergarten passed quickly and this past September saw them both away at school. Surprisingly, to me at least, when D-day came it was something of a non-event for the kids. As Jack was entering grade three, he was an old pro at this full-time school thing; Ella just wanted to be like her big brother.


After a bazillion photos, hugs and kisses, they trooped off down the driveway with their dad, climbed the big steps to the school bus and were on their way, waving madly out the window before turning their backs to chatter with their friends.



Like a scene out of a B grade movie, I watched the bus pull away and only when I turned did the tears start spilling down my cheeks.


I braced myself for some kind of aftershock once the novelty of "back to school" wore off. I still ache with the memory of sitting on the edge of Jack's bed while I rubbed his six-year-old back, trying to console his desolate sobs while I gently explained that yes, he did have to go to school every day of the week now.

He had it harder than Ella: he was the shy new kid at a rural school where everyone has known each others' families for generations. He got through it and today, he's got his own tribe of school chums.

But Ella never went through that: she embraced school as she does most things -- with enthusiasm, exuberance and joy. Perched at the kitchen table during after-school snack time, she'd tell me stories of what she'd done that day. To any onlooker, I was the quintessential proud and smiling mother, but deep inside there was this pit of loneliness and disorientation. I had "my" life back. Five days a week. And I was lost.

I knew all too well the dangers of the empty nest syndrome. I vowed not to be one of those parents who lived their lives vicariously through their children. I'd model parental devotion as well as interest in my own life through writing, farming, cooking, yoga, crafting -- whatever. That was the plan, at least.

When I'm busy being busy -- those days when I've got so much work to do and the chores are overwhelming and I need 28 hours in the day to get everything accomplished -- then I'm ok. Well, not really – I’m often grumpy, strung out and frazzled. But lately, during the quiet of winter when much of the farm sleeps under a thick blanket of snow, when I'm forced to slow down and come face-to-face with that insidious question -- what happens now?—that’s when I get derailed.

I'm sure most folks would shake their heads and tell me I'm wasting my time with such preoccupations. I'm blessed to send my kids off to school and be there at the end of the day. I'm with them on field trips, snow days and we'll drive each other crazy during the long eight weeks of summer.

I know what I have to do. It's time to get off my duff and stop thinking so bloody much. Seize the day, be here now, be the person I want to be in the world, and all that. But it’s scary. It feels a bit like starting over, reaching for that next monkey bar without someone there to catch me if I fall. I’ve spent the last nine years preoccupied with the needs and wants of these two wonderful, and often demanding, little people; now I’ve got to start thinking of my own needs and wants.

It’s no longer a case of asking them, ‘what do you want to do today?’ I’ve got to start asking myself that question. It's just harder than I thought it'd be; that's all.

Phew! For all of you who made it to the bottom of that monster post, kudos! I feel remarkably better getting that off my chest. I'm even getting some inspiration for a new blog post on... wait for it... knitting my first sock! I'm living on the edge out here...

Madcap Monday

"One of these things is not like the other..."

Meet Jemima and Betsy. Jemina is the Muscovy duck on the left and Betsy is the Columbian Rock x Rhode Island Red chicken on the right.

About a month ago, I noticed that the other ducks were picking on Jemima so at night, I put her on her own in the feed/prep area of the barn. Soon after, I noticed that she was stealthily building a nest behind the "cubby area" where we store hay (hence the name Jemima, after Beatrix Potter's character Jemima Puddle-duck, who tries to hide her eggs from the farmer's wife so she can hatch them herself).

Then came Betsy, who also liked to nest in strange places. I thought the two of them might get ornery with each other as while the ducks and chickens don't pick fights, they're certainly not chummy. It appears these two have worked something out.

A few days after these two started co-nesting, Betsy left for some power scratching in the barnyard. She ran out through the barn doors, wings flapping and comb twitching, and beelined it to Gall's morning manure pile as fast as her little chicken legs could carry her. She was on a mission: to scratch at all the undigested grain kernels in his poop. While she was engaged in her gross buffet breakfast, I got a chance peek at the nest.


The white eggs are Jemina's and the brown ones are Betsy's.

I wondered what would happen when the eggs started hatching -- chicks hatch after 21 days while Muscovies take 35 days -- but again I decided to let nature take its course.

Seems like I made the right choice this time.


