Gypsy Farmgirl

Goodbye Gypsy Farmgirl

noreply@blogger.com (Victoria Strauser) — Mon, 19 Apr 2021 21:53:00 +0000

The first time I visited Ireland, I was staying with a family in a small village on the west coast, County Mayo, a short distance to the sea. I remember walking to the sea one day and noticing several colorful caravans parked along the road. I didn't think much of it at the time, but when I returned to the village, I was warned to be wary of "the gypsies" who inhabited the caravans. I don't remember the specific warning, but I remember the connotation being they were untrustworthy, possibly violent, and best left alone.

It seemed puzzling to me at the time, as I had nothing but the most positive associations with the stereotypes I associated with "gypsies." To be honest, I've long been envious of people who are more nomadic than stationary. The thought of taking my colorful caravan to the sea (with my entire extended family no less!) and parking on the side of a grassy road to take in the view for awhile seems... incredibly freeing.

Modern conventions of the word also added to my positive association. In Middle French they were bohemian, and in Spanish, Flamenco. Century Dictionary describes their qualities as "playful freedom or innocent roguishness of action or manner. As an adjective form, from the 1620's with a sense of unconventional; outdoor."

Bohemian! Nomadic! Unconventional! Playful! Outdoorsy! Sign me up!

Of course in retrospect, my ignorance of the history of the word "gypsy," and my ignorance of the history and struggles of the people to whom this derogatory word was ascribed, is both embarrassing and a sign of my grossly privileged life.

In case you're in the same comfy yet incredibly ignorant shoes that I was in that long ago day on the Irish coast, let me take you on a journey. Let us take our comfy shoes off as we stroll in the sand by the Irish seaside, and relearn our understanding of the word Gypsy and why it is considered so insulting and inappropriate to use as a casual substitute for "nomadic" today.

The etymology of the word Gypsy derived from a dialectal form of the word "Egyptian." Just as indigenous North Americans were mislabeled "Indians" by Christopher Columbus in his search for a passage to India, Gypsy was a misnomer for the Romani people who originated from the Punjab area of India and "migrated to Persia in the 11th century, and from there, to Europe by the 1400's." Europeans, noting their dark complexions and Persian customs, mistakenly believed they came from Egypt. "Today, many dwell in Italy, Spain and Eastern Europe, therefore the many different Romani groups are differentiated by their Persian/Iranian, Italian or Romanian customs." Long before Wifi-infused coffee houses and co-working spaces enabled digital nomads to take their work on the road, Romani people had to have portable jobs due to their largely nomadic nature. Portable work options included horse trading, entertainment/exhibitions including musicians, magic and dancing; metalsmith, blacksmith, telling fortunes and selling potions.

Several of these portable jobs were considered "witchcraft" by the religions of the day, along with their nomadic nature, made the Romani people targets for persecution, especially as the persecution of witches, Jews and other non-Christian cultures spread through Europe. "As such, the term "gypsy" came to be used as a derogatory term for the Romani." [Source: previous link above.] Gypsy is an "exonym," a name by which an ethnic group is referred to by outsiders but not from within the group itself.

How are those tender feet doing? Is the sand getting hot? Well, we're not quite there yet. So let's ignore the blisters and limp along a bit further.

Once the Roma people reached Romania in the 14th century, they were forced into slavery for over 500 years, and it is estimated over 80% of the Roma population in Europe was tortured [medical experimentations] then murdered during the Holocaust. "While Nazis murdered numerous groups for their beliefs or actions... they applied a consistent policy of extermination only against three groups: the handicapped, Jews and Roma."

Uffda.

The word "gypsy" is a slur, as hateful and hurtful as the N word.

"Even today, centuries later, the word is dangerous: 'It conjures up a romanticized image of poverty and sexualization, which doesn’t acknowledge that there is nothing romantic about being a victim of institutionalized racism. There is nothing romantic about the link between perceived uncontrollable sexuality and forced sterilization. There is nothing romantic about being a victim of domestic violence but afraid to speak out because law enforcement won’t believe you or it will further oppress your community. There is nothing romantic about lacking political power and representation, and being left out of both anti-racist and feminist politics.'” ~Amber Leventry I didn't know it before, but I know it now. So I'm not going to use it anymore, nor its cousin, "gypped," meaning to swindle, cheat or rob. And if you're ever on Pinterest, you'll see that this wildly popular social site does not allow the word or any combination of the word, either, labeling it as "hate speech."

So this post will be my last post as Gypsy Farmgirl. I may take up writing under a new name, we'll see. I will not however give up this domain, as there are many ignorant people who would love to set up a website under this name and profit off of it. (I've never sold a single thing under the Gypsy Farmgirl "brand," by the way.)

Goodbye, Gypsy Farmgirl.

Kana aven le tare ta atardeon pasa o gori le paiesko ando zaleno cimpo thaj ceri oce astardeolpe o traio.

When a Romani caravan arrives there, on the riverbank, in a green field and under the sky, nature itself comes alive.

~Luminita Mihai Cioba

paying the tab

noreply@blogger.com (Victoria Strauser) — Wed, 24 Oct 2018 15:48:00 +0000

"How could you blame farmers for choosing to believe that they weren't poisoning the world, and their own children?"

Theresa Weir, The Orchard

I don't blame farmers for this belief. I think it's truly the remarkable person who can objectively look at what he's doing and realize something is inherently wrong with it. And, quite frankly, most people aren't that remarkable or willing to self-reflect, especially when doing so might threaten their very livelihood.

Nor do I blame farm families for wanting to uphold farming traditions. There is beauty in honoring traditions, fiercely guarding the family ways, protecting the family land from outsiders and new ideas. After all, this is what has been done for generations, and these traditions have served farm families well.

Or at least, seemed to have served them well.

