Peace in the Valley Farm

To make good on a promise from June 19th, here are a few photos of Jim and Sandy's goat farm, soon to become a bed and breakfast establishment.  It will be a wonderful place of quietude for anyone who needs to return, for a time, to natural peace of soul, and for a hearty breakfast of fresh farm eggs, goat milk, and cheese, not to mention a bath with their divine goat milk soap. It's my location of choice for writing retreats. 

I love the fervor Jim and Sandy throw into their work, resulting in a setting that looks deceptively simple to the casual visitor. But no. Not simple. Except for the house and property itself, they developed the farm together, from scratch. 

Jim built the barn from lumber he sawed himself when he worked at a sawmill. He designed and built a chicken condominium that is the home of any rooster's dreams. He studies the culture of goat farming in all his spare time. He and Sandy entertain guests almost every weekend. They attend goat shows. Who, in our family, knew there was such a thing? 

Sandy is cheese and soap maker extraordinaire. She cans pickles and okra and other southern specialties from their sizable garden. She's the chief mower of the farm acreage. She eats a jalapeño pepper like an apple. Sandy is retiring this month from the federal prison system to go to work fulltime on the farm. She is one beautiful, remarkable, capable, savvy, kind, decent, and hard-working woman. I know this because, aside from her work with inmates at the Alabama Federal Correction Institution, she tamed and married my baby brother, a professional drummer of high temperament. Ethnic Mennonite, you understand, but of high temperament just the same. His big sisters and brother are amazed at his current life. We were town kids, for crying out loud. There's just no accounting for dreams. dkm

 

What? You thinkWE ate that row?

Goldthwaite Kentucky Wonder (Tuck)

I tried to copy Niki's pigtails. 

 

The Nature of Family

After two months away from writing or reading blogposts, it feels a little artificial to start right in again with no explanation for my absence. Be it enough to say my grandchildren moved into my house? Probably, but au contraire, it's not within my nature to leave it at that.  If any reader friends are still out there, I'll indulge in one post about our new adventure, then return to nature blogging, with renewed intent to keep personal life out of it, except as it applies to my observations of the natural world.

Though I hadn't intended the June 19th post to be my last, on June 23, our daughter, Sarah, and her two children, Makayla age 8, Nickolas age 4, moved into the basement apartment of our house—a major lifestyle adjustment for all of us. Evenso, I kept expecting each day to be the day I would post again, but with grandchildren at every turn, it didn't work out that way.

When I retired five years ago to tackle a long-imagined mirage of becoming a writer of children's stories, I knew I didn't have a lot of years left for such an ambitious undertaking. I worked hard (am still working hard) on this project, and advised both my daughters not to wait till the end of their income-earning careers to make of their lives what they most longed for. I vowed to encourage their visions to whatever extent I was able, as my mother had mine.

So we were not surprised—and wanted to be supportive—when Sarah, who was then working in a university development office, envisioned graduate school in her chosen field of visual arts—especially after she had undergone two major surgeries to remove a paralyzing tumor on her spine, an ordeal that hurled all of us into a new recognition of the fragile nature of time vs life goals. Sarah's husband, Thad, is equally supportive of her vision. Sparing you all the wheels that had to turn to make it happen,  Sarah and children will be living with us in Atlanta during her stint in graduate school, while Thad continues working in Florida with plans to come to Atlanta once a month until he can find work here.

Initially, of course, the apartment preparations and daily summer childcare consumed my leisure hours heretofore spent "long sitting" outside, which had been my path to blogging, in turn allowing the regular practice I needed for more imaginative writing. But everyone is settled now, the children are in school, and Sarah and I have a firm commitment to each other to spend the precious school hours pursuing our own visions, she in her basement studio, I in my upstairs office, which I call the Aerie for its elevated view of the backyard. (V.Woolf's room of one's own, you know.)

Now I look forward to more structured writing hours and have high hopes for mother and daughter to achieve their longings while there's still time. At ages 33 and 63 we must get on with it. Enough about that. dkm

Mak, Sarah, Nick, Thad, Oct 2011

New Kid on the Block

What an elegant thing it is
to have a goat named in one's honor.
Meet Kauffman's Debby's Retreat. 

She's just four hours old, 

she smells like a new puppy, 

and she has a star on her Nubian forehead. 

