My jobs to clean, scour, and sanitize the barn. I really wasn’t prepared for this. I only had a vet to ultrasound my new goats on Monday. And I didn’t really need the ultrasound, the goats looked pregnant enough I just wanted to get to know the mobile vet. Just in case.

After 3 of my new goats were confirmed pregnant. I decided to have the vet check little Penelope, one of my original goats. I just thought they would be benign. Weeks earlier I had felt the presence of a couple lumps on her back flank. The vet felt her all over with his big rough hands. He then turned around looked at me and said “ You should cull this goat immediately.” He then explained Caseous Lymphadenitis (CL), which is a contagious disease in goats and sheep. Where typically the worst you would get is a single cyst, Penelope had them on all of her lymph nodes. What was worse, the doc popped one on her cheek making her immediately more contagious to the other animals.

Timothy swung open the gate, and everyone bounded to get out of the barn. I stood there shaken. I was stunned I hadn’t thought about death. Everyone was getting along and they all looked so happy. It was especially hard because Penelope was the only goat I had actually named. As I stood dumb, I was almost knocked over by the rush to get out. Penelope didn’t move at all. She must have known.

The gate was then shut. Penelope and “Goiter” as we called her were condemned to die. I don’t know how they both could have known. We could have saved Goiter, she had a cyst when we first got her, but she was fine now. She stood in solidarity with her little friend. Now with Penelope so grossly infected, and baby goats on the way, this was the only choice.

The hardest part. Was that it was not immediate. Our goat dispatcher was busy and I had to live with, and could not stop thinking about the condemned for three days while they were in the barn while the others were locked out. I couldn’t stop thinking about what they must be thinking?

I had nightmares. Although CL is contagious, it is the open sore that is serious. We mistook Goiter’s cyst for what we thought was a foxtail digging it’s way out through her cheek. If we had only known, we could have saved Penelope and we could have saved me from learning to love both of them.

I had expected them to be my goats, to be mothers to future baby meat goats. I spent my afternoons with them. They were skittish when they first arrived, they now let me scratch them behind the ears and feel their fur on their flanks and backs. They had gotten used to me. That strange girl who liked to sit and watch them do their goat activities.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX(Event Over.)

It’s a casual affair, so don’t wear high heels or fancy clothes. We anticipate festivities starting around 3pm and going throughout the night. (expect it to get chilly in the evening) Bring a drinking vessel and eat-ware. If you want to sleep over bring a tent and have bloody marys with us in the morning.

******* There will be a horseshoe competition. Farm animal petting zoo. Pig raffle. movie. beer, wine, and food. ********

Timothy, Naomi, and Iain

It’s not that I’ve forgotten to write…I see my blog page every day when I log into my computer. I quickly type any title I can into my Google window, just so my own ineptitude doesn’t stare at me through my screen. Well, there is no excuse except my own sense of accomplishment, my own morose sense of a thrashing, and just being lazy. But today is that new day, today, Sunday, I am going out to the farm to pick herbs and vegetables to go into yellow crates to be taken to the city by Timothy to be chopped, diced, braised, fried, and garnished into fabulous WF creations. Today is a new day. Hi, sorry I’ve been gone so long.

Chopping down wood to infect with mushroom spores.

It is so nice to live in both the city and a small town. I almost felt trapped looking out the windows here at the ranch. It is very brown out there, the leaves and mud outside waiting to be tracked in by my rain boots and work clothes.  The farmers market seems to be going strong at the Ferry Building in San Francisco our farm up north quiet. We do have some things out there, but big raindrops speeding from the grayness above bludgeoning them, the near freezing weather arresting them, and the near darkness of our short days bleaching them.

I got depressed. But then I remembered that we all need this time of year too. The summer fuels our wanderlust the winter gives us introspection and a time of rest.  I know myself and I know I need to eat stews, and curries, and hunks of white cheese on sourdough bread. I’ve been making doughy cookies with nuts, and fruits and chocolate. I need the heat from the stove front to keep me warm my fingers pliable. Winter unlike the summer vegetable needs a good oven to coax out its sweetness. And luckily I have that time to cook and look through next year’s seed catalogs.

Took Justice to see Lemony Snickets at the Berkeley Rep. this weekend. My son liked the show, but I think the best part was the Bart adventure there.  Watching the people scenery is better than any show. Doors open at each station and new characters board. We experience a different sliver of the city and beyond. Who are these people? I know my son liked it too. His eyes watching the drunken man who is preaching to the world in swear words. He cocks his head to peak what the man next to him is reading. I look at that man too, and wonder why he is wearing a purple velvet robe under his trench coat?  In a car you are alone, on a train you are a character.

Then I look lovingly at my son, and I am proud because he is growing up all right. He is eight years old. And he is calm and listening. He has what it takes to survive. He is interested.