Guarding tradition and passing down family rituals is the way all families work. Even those who never touch a plow or plant a seed. A grandmother teaches a grand-child how to roll out the lefse and fry it on a hot griddle; a grandfather teaches a grandson how to gauge just when to apply the next round of poison to the crop for the best harvest.

The problem is, the farm traditions being handed down today are not the farm traditions of old. Our agricultural practices look nothing like those of just a hundred years ago.

Many would argue that these practices are necessary for providing copious amounts of cheap food for the growing masses.

But are they?

Where will this cycle of chemicals end? Pests and diseases will always evolve faster than chemicals. Stronger chemicals today require even stronger ones tomorrow. We are already reading the symptoms of a system in distress.

When the soil no longer supports crops despite ever increasing amounts of fertilizers, when the pollinators die, when the super-weeds and super-pests no longer succumb under the mist of the sprayers or to the bite of the toxic-modified kernel of corn, the farmers of today, who initiated and passed along these rituals, will likely be long gone.

Their grand-children and great-grand-children will be the ones standing in the dust, wondering how their ancestors could have been so complicit in the destruction of their inheritance.

"Couldn't they see what they were doing?" they'll ask in bewilderment.

No my child, they cannot. To see would be more than they can bear, and still toil out a living in what remains of the soil.

And the soil is all they know.

So they choose not to see. And I can't blame them for that. Who among us would be brave enough to look? Who among us is ever brave enough to look ahead to the future consequences of our actions today?

Chemical farming is like the arrogant patron at the fanciest restaurant, ordering the biggest steak and priciest wine, then leaving before paying the tab.

But somebody pays the tab. Somebody always pays the tab.

As for me and my tiny parcel of earth, untamed by poisons and untouched by toxic seeds, it will not save the planet. It may not save the pollinators who inhabit it. It may not even save my family or those who are privileged to tend it after I am gone.

But when that day comes when my grandchildren demand that I account for whether or not I assisted or resisted the destruction of their one and only real inheritance, I will be able to look them squarely in the eyes and answer without shame or hesitation, "I chose to farm without poisons with the hope that you could have a future."

Farming without poisons isn't easy.

Then again, paying the tab is never easy.

But somebody, always, has to pay the tab.

Who will pay your tab?

"We rich nations, for that is what we are, have an obligation not only to the poor nations, but to all the grandchildren of the world, rich and poor. We have not inherited this earth from our parents to do with it what we will. We have borrowed it from our children and we must be careful to use it in their interests as well as our own."

~ Australian Minister for the Environment, 1974

~ Victoria Strauser, Wisconsin, USA, Earth

saying goodbye

noreply@blogger.com (Victoria Strauser) — Thu, 18 May 2017 00:32:00 +0000

There are certain people that come into our lives and we're never the same again.

They become part of our identities, attached by invisible threads to our very souls.

We may not see them every day, or maybe even every year, but when we do, we pick up right where we left off without skipping a beat.

It's in the catching up, the fitting together of all the missing pieces of our lives that have gone between, that we suddenly realize the big gap that was left the last time we said good-bye.

And so we work hard at filling up the gap with as many happy memories as possible, so that when the next good-bye comes, as it always does, since nothing in this world is permanent, perhaps the gap won't seem so big.

We put on a brave and happy face and tell them, "We'll see you when we see you and not a moment before!" while hoping it will be sooner than later, and wishing there was a way to make the time apart go faster.

that fleeting moment of peace

noreply@blogger.com (Victoria Strauser) — Mon, 08 May 2017 23:57:00 +0000

Ever have one of those moments where everything seems right in the world?

Not that everything is done on your "to-do" list, because it never is.

But there are no critters loose or injured or sick. The day is sunny but cool enough to work comfortably.

There are no bugs. The pastures are green and growing, And you are getting sh*t done.

You look around, and all the creatures seem content, and everything seems ok.

You have this moment of peace and calm.

You sit or stand and look around, amazed and grateful.

Of course all hell breaks loose soon after.

Something is sick or injured or dying or loose (or all 4), or mother nature is wreaking havoc.

And once again you question why you do what you do, and if it was your fault that something went wrong.

But for that one brief moment in time, everything was right.

Or mostly anyway.

And you try to hold onto that moment. So that when the bad days happen, as they always do, if you're very, very lucky, those moments, and your friends and family, will prop you up, until the good moments overshadow the bad ones again.

Cheers -

the pigness of the pig

noreply@blogger.com (Victoria Strauser) — Sun, 07 May 2017 23:25:00 +0000

One of the biggest influences on my decision to farm, and how to do it, came from Joel Salatin's books.

Among his practical tips and words of wisdom came these words:

"Our motto is we respect and honour the pigness of the pig and the chickenness of the chicken. That means not confining them in a house with hundreds of others."

Allowing an animal to express its natural behaviors, such as the scratching and pecking of chickens, or the rooting and tilling of pigs, becomes an essential part of giving that animal the best environment in which to live, and therefore, the best possible life.

On our "little farm," that is exactly what all of our critters get to do.

For many years now we've talked about getting pigs. We enjoyed watching the pigs at our friend's farm and always figured we'd try it ourselves.

One year turned into five, and I finally decided it was time. A few e-mail inquiries later and we were rushing to put together a pig shelter (thank you old pallets!) in our old garden space, which, due to my current schedule of working full-time off of the farm, is lying dormant.

The perfect pig palace!

Now "Roto" and "Tiller" spend their days happily rooting and tilling up the old garden, happy as pigs in, well, mud.

If that isn't the pigness of the pig, I don't know what is.

Cheers -

happy thanksgiving!

noreply@blogger.com (Victoria Strauser) — Thu, 26 Nov 2015 14:00:00 +0000

Master Tom and Tiny Tom wish you all a very, merry Thanksgiving.