Did I mention that she's named after me? 

Be still my heart. 

I was visiting my brother's goat farm 

in Talladega, Alabama 

on a five day writing retreat. 

How thrilling when they said
if Mama Brandy gave birth while I was there

they would name her kid for the occasion. 

She did, they did, 

and I am honored beyond measure. 

Precious, warm, and sweet-smelling.
She fell asleep in my arms.
But OMG, I'm going for new glasses tomorrow!
Honest, I'm not that ugly or old.

We had hoped to witness the sacred moment of birth, 

but Brandy surprised us by presenting her beautiful little girl, 

already birthed and licked clean

by the time we got to her stall, 

the second day of the retreat. 

Brandy is not your average goat. 

She's a certified purebred Nubian
with long ears and high pedigree, 

as are all her barn mates.  

They have hoity-toity names,

 like race horses,

and they all have nicknames.

Brandy's registered name is

Laurel Oak Apricot Brandy.
Can't imagine how I came away without a photo of her.

She's the color of apricot, 

as beautiful as her chocolate brown baby.

Kauffman's Debby's Retreat

 is to be called Ri-ri.

I think her nickname is as cute as her ears.

My sister-in-law, Sandy, with Ri-ri

Ri-ri's daddy (or sire) is 

Goldthwaite Kentucky Wonder,

called Tuck. 

These photos of Jim and Ri-ri make me cry.

Who knew my baby brother would grow up to be a goat farmer?

More about Peace in the Valley Farm next post.  dkm

Loblolly Toothbrush?

Him again!

Came back to deck in search of more carpenter bee larvae. 

Found previous damage repaired with wood filler, but not yet repainted.

Not even dried yet. 

Tried it. 

Still soft.  

Blegh! 

Stuck to beak.

Back to bark of pinetree. 

Cleaning his beak or finding more insects?

Stoking Up

I didn't  need the radio earlier this week to warn me of the coming rain from tropical storm Beryl. The birds came in droves to the feeder that morning, as they always do before a storm, but they seemed more intense this time.  Somehow they knew they may be holed up for awhile and needed to fatten for the siege.  I could almost see the seeds moving down the feeder tube—in the same way the hands of a clock move.  Nearly every feathered species we have here came in groups.

One bright breasted robin even came to stoke up. I have never seen a robin at the feeder, ever. He didn't actually light on the feeder bar, but took advantage of the seed chaff beneath it. A first.

The tiny brown-headed nuthatches got away with a bit of arrogance because they're so darn cute. Not easily intimidated, they chatted away on the deck rail, waiting while I refilled the feeder. "Hurry it up, woman," they might as well have said. "Can't you see there's a storm coming?" They sound a bit like the squeak of a baby's squeeze toy. Whee-hee. Whee-hee.

Brown-headed nuthatch

Taken today, through the window, not on the day of the supposed rain. 

So when the clouds rolled in, I expected torrential rain, and looked forward to a reprieve from watering the flower beds. The sky turned dark, the air heavy. But the rain never came. It spritzed a bit, making dark spots on the deck floor and nothing more.

If it's going to be another hot summer of drought, I fear for the hydrangeas who are already on their last legs from the past two summers.


And the blueberries, which are just beginning to ripen.  They're usually finished before the high heat of summer arrives.


Low 90sF/30sC today. And it's only May. dkm

Sorry, flowers. You're only getting coffee this summer. 

Click-click-click-click-click!

Found the mystery bluebird nest of last post, but not before days of watching Sir Blue work overtime chasing away squirrels. He and his girlfriend have settled in the little house on the pine trunk afterall.  I was dead wrong about their having borrowed the squirrel's nest.

She is sitting on eggs now and only comes out occasionally, looking bedraggled and small. Is it the stress of growing and laying eggs that has taken such toll on her formerly robust appearance? Sometimes she sits on the doorstep and looks out for long periods of time. Sometimes she flies to a cherry branch for a short spell away from the nest. Imagine how boring, her long ordeal. I wonder if our early summer temperatures (93F/34C degrees yesterday) will affect egg-hatching.  Seems like it might be good for eggs, but bad for mama. The box is in the shade most of the day, but it probably gets hot in there. I'd want some fresh air, too.