Now what I can't figure out is, how did a Barred Plymouth Rock egg/chick get in to the nest???

Our morning surprise

The barn is usually a fairly noisy place first thing in the morning. The chickens are clucking, the rooster is crowing, the goats are bleating and the ducks are quacking. Well the Rouens are, at least. The Muscovies try hard but only manage a pitiful little squeak.

But today, I noticed another sound amongst the usual cacophony -- a tiny "peep, peep, peep." I looked down into the duck pen and there she was -- our very first hatchling!

After screaming and scaring the hell out of the donkeys and horse (they're a little touchy before breakfast), I went tearing across the barnyard while shouting at the top of my lungs, "Go get the camera, there's a baby duck in the barn!" once again, providing ample entertainment for our barnyard creatures.

We have two ducks sitting on eggs right now. One is in the feed area (she deserves her very own blog post) and the other is in the duck pen. Recently, I'd looked up the incubation period for ducks and while baby chickens hatch in 21 days, Rouen ducks hatch in 28 days and Muscovies in 35 days.

As this is our first time hatching our own -- in fact, we're not hatching anything... we just allowed the ducks to go broody and let nature take its course -- I wasn't sure what to expect. I'm horrible at marking dates but I didn't think she'd been sitting on the eggs all that long. I didn't even know if they were fertile, though I must say that our drakes are quite insatiable when it comes to their attempts at procreation.

Obviously, the boys did their job and so did mama duck.

What I find amazing is that the duckling isn't even technically hers. Mama is a Muscovy while the duckling is a Rouen. Doesn't seem to matter though. Lovely, isn't it?

By the time I finished taking a bazillion photos and finally got the rest of the barn crew fed, I realized it was 11:40 am. Because we weren't expecting babies yet, we had no duckling food on hand and the closest farm supply store -- which is 30 minutes away -- closed in 20 minutes. What's more, it wouldn't be open again until Monday (today is Saturday).

I quickly called the feed store, explained my predicament and pleaded for them to stay open another 15 minutes. After some hawing and humming, the disgruntled voice on the other end of the line agreed and 30 seconds later, the kids and I were in the truck and racing down the driveway.

It's a good thing too because when I got back with the duckling feed and put it and some fresh water into the pen, mama duck finally got off her nest and gave us a peek at the rest of her eggs.

Looks like duckling might have some siblings soon.

This first photo was taken at 1:00 pm.

And two hours later.

I just checked on them about an hour ago and mama is still sitting on her nest. I've read that hatching can take 24 to 48 hours so perhaps by tomorrow, I'll be met with a chorus of "peep, peep, peeps."

In the meantime, I've told the kids that mama needs her rest. She's going to have her wings full with this lot.

What's in a name?

From Flower Fairies of the Autumn, by Cicely Mary Barker

Click photo to enlarge

Every farm needs a name and we started thinking of one shortly after the “sold” sign went up.

We knew some locals referred to our place as “the old Dunn farm,” after the former owners who lived there for 30 years and sold to the people we bought from.

But we wanted to give it a new identity for the next 30 years.

We tossed around a few ideas but nothing really seemed to stick. Then one night while watching a DVD from the BBC production, All Creatures Great and Small, based on James Herriot’s novels about a veterinary practice in rural Yorkshire in the 1930s and 1940s, I watched a scene where the lead characters find their dream home. It was named Rowangarth.

I loved it instantly, partly because we’d once considered naming our son “Rowan” but also because it just sounded “right.” But I wondered, what did the name mean?

Turns out the word “Garth” is old Norse for “keeper of the garden” and “Rowan” is Gaelic for “little red one”. Etymologically speaking, it seemed like a good fit, considering our red house and barn and my horticultural plans.

But what really convinced me wasn’t the etymology, but the dendrology. Simply put, it wasn’t the meaning of the word Rowan, but the mystical properties attributed to the tree of the same name.

The Rowan tree, Sorbus aucuparia (commonly known in North America as mountain ash), has a long-standing history as a protector from evil spirits. The Celts believed it could bring good fortune, repel negative energy and when planted close to the home, offer protection against witchcraft and enchantment.

Seems like a good tree to have around.

So we chose the name Rowangarth Farm. And while we don't have our own rowan tree yet, we already have a place to plant it by the door, to keep our house from harm.