{They will be enjoying running around the pasture on turkey day as we enjoy lying around in the living room.}

Cheers -

mill bluff state park, camp douglas, wisconsin

noreply@blogger.com (Victoria Strauser) — Thu, 05 Nov 2015 00:56:00 +0000

It is difficult when you are a farmer, even a small one (that is, own a small farm, not be a small sized farmer) to get off the farm on any sort of regular basis.

The chore list extends to infinity and beyond. It can make a seemingly industrious person feel downright lazy to indulge in some personal, off-the-farm time.

But that is exactly what I need to keep some "work-life" balance. So I do my best to have some small adventure off the farm every week.

Today I took the short drive up to Mill Bluff State Park, not too far from Tomah, WI. All the park gates were closed, and I wasn't sure which entrance would yield the best hike, so I took a chance on the Camel Bluff loop, an easy, level, 1.25 mile circuit.

The trail is wide and pretty sandy, but hard-packed so it's not difficult walking. It's also mostly in the shade of mature stands of pine, which would make it a cool saunter on a hot summer day.

The trail was so easy-going that it made it very easy to really enjoy my surroundings, and stop often to take a closer look at details near the trail, like the angelic looking seeds of the milkweed pod.

Setting them free in the breeze is one of my favorite tiny pleasures in the fall.

There are side-shoots off the main trail that lead up to the individual bluffs, and I took advantage of those, too.

#iseefaces

I may have even climbed up a bit for a better view, although I found the view at my feet to be as delightful as the view of the horizon.

"There is an ancient conversation going on between mosses and rocks, poetry to be sure. About light and shadow and the drift of continents. This is what has been called the "dialect of moss on stone - an interface of immensity and minute ness, of past and present, softness and hardness, stillness and vibrancy, yin and yan.”

― Robin Wall Kimmerer, Gathering Moss: A Natural and Cultural History of Mosses

Warm sunshine uninhibited by the shade of the white pines now streamed down on my bare skin, warming me as I stood up with butterflies in my stomach and took in the grandeur of the view around me.

All too soon it was time to climb back down and head back to the farm in time for evening chores, which have gotten earlier as the sunset creeps backwards on the clock.

I did not have time to do the trail to Mill Bluff itself, but I will be back with that journey in mind.

Until then, it is back to the tasks at hand, here at the Little Farm.

Cheers -

it's ok to fall in love with a turkey

noreply@blogger.com (Victoria Strauser) — Tue, 03 Nov 2015 02:10:00 +0000

I never took myself for a "poultry person" until the first time I brought home day old chicks from the local farm supply store.

I've been raising chicks from one-day-old every spring and summer since, both laying breeds and meat breeds, and even trying my hand at hatching out our own (although as luck would have it, we got 10 out of 11 roosters that year!).

But it was my first bunch of Blue Slate turkeys from Cackle Hatchery that really sent me head-over-heels in love with poultry and especially, with turkeys.

And what an odd love affair this has been.

Turkeys have an undeserved negative reputation. Far from being stupid, (and no, turkeys will absolutely not stand out in the rain and look up and drown, so if you've ever said that, please stop it immediately) I have found them to be the most social, the most curious and the most gregarious of all of the domestic birds on our property.

Their faces are divine studies in theatrical performances, as their heads and necks turn from a pale pink to vivid tones of blues and reds whenever they are near an object of attention - either the hens, or more often, us.

The names of the parts of their heads are also delightful - from the snood hanging over their beak, which stretches and elongates when they strut, to the caruncles on their head and necks, which also engorge and turn brilliant red during a strut.

{And yes, for turkeys, snood length does matter, with longer snoods winning the hearts of hens and usually determining the dominance level of the tom.}

An adult turkey has 5,000-6,000 feathers, from the long proud tail feathers to the tiniest of tiny feathers on the tops of their heads, which appear like an angelic halo (look closely at several pics on this page to see this). These beautiful feathers are not just for looks, either, as a turkey can fly up to 40 mph and in the wild, naturally roosts in trees.

Their big brown (or blue) eyes are keenly sharp, as any hunter with a goal to bag one can attest to, their field of vision encompassing 270° and even seeing in color.

But it's not the many fine attributes that I fell in love with, although they make it all the more justifiable.

It's the essence of the turkey personality, the "turkeyness of the turkey," so to speak.

It's the way the babies are so calm when you put your hand into the brooder, coming up in serious earnestness to investigate your fingers, and their escalating peep, PeeP, PEEP! when excited.

It's the hens that will curl up in my lap for a snooze, or fly up and roost on my head, or sneak up behind me to steal the gloves out of my pocket, darting away in an exuberant game of "keep-away."

Mostly, turkeys are just darn good company.

And that, my friend, is good enough reason for me to fall in love.

Cheers -

rumpless roo

noreply@blogger.com (Victoria Strauser) — Sun, 01 Nov 2015 23:47:00 +0000

It's molting time again, that time of year when the daylight is shortest and chickens tend to molt their feathers and regrow them, sometimes in funny ways.

Our little Ameraucana rooster, Allspice, has molted his tail, which makes his already diminutive stature even more so.

Here he was before:

But that doesn't deter his gargantuan spirit.

Despite Pullet Surprise being over twice his size, Allspice still rules the roost around here.

Tail or no tail.

And that's no "tall tale."

Cheers -

constant companions

noreply@blogger.com (Victoria Strauser) — Sun, 01 Nov 2015 16:10:00 +0000

There are two sets of constant companions on our farm. One is the cats, especially Karma, who seems to feel it her duty to oversee every detail of our tasks.

The other is our small flock of Sweetgrass turkeys, who strut about each one trying to outdo the other and impress us with their talents.

Today we had the pleasure of both as we advanced our "replace-the-turkey-townhouse-floor" project.

A few weekends ago we removed the rotted out floor. Last weekend a layer of rocks and dirt were hauled in, and today hardware cloth was put down. Next weekend, with any luck, new boards will top the wire.