My favorite holiday is this week. Although I must acknowledge my inner hermit, I love having a house full of guests eating and drinking and having a good time. I keep coming back to this idea in my life. I could host a lavish dinner party every week. The planning, the strategizing, the shopping, and the cooking bring me pleasure and fulfillment. I read somewhere and most likely from some 1970’s garrulous astrology paperback that Scorpio’s need a strong grounding to a place and that they are consummate entertainers.

I’ve spent this year mostly hiding away, trying to figure out what I’m going to do next after the wine business. I’ve felt sad and sorry for myself at times when I see my meager inbox emails. But what do I have to complain about. I’m the one who isn’t calling anyone. I’m the one so in my head that when I’m cornered into an uncomfortable conversation I squaaak and groan like a reptilian dinosaur bird.

I know the direction I’m heading will lead me somewhere brighter. I’m pretty proud of ourselves as second year farmers. Of course we couldn’t provide everything or even much of what was used at Weird Fish, but we’ve learned a lot about what it takes to do it on our own. What it will take us to become self-sufficient which is a goal I’m closer to living.

Chicha and Ginger

I am allergic to every thing. Looking down at my skin while I type, I see a rose thorn puncture wound on the back of my hand that I can’t stop picking and now it’s a glossy red jelly volcano. The insides of my arm just past my wrists look as though I’ve been trying to scratch myself with the backsides poison oak, they are red and purple and madly crawling. I wake up each morning to my fitful scratching And If I don’t stop myself before I get in too deep my sheets are streaked with blood and under my fingernails stuffed with gouged dead skin.  Oh yeah, I gave myself a bloody nose the other day too. Sneezing and blowing my nose like a howler monkey, I blew a hole right through the soft membrane on the right side. I must remember to be conscious and to NOT pick it every time I feel it’s viscous dried blood scab bend as I breathe.  I’m a mess.

Dammit. I forgot to mention a MONTH ago, that we got piggy’s. This is our first real life experience in being true carnivores and taking it full circle from piglet to slaughter. Although we love these creatures and spend time with them each day, they will not be our pets. I have to keep telling myself that as everyone we introduce Ginger and Chicharones (their names) to comments in awe and coos about how sweet they are, or how long their eyelashes are, or how they really don’t stink and smell good. But that’s how it goes. We want to know our food and how good they will taste. The fresh pancakes that Timothy makes for them. The finely diced garden vegetables and day old croissants Ian brings them.  Luckily we have time. We just need to get the freezer. The hardest part of this is that if we can’t eat them. We shouldn’t and won’t eat meat again.

Peeling off the wrap on the roshambus. It’s August now and I’m seeing the finality of the job. I see my reflection from the sun beating down upon my on my back. I can’t say I’m glad I’m doing this. My fingers hurt from pulling, stickiness from the plastic is under my nails. But it needs to be me. The party is now over and I need to wipe those images from my retinas.  For over 8 months now I’ve been daunted by this imposing task I guess I should feel something? But I don’t It’s just something that needs to get done.

It’s still cold here. Summer never really happened I Just hope somewhere in the States someone has nice weather.  Ate lunch in town today. Healdsburg is just a tourist town. Saw yet another sign today. “Notice of intent to sell alcoholic beverages” Another tasting room perhaps. I have nothing against tourist towns. But besides all of the small shitty boutiques of crap that you can get in San Francisco for ¾’s the price. There really is nothing to do here except get loaded on tastes of wine, and eat generic California cuisine.

Some drunken asshole in brown comfort sandals almost knocks me down on the sidewalk. He’s carrying a small bag with La Crema glazed upon its side.  His cohorts laugh loudly in cahoots and bumble into the next tasting room edifice. I feel a tinge of anger bloom. But I just hope they make it home all right.

Here is my question? Timothy’s mom is coming to town tomorrow. What should we do?

Justice doesn’t help out much on the farm either. I have been okay with it, but now as I’m sitting here at my desk still contemplating where I went wrong in raising him. I need him to want to help me more. It drives both Timothy and I crazy when he screams across the yard “Mom… Mom. MOMMMMMM.” We have been trying to train him to just come and find us, that he can step outside the house, and that we would never just leave him alone. It hasn’t worked yet.  And I wish it would because nothing will put you in a bad mood quicker than a kid crying because he thought he was abandoned while you were only at the chicken coop 40 feet away.

Just how do you get them to understand this? My friend Lisa has her 5 year old doing chores. Nothing too complicated, doing the dishes (sometimes), cleaning her own room. I’m going to have to try this soon. Doesn’t more responsibility mean you are growing up? My darling child isn’t so little anymore and summer vacation is almost over. I guess we both feel it. Mom is boring. She nags too much and I think she needs a vacation.