The jakes like to chase Karma whenever they can, but since she is close to fearless, she stays within close range despite the likelihood of a chasing. They don't seem bent on real damage, and with a couple of bounds they give up the chase. In turn she chases the Sweetgrass hens whenever she can.

Mojo tempered his fear of the turkeys by overseeing from within the trailer, safely outside of the turkeys' vision.

Cheers -

her name was lolah

noreply@blogger.com (Victoria Strauser) — Sat, 17 Oct 2015 00:23:00 +0000

For a year and a half we've had a pineapple rooting in a Mason jar on the windowsill of a west facing window in our kitchen. This weekend she finally got a new home.

To root a pineapple, first twist off the top of any pineapple from the grocery store. Peel back the bottom scales until you expose the tiny roots. Place it in water so the roots are covered. Then wait to see if it takes.

The first one we tried worked, the second one did not. As I said, she grew quite happily in her Mason jar for over a year before we potted her up. To pot a pineapple, it is recommended to use cactus potting soil. Papa also found this gorgeous, clearance-sale self-watering pot in what I think is a wonderful shade of Hawaiian blue.

There are several videos on-line about how to grow pineapples. Basically it's having a big enough pot, and a warm and sunny window that does not get too cold. If you're lucky you may even get a tiny pineapple to eat after several years of growing her.

We came up with the name "Lola," which Kelly then amended to have the spelling "Lolah," because if you rearrange all the letters in her name you can also spell "aloha." She is heading for a big window in a classroom in a school in La Crosse.

As usual, the turkeys kept a close eye on the entire process. Nothing escapes their eagle eyes.

Aloha -

P.S. - several of these photos were taken by Papa, and all of them were on his iPhone. I tried centering the photos but even though it shows them that way in the editor, they don't "stick" in that position on publish. If anyone knows how to fix this issue please shoot me a note. Thanks!

march (maple) madness

noreply@blogger.com (Victoria Strauser) — Sun, 08 Mar 2015 21:55:00 +0000

Having lived on this little farm for 3 full growing seasons already, we are becoming more and more in sync with the tasks of the season.

In March, we tap maple trees, at least the very few we happen to have here.

This year that was a grand total of two.

Why even bother tapping two trees, you ask?

Because even with only two trees we manage to get many gallons of sap, which yields 6-7 pints of the most delicious syrup you're ever tasted, especially so because you foraged it from your own land, and because it's in limited supply so you really enjoy it.

And so the ritual begins with the gathering of supplies - (free) plastic buckets, plastic taps, plastic tubing, a 5/16" drill bit and a drill. Oh, and my favorite farm tool, a black plastic ice fishing sled.

I use sleds year-round, over grass, snow and ice, and they are fabulous for hauling buckets or weeds or hay bales or manure.

If it were up to me we'd use old metal spiles and metal sap buckets, but we already had plastic buckets, and they do hold more sap and keep the sap cleaner.

{if any of you have a few of the old supplies you want to get rid of, please contact us}

The hardest part of the process is pushing the spile into the plastic tubing. Luckily I had Papa handy to do this task so I could just stand around snapping pics.

After drilling a 5/16" hole about 2" deep at a slight upward angle, you insert the spile (with tubing attached), tapping it gently into the tree.

Insert the other end into the bucket. Seal the bucket with the lid to keep out spiders and dirt. If the sap is running, you will see sap flow into the bucket almost right away, although at a fairly slow pace.

Why does our maple tree have red flagging tape around it, you may be asking?

Well that's because our property is full of oaks and very few maples, so we walk around in the fall looking for maples when the leaves are on, and mark the trees with red flagging so we can find them in March when they are bare and all look the same.

Yup, we're brilliant that way.

Depending on the size of the tree, you may be able to place more than one spile. You can find some guidelines, and more specific tapping instructions, here.

One your taps are set, don't forget to come back often and check the buckets. You may have many days in a row where you get nothing, then suddenly you can have an overflowing bucket in one day.

It all depends on the temperatures, ideally freezing at night and warm during the day.

The trek out there makes for some nice "sweetie" time anyway, so I always look forward to it.

Cheers -

warming the cockles of my heart on a cold winter's day

noreply@blogger.com (Victoria Strauser) — Wed, 04 Mar 2015 23:57:00 +0000

I am seriously in love with these sweet Holstein calves on my friend's dairy farm.

Remember these cuties? Johanna, whom I had the pleasure of naming, and the Valentine boys, whom my tribe on Instagram named?

Yup, still sweeties.

Whiskers and eyelashes and freckles, oh my!

I still want to scoop them up in a big bear hug and bury my neck in their furry coat.

I doubt they'd get much enjoyment from that however, so I content myself with offering to bottle feed the babies whenever I can.

Sometimes the neighbor boys come over to help. They know a lot about cows and farms already, even though they do not live on one.

They are thoughtful and ask serious, grown-up questions and they listen intently to your answers.

Additional supporting staff at the farm include Gypsy, our Border Collie who prefers hanging out with cows at this farm than hanging out with turkeys at our farm...

And a number of barn cats like this one, Sam, the sweeties little cat you ever did meet.

And if you're curious what the "cockles of your heart" means, I found this from here:

The cockles of the heart are its ventricles, named by some in Latin as "cochleae cordis", from "cochlea" (snail), alluding to their shape. The saying means to warm and gratify one's deepest feelings.

Cheers -

a cold winter's day

noreply@blogger.com (Victoria Strauser) — Thu, 19 Feb 2015 02:22:00 +0000

A drive to La Crosse to deliver CSA shares yielded some pretty spectacular scenery today.

I could have driven on I90 to La Crosse but I always prefer to take the back way along scenic highway 14 which yields much more interesting scenery, even if not perhaps the fastest route to the city.

What you can't see in this photo: The snow all up and down my backside, a result of sliding down into a ditch between the road and the pasture to get this shot. The horses only sniggered a little.

The wind up on the ridge was pretty ferocious. I was thankful that I had my warm vehicle and did not have to make the trek in a horse-drawn carriage, like many of our Amish neighbors do, no matter how cold it is outside.

After my stops in La Crosse, I stopped at Grandad Bluff for a few more photos.

Breathtaking, in more than one way!

Cheers -

sweet peeps

noreply@blogger.com (Victoria Strauser) — Sun, 15 Feb 2015 16:54:00 +0000

The peeps are about 5 days old now, and as always I am enjoying them immensely.

Despite their diminutive size, they are full of personality and curiosity.

They bring the spirit of new life, and hope, to a part of winter that I often struggle with, the part that seems to drag on forever, spring a distant memory.

My daily dose of cheer, these babies.

In case you're curious about what breeds we got this time, in Papa's hands are a Wellsummer (brown), a Black Sex Link, and an Ameraucana.

Wellsummers are a breed from Welsum, Holland, best known as the rooster on the Kellog's box. She will lay dark brown eggs.

Black Sex Links are a cross between a Rhode Island Red rooster and a Barred Rock hen. Differences in color of the newly hatched chicks are gender related, allowing for easy sorting of pullets and cockerels. She will lay light brown eggs.

Ameraucanas come in many colors, from light to dark. They lay light blue or green eggs.

In the top photo on the page, two Buff Orpingtons exchange peep news. One of our all-time favorites, buffs are sweet tempered and curious. They also lay light brown eggs.

This is the earliest we've ever started pullets (young female chickens). It is our hope that they will be laying well before our older girls molt in the fall, a natural process that takes so much energy from the hen that she stops laying eggs for up to 3 months.

These little sweeties are our guarantee for non-stop eggs throughout that period.

And non-stop entertainment for the next 9 months as they grow in feathers, size and individual personalities.

Cheers-

what happens in the paddock, stays in the paddock

noreply@blogger.com (Victoria Strauser) — Sun, 15 Feb 2015 00:36:00 +0000

I've become a bit of an expert on the "birds and the bees" in the barnyard.

{B&B. &B}

Tom turkeys work pretty hard to win the favor of the hens, not only through strutting and a "spit and drum" vocalization, but they also are gentlemen who wait to be invited for more advanced maneuvers (unlike chicken roosters who just "grab and go" with any hen, any time they can catch one).

In addition, once a hen accepts tom's favor, there is an elaborate dance on her back, the tom using his claws up and down the sides of her back to trigger her pleasure receptors.

Alpaca males "orgle" while mating, their vocalizations a key part of the process for female receptivity.

But nothing is as funny as rabbits coupling.

If the doe is receptive, the male will not waste any time getting things done, grabbing the hair on the back of her neck in his mouth to hold on has he vibrates like a jackhammer then siezes up as if having a heart attack, then falling over on his side.

If you blink, you'll likely miss it.

So don't blink.

And have a Happy Valentine's Day!!

peeps!

noreply@blogger.com (Victoria Strauser) — Wed, 11 Feb 2015 20:10:00 +0000

The newest batch of peeps has arrived from Cackle Hatchery!

One of my very favorite days of the year on this farm, right up there with hatching turkeys, new lambs and new crias.

Hard to believe these tiny little fluffs traveled for two days inside this cardboard box.

Mother Nature has given them the gift of being able to absorb nutrition from their yolk right before they hatch, giving them 2-3 days worth of sustenance before they need to eat and drink.

In nature, mama hen would stay on her nest with her hatched and unhatched babies for a couple of days, waiting for the rest to hatch, before bringing the chicks out of the nest for food and water. Absorbing the yolk allowed the babies who hatched first to wait around with mama until her siblings hatched out and they could all go out for a bite.

Hatcheries have learned to take advantage of this little window of time in order to mail the birds to new homes.

At about 8:00am this morning I got the call from the local post office saying they had my chickens, and off I ran to pick them up and bring them home.

And then the fun begins.

After opening up the box and making sure they look OK, I take them out one-by-one, say a little "welcome to our farm" and dip their beaks in the water and food dishes.

And then I sit and watch and sit and watch and occasionally think about all the other things I should be doing,... then sit and watch some more.

All of these little cuties "should" be pullets, a term for a young female chicken before she starts to lay eggs. Occasionally we do get a rooster in the mix. The sorting method is not 100% accurate.

I purchase new pullets every spring, because in the fall, all of my chickens will molt their feathers, a process that takes a lot of energy from the hens, during which they stop laying eggs for up to 3 months as they focus on regrowing their feathers again.

If I can time things correctly, these new babies will be laying eggs by then, filling in the gap while my older hens molt.

At least that's the plan. I'm still tweaking the number of birds I need to buy each spring to get the right number of eggs for what we need and what people would like to get from us.

I think we got it right this time with twenty new chicks.

Then again, can you ever have too many peeps?

Cheers -

falling in love again

noreply@blogger.com (Victoria Strauser) — Wed, 04 Feb 2015 21:16:00 +0000

I am in love.

Certifiable, head-over-heels in love with my friend's newest calves.

I just melt over their beautiful brown eyes and long eyelashes.

Several of the bull calves have white hearts on their foreheads, and a follower on my Instagram feed named them Valentino and Valentine.

And then there is Johanna, a little white heifer that I got to name!

She's a little bit shy and a whole lot sweet.

There are also two very sweet and silly older calves that make the funniest faces and love to suck on my entire fist.

But Johanna and the Valentino boys are my very favorite sweeties.

I hope you like them too.

Cheers-

karma

noreply@blogger.com (Victoria Strauser) — Fri, 30 Jan 2015 02:40:00 +0000

Cheers -

snowmos

noreply@blogger.com (Victoria Strauser) — Thu, 15 Jan 2015 15:07:00 +0000

My Icelandic ewes love sunflower seed and alfalfa pellets.