If I could just get Justice to go to bed before 10pm… Already we live in this summer vacation dream state where we wake way after the sun is up in the morning sky. But it’s not that we are not stirring in our beds. Justice always slips into my bedroom around 7am, I stretch out my arms and he cuddles in beside me. If Timothy is around, we talk about things that are on our minds. Timothy’s new taco bike, work, The NBA, what we’re going to eat for breakfast or dinner?  Everything but where we plan to go on this summers vacation… I guess farming is our summer vacation. We are outside every day.  Already my son is brown like burnt caramel. My own skin a slight shade lighter, Poor Timothy our whitey has the illusion of wearing a white tank top against his very very red freckled arms and neck.

We’re working.  Who said you couldn’t work outside during the heat of the day? With an ice filled Nalgene and an afternoon break underneath the giant oak it isn’t so bad. Working with your hands has it’s own rewards like squishing cucumber beetles til that faint pop and green mucus coats your garden gloves. Or sneaking that first small sweet cherry tomato, which we all believe we were the first to taste.

Timothy and Ian got it stuck in their heads that we needed pigs. Two 90-degree days later and we’re two days closer and two to go to having our own swine. At first I didn’t like the idea at all. We haven’t quite gotten the hang of growing vegetables yet.  But that’s the way it goes around here. An idea becomes a swift reality. We aren’t only dreamers; just please don’t give us too many ideas okay?

Timothy called on his way back to SF this afternoon to let me know that a swarm of bees was on the ranch. He thought it might be a good idea to take J, and go look at them. I got a better idea and went and got prepared to catch the swarm. Bees are not scary at all but 10,000 or so whizzing this way and that it can and is unnerving.  Luckily, these bees were amassed on the ground. Covering the ends of two large redwood tree branches making it look not unlike two oversized lit matchsticks glinting sparks with their buzzing crystalline wings.

Dressed in my beekeepers hat and gloves and some borrowed oversized sweats my first attempt I slowly outreached my hands and picked up as many bees as I could and let them fall from my fingers into the cardboard nuc box. I just knew it at the time that I didn’t get the queen bee. While reaching I didn’t take into account just how deep the bee swarm was, I only grazed its surface. As I did this bees flew out from all sides and inspected me and swarmed again. My gloves from other hive inspections had small traces of propolis and the bees enrobed my hands and started tasting me.

With Justice waiting right behind me wearing only shorts and short sleeve tee shirt and my jiggled nerves I decided I needed to regroup and take a break. We went home and I thought better of how I would accomplish my bee mission.

After dinner I had my plan. I would pick up one of the branches and dump the bees into the box. With Justice as my cheerleader we drove back and I made my second attempt. Bop, thunk… Maybe half the contents of the branch of bees fell into the box. Quickly I closed the top and stood a step away and watched. From both branches of bees, you could see them move towards and into the box.  “You did it mom.” Justice whispered. Like a parade the bees marched in orchestration.  Now sitting safely inside the truck. We watched “bee TV” and thought how clever we were to get the bees.

Of course they are not ours yet and may never bee. But tomorrow we will see.

Checking something on my phone at the Hotel Oregon in McMinnville.

Portland Oregon has gotten so foodie that I feel like San Francisco has lost it’s cool. Not only does every lad above the age of 22 have a mustache, he has a fantastically crafted waxed gravity-defying plume of hair extruding from below his nostrils. Sometimes it even coexists with other dandy hairs from his face or neck.

It’s just so damned hip it hurts.

I feel full too. In Portland everyone is eating good food. Good cheap food. Of course there are those restaurants where you pay for white shirt and tie service, but when you see the pile of food on your arriving plate you have to sigh with disbelief that they expect you to eat this much!  Timothy’s cassoulet was as big as a Pyrex pie plate. NO kidding.

We went up North for Timothy’s birthday. We drove around the Willamette Valley and tasted the wares from small family owned wineries. It was definitely NOT the Napa, or even Sonoma experience that is had 600 miles south nearer to my house. Sure we visited the faux chateaux and paid $15 a sip for the opportunity to taste a fine Oregon pinot noir. But you look around the green countryside and you realize that although there are so many new wineries on Oregon’s horizon there will always be lot’s of other crops growing amongst the grape vines, and I hope this never ceases to be the case.

Maybe I’m just being nostalgic? I moved from PDX to start the family winery. Ten years later my family no longer speaks to each other. I gave up something of myself to keep the family farm. And all I got of note was loneliness, a divorce, and a ruptured family with no relationship. But I bring to this a stronger feeling of what I am now. What it means to me to work with my hands and feet. That doing something for others does not mean that it’s wanted or that it is always wasted.

Outside my window as I type this the wind howls through the tall trees that I’m lucky to live amongst. My home is solid. It’s what we make of it: my cats, my son, Timothy, and those whom I call friends.

Thanks for the experience.