They love them so much {snow much?} they will go rooting around in the snow to find them.

When winter drags on and on, sometimes it's the little amusing things like this that make the winter tolerable.

Berrit photo poo bomb

Cheers -

a rather blustery day

noreply@blogger.com (Victoria Strauser) — Wed, 31 Dec 2014 17:10:00 +0000

Whenever it blows on a Wednesday I can't help but recall a favorite tune from the Pooh albums we grew up with, called A Rather Blustery Day.

There is a line in the song that goes Oh I know today is Windsday and this is how I know.. it is always on a Windsday that the winds begin to blow...

Wednesday was one of those blustery days.

Last weekend we replaced/repaired the roof on the Turkey Townhouse, finishing up just after dark Sunday night.

So it was with utter disappointment when I stepped outside to do afternoon chores a mere three days later, on Windsday, that I noticed a piece of the new corrugated plastic roofing flapping in the wind, still attached to the structure but ripped in two.

After sighing a big sigh I headed down to check and see how bad it was and see if I could salvage any of the roofing pieces. Some of the panels are meant as skylights and do not have any wood underlayment. If those panels blew off, there would be a gaping hole in the turkey roof open to the sky.

As I neared the structure I noticed two of my turkeys were out of the paddock. The noise and flapping roof panels must have scared them enough to fly out. One hen, Selma, had flown out of her paddock, across the field road and into the boys/chickens/rabbit paddock.

Tom was just outside of his paddock, wandering up and down the field road right next to the other hens who had not flown out.

I made a mental note to fetch Selma and Tom once I had inspected the roof.

And then I spotted my two ewe lambs in the open area just beyond the turkey paddock.

Rats, they must have busted out of their little shelter somehow. Two more escapees to add to my list of things to do - or rather, critters to catch.

And then I noticed Ty, our ram lamb, with his head stuck in the net fence trying to get to my ewe lambs who no doubt are now of breeding age and rather enticing to a boy who has already bred his three girls and is no longer getting much action.

Triple rats!

A quick triage of the situation told me this would be the order of events:

Turn off the fence charger to take the electric pulse out of the net fence that Ty was trying to break through.

Get Ty out of the fence.

Get Ty and the girls into the haymow (treats come in mighty handy here) and lock them in for awhile while I inspect any damage to the fence and repair it.

Repair the fence. The net fencing was still secure, thank goodness. But Ty did end up breaking two plastic step-in posts that I had placed between each of the fiberglass posts of the net fence. I needed to replace them both, as they were helping hold up the corner of the fence.

Getting the old post bottom out of the frozen ground proved to be tricky. Eventually I succeeded, after retrieving a hammer and other tools to pry it out of the ground. I was able to use the same hole it came out of to place a new post back into.

Turn the power back on.

Catch the lambs and return them to their shelter. This turned out to be much easier than I had thought it would be. These lambs were wild wild wild when I took them from the main paddock and put them into their own shelter in early December for the duration of Ty's visit. I didn't want him breeding them.

One of the two lambs, Daisy, had been escaping right before all the sheep went into their winter paddock, and it had been a royal PITA (pain in the arse) to catch her. Picture a rodeo involving a herding dog, ropes, halters, and a lamb that refused to stand upright on our trip to the barn for a few days of "time-out" while we readied the winter paddock.

But it seems my weeks and weeks of going into their shelter every day with a few treats to eat from hand has tamed them up to the point where they actually followed me of their own free will back over to their shelter and right inside.

They got extra treats for that stellar behavior.

After all the sheep were secured I let the ewes and Ty out of the haymow. Ty immediately ran over to the edge of his paddock nearest to the little lambs shelter and stayed there, bleating, begging for a date. But not sticking his head through.

Sorry Ty, no dates tonight.

Now to catch the turkeys. Not too big of a deal. My permanent flock will normally let me come within arms reach, even if they don't particularly enjoy being touched. In less than 5 minutes both turkeys were safely back in their own space.

Two roof panels had blown off. One managed to come off in one piece without breaking, but one had a jagged tear across the middle. Luckily neither one was covering the open area so there was no problem with a chance of precipitation falling into the shelter.

I tucked the turkeys into their shelter, which left only the normal evening chores to finish.

My 30 minute routine took 90 minutes, but at the end of the day, everyone was where they were supposed to be, and all was quiet on the farm again.

And I was off to celebrate New Year's Eve with family and friends.

Happy New Year Y'all!

naming the flock

noreply@blogger.com (Victoria Strauser) — Mon, 29 Dec 2014 18:51:00 +0000

I finally named all of my Sweegrass hens.

Last winter we still had a variety of breeds from our "mixed bag" order from Porter's, and I knew we wouldn't be keeping them all, so I didn't name them.

But this winter we are down to our permanent breeding flock of three Sweetgrass and one white Tiger Bronze hen, so the ladies now have "real" names.

This is Sarafina, the biggest of my Sweetgrass hens. She also has the darkest red neck feathers of all of my hens.

The name "Sarafina" (and it's many derivatives) derived from the biblical word "seraphim," meaning "fiery ones," an order of angels. I think it's fitting. She's definitely one of my fiery angels.

I love everything about her including the tiny tuft of feathers on the top of her tiny snood. I just want to reach out and touch her sweet little feathery head. But she doesn't care for petting. So I don't.

Serena is the middle-sized Sweetgrass hen. She's a bit camera shy, and I realized when I sat down to write this post that she had eluded any close-ups.

So I donned my 20 pounds of insulated barn clothes and trudged outside to snap some more photos in the 7° F sunshine, bare hands freezing to the camera. The sacrifices I make for this blog, I tell 'ya.

Serena looks an awful lot like Sarafina, but slightly smaller and minus the reddish neck feathers. If I don't see her side-by-side with Sarafina however, I often get them confused. Here she is on the right, with Sarafina on the left.

The name Serena is derived from the Latin word serēnus, meaning "clear, tranquil, serene". She is definitely my serenest hen, whereas Sarafina and Selma are my most inquisitive and playful.

And then there is sweet little Selma. If she wasn't already the smallest of the three Sweetgrass, she would still be easy to identify by her lighter neck and upper back feathers, and the tiny black feathers coming out of her snood.

By far the smallest hen in the flock, but one of the most gregarious personalities, she is the first to come up and take treats right out of my hand, or investigate my clothing and give my snaps and buttons a good peck.

Her name is of German origin and means "Helmet of God," or "Protected by God" and may also be related to the name Solomon, which means "Peace."

No matter what her name means, I am smitten by her and happy to have her here.

And then there is Snow White. She is not a Sweetgrass, she is a white-variant Tiger Bronze.

She was actually named over a year ago, when it became evident that she would not be bronze like most of her breed, and the name just came up one day and stuck.

When I asked Porter's about her coloring (to see if perhaps they sent the wrong breed), they said this variant white color pops up occasionally and they recommended culling her as it was not standard Tiger Bronze coloration.

But I didn't want to cull her - for many reasons.

Last summer she was accidentally but severely injured during the breeding season (it is not uncommon for the heavy toms to cause damage to a hens back when they mount or dismount).

Her wound was so severe I actually considered putting her down.

I'm so glad I didn't. After moving her to the barn where I could administer daily treatments of colloidal silver and coconut oil, she healed quickly. During the treatment process, I bonded more deeply with her.

We hatched all of our own eggs last year, and it was easy to see which ones were from her, with their mostly white coloration. All of her babies grew up big and strong and healthy.

There was no way I would cull this hen.

And so here she is today, the only non-Sweetgrass turkey I currently own. She has earned her place in this flock.

And of course we still have our tom, Tom.

We had two Sweetgrass toms, which I referred to collectively as "Tom-Tom," but sadly we lost one to a raccoon this summer. And so we have only one now.

But somehow he seems quite happy to be on his own with his little flock of hens.

I have never had to worry about this guy, so far he has been nothing but respectful towards me and all of our farm visitors.

And so I enjoy his magnificent display which goes on pretty much all day long, whenever there are females present - either turkeys OR humans.

Cheers -

reroofing the turkey townhouse

noreply@blogger.com (Victoria Strauser) — Sun, 28 Dec 2014 17:07:00 +0000

When you live on a farm with an endless supply of "to do" lists, even in the winter you have to take every possible advantage of breaks in the weather to tackle those jobs.

One of the jobs on our list was to finish renovating the turkey townhouse, which still had some major gaps in the roof and walls which left me worried about both raccoons and cold weather.

The cold weather broke around Christmas so the weekend following found us up on the turkey roof ripping off rotten shingles and the sheeting boards underneath them and replacing them with new plywood and plastic corrugated roofing.

Papa even left some gaps in the sheeting underneath so that the clear plastic corrugated panels would make a skylight up the middle of the roof, brightening the interior of the shelter.

Additional renovations included enlarging the pop-hole door to "turkey-size"...

which came in quite handy a few days later when I went inside the shelter to check their feed and the top outer door latch flipped shut on the outside, locking me inside.

Forcing me to use the escape hatch, i.e. turkey-sized pop-hole door.

See the lighter colored pieces of wood on the window frames? Papa built those to hold the greenhouse panels in the windows. They flip out of the way so during the warmer months we can easily remove the greenhouse windows and allow fresh air to blow into the shelter.

Papa is so clever, isn't he?

{Don't tell anyone, but he saw that was how the original windows were held in place and borrowed the idea...}

We even found a bullet lodged in one of the ceiling struts.

If these walls could talk!

Of course we had help, or rather, company, in the form of Gypsy and Karma.

Somehow Karma figured out how to get into the turkey paddock without getting shocked by the fence.

Which troubles me a bit, to be honest. I don't need any small predators breaching the fence, like anything in the mink family.

But she poses no threat to our livestock, not even the little rabbits in the barn, which she visits often, under my supervision.

It seems she is just incredibly curious and has to be in the "thick of things" at all times.

"Curiosity killed the cat... but satisfaction brought (her) back."

That is her motto.

Which is true - she's been delivered to death's door at least once in her short life, and lived to tell the tale.

Despite all of these distractions, Papa kept his focus on the task at hand, working until past sunset and into the dark to finish the roof.

That Papa, I tell ya, he's something. I am so grateful for his handy-man skills.

So now, let the snows fall and the winds blow and let varmints try to breach our fences.

I know my turkeys are safe, sound, and at least semi-warm.

Cheers -

sheepish dates

noreply@blogger.com (Victoria Strauser) — Sun, 07 Dec 2014 17:47:00 +0000

There's a new guy in town - a black ram lamb by the name of Ty that we're leasing for the breeding season.

Last year our three Icelandic ewes were accidentally bred by an overwintering castrated ram.

{Yes indeed, castrated. If you've ever seen an intact ram with his fuzzy boys hanging down nearly to his ankles, you would not mistake an intact ram for a castrated ram lamb. The boys we had last year were definitely castrated. Apparently someone had something retained that was still functioning despite the lack of physical evidence}

The flock was so surreptitious about the whole thing that I never did see anyone breeding or suspect any of my girls were pregnant.

Until late April when we sheared them and realized with a shock they were all imminently due.

This year we were going to be a lot more intentional about the whole thing.

Unfortunately, we don't own an Icelandic ram yet. So finding one was the biggest challenge.

I contacted all of the local Icelandic breeders that I could find and nobody was interested in leasing us a ram. This struck me as odd, since in the alpaca world that I am much more familiar with, leasing a herdsire is a very easy task.

I was about to give up in frustration when I located an Icelandic group on Facebook and less than a day after posting my request, Papa Bear and I were meeting some very nice folks in the parking lot of a hotel in DeForest, WI and moving Ty from their dog kennel to ours.

On Sunday we put him in with our girls, after first removing all of the ewe lambs from the paddock.

Our biggest two lambs went to market {if you're anywhere between Madison, WI and Minneapolis, WI, we will gladly deliver your order for a whole lamb! Contact us on our Facebook page} and two went into a temporary holding pen until all the breeding is done.

These ewe lambs are so small we don't want them bred by the ram. I'm also hoping that by separating them and holding them in a smaller pen, I will be able to tame them up a bit.

These lambs are wild, wild wild! I can't even get near them to give them the treats that the older ewes enjoy. In a smaller space, I can give them good things to eat and sit with them until they learn not to be so terribly skittish. I can also give them extra hay that they won't have to compete for against the bigger animals.

But back to Ty and the ewes.

Since our ewes bred in secret last year, I was curious to see what this sheep dating business would entail.

There was a lot of sniffing and licking (not licking each other, just a lot of tongue flicking out of the mouth), lots of tail wagging, and occasionally Ty would lift one stiff front leg up in front of his body at a ewe.

He also displayed the upper lip curl, a behavior known as "flehmen response," which is one of his ways to check for a ewes receptivity.

I saw him attempt to breed a couple of times, but it seemed he was too short compared to the height of the ewe to, um, reach the goal...

I've been assured by an experienced breeder that the ewes will assist him in "Tying one on" when they are ready.

{snort}

So I left them to their little huddle and went on with my chores.

I've learned that in sheep their estrus cycle is approximately 17 days, and she will be receptive to the ram for only about 24-36 hours during the peak of her estrus cycle. So she should come until heat every 16-17 days until she is bred. British long wool breeds tend to be short-day, seasonal breeders, coming into heat in Oct./Nov.

Unlike alpacas, which are induced ovulators and can become pregnant any time of the year (which is why you must run your males separately unless you are trying to have your females bred).

The alpacas were not one wit concerned about what the sheep were doing, either.

Which I find fascinating. The ewes knew Ty was a sheep and was a ram and were extremely interested in him, whereas the alpacas knew he was not an alpaca and could not care less what he was doing. How do they know? Sight? Smell? Sound? Pheremones?

I suppose I will never know.

But what I do know is that next spring when we shear the ewes in late April, if we see filling udders and wide bellies, we will rejoice in the knowledge that they did indeed successfully "Ty" one on and soon we'll have Icelandic lambs bounding across the green pastures.

Cheers -

celebrating a birthday at Amil's Inn B&B

noreply@blogger.com (Victoria Strauser) — Sat, 29 Nov 2014 17:06:00 +0000

"What do you want for your birthday?" I asked Papa over and over in the months leading up to his turn-of-the-decade celebration.

Finally I got an answer - "I want to sit somewhere quiet and read a book."

Arrangements were made for our daughter and a friend to come to the farm for a visit and they graciously agreed to do morning farm chores so that we could stay each night at a local B&B.

I didn't even have to think twice about where I wanted to stay.

It was a warm summer day the day I walked into the laundromat in a small town down the road (our town is so small it does not even have a laundromat!).

To my great surprise the door was opened even before I arrived with my arms full of laundry. A pleasant grandmotherly woman greeted me warmly and ushered me inside.

After loading my machines, I sat down near her. She seemed eager to talk.

For the next 45 minutes she told me about her life growing up on a farm, about all the chickens she raised and the eggs she sold, about her wonderful daughter who runs the B&B just out of town, Amil's Inn B&B.

I knew of the inn, I had driven past it on countless occasions on my trips back and forth to the Big Farm during the summer of 2011.

I had admired it's many, large gardens and ached to sit on the front porch with the quilts hanging over the rails.

She told me I would soon meet her daughter who was coming to pick her and their laundry up, and not too long after I was introduced to the innkeeper, Anita.

It was like meeting an old friend I had known forever.

Anita immediately invited me over to take a tour of the inn, and I jumped at the chance.

The inn was delightful, the rooms decorated in a country-style I wished I had the talents to emulate.

We parted as new friends and promised to keep in touch.

Since that time we have had tea parties at my farm under the pear tree, laughing as the young chickens raced back and forth from the rose bush to us to beg for treats.

I have toured their gorgeous gardens, eaten their scrumptious veggies and sat on their front porch with the quilts.

We have celebrated my birthday and New Year's Eve together. I have put my folks up for a stay here.

And now we would celebrate Papa's birthday.

We were put in the room, In The Beginning. a lovely room with windows facing south and west, with lots of natural light, my favorite!

Despite our familiarity with the innkeepers, we were still given the grand welcome tour and were settled in in no time.

It was truly one of the most relaxed we have felt in a very long time, as keeping up with the pace of things on a farm is typically anything but relaxing.

For two nights we slept like babies on Comphy Sheets, the most luxurious sheets I have ever had the pleasure of sleeping on, and dined like kings at breakfast (all homemade, often with local ingredients!).

After a leisurely breakfast, we would meander home (only 10 minutes away) and find all the morning chores done, with plenty of time to hang out with our daughter and friend.

On one of the days we picked up the kids and went over to O'Gara's Christmas Tree Farm and picked out our Christmas tree, then spent the afternoon and evening trimming it.

The entire weekend was just lovely, all of it.

So I will say, if you ever find yourself needing lodging between La Crosse and Madison and are looking for a restful night's stay, wonderful food, and great company, I recommend you stop for a night (or three) at Amil's Inn B&B.

You'll be happy you did. Tell Anita that Gypsy Farmgirl sent you!

Cheers -