 No swing-side observations for awhile because the top of the swing is Sir Blue's post of choice this go-round.  Ever watchful, he sits long and alert on a variety of nearby perches, but most often on the swing.

 I've grown so fond of this little blue daddy for his noble vigilance, I call sweet words of encouragement to him from afar. Watching his valiant safeguarding of his progeny is Moe's and my newest evening entertainment from the deck. He wows us with his protective aeronautics. 

He begins each aggressive chase with a divebomb at the squirrel's head, then follows in hot pursuit after its bushy tail, till the fellow is run off.  His chasing flight is accompanied by a rapid clicking sound. I can't tell if it comes from his wings or beak or throat, but I'm thinking it's his wing feathers hitting against each other. However he clicks, it's an effective defense against squirrels four times his size. They don't stick around to argue, but they always come back.

 I don't think herbivorous squirrels pose much danger to a bluebird nest, unless they've buried nuts in there, but what Sir Blue doesn't understand is that the pinetree is one of their most direct and frequent routes to the playground in the canopy. It's going to be a long and arduous nesting round for Sir, however self-imposed.  

If the first day of divebombing was egg-laying day, and it takes two weeks to hatch, we should have new baby blues by the middle of next week, June 5th or 6th. dkm

Go Bluebirds!

Drama in the cherry tree.  Who knew bluebirds would attack a squirrel?

Earlier observations had given me the impression bluebirds are as meek as they are beautiful. They allowed a tiny gregarious house wren to run them out of their chosen nesting box. They come to the deck feeder only when no others are there and leave the instant another approaches. He offers a quiet murmur of a song—never pretentious or arrogant—more complacent, even timid. They seem the model for quiet contemplation when they sit long on a low branch watching for worms in the grass.

Not this morning. Again and again Sir Blue came at the squirrel, preventing its progress along a branch in the cherry tree. When the squirrel didn't give up, Madame Blue joined in the aggressive flutter and dive-bombing act until the squirrel retreated down the trunk.

I knew the Blues had a nest nearby because he's been ever-present in the yard recently, busy in the relentless search for food. I've guessed she is sitting on eggs, and he's feeding her, but I couldn't tell where.

Not long ago they gave me hope when they investigated the two corner nesting boxes nailed to pinetree trunks in the upper yard near the house. One of those pines stands right next to the cherry in question, but I supposed the Blues chose a more hidden spot when I saw no more activity there.  Nobody has nested in those old boxes for years, I think because the squirrels have chewed the holes too large to be safe, but I don't know for sure. The last nesters were a family of tufted titmice several years ago.




This morning's repeated attacks on the squirrel sent me in search through the cherry tree and environs.  I could find only this messy collection of leaves and sticks. I thought it belonged to a squirrel, but other than the empty birdhouse on the pinetree, there could be no other place.

  Have my good and gentle bluebirds purloined a squirrels's nest? Wahoo! This will be fun to watch.  dkm

Moment of Clarity

Every now and then, in the ongoing attempt at the practice of mindfulness, one is graced with a visionary flash of enlightenment incomparable in character. One never knows how or when it will arrive. The only certainty is that such a moment can not be predicted.  One came to me a few evenings ago when our good friend Sheila, about whom I've written before, and who is my model and mentor in the spiritual practice of genuine mindfulness, joined Moe and me on the deck overlooking the backyard.

It was the end of the week. We brushed off the chairs. We relaxed with an appetizer and good beverages of choice to the tune of evening birdsong. We exclaimed over a steady stream of feathered species at the feeder and in the trees, including the beautiful and dignified pair of bluebirds I knew to be actively nesting somewhere in the vicinity, though I hadn't yet discovered where.  

Squirrels entertained us by leaping and marching boldly past to clean up the seed chaff on the floor of the deck under the feeder, confident we would do them no harm.

               

The evening was mild, the scene was peaceful. Dusk folded around us and we chose to move inside for dinner. We stepped across the threshold into the kitchen. Then came the moment of truth that is the topic of this post. With all the elegance of the successful trial attorney that she is, Sheila turned to me and said, "Debby, your birding hobby is an admirable one, but are you aware that your deck is covered with shit?"

:-(

poo of squirrel

Well, yes, there is that. dkm

Hot Sun / Cold Rain

A Robert Frost poem surfaced today, unbidden, from somewhere deep in my first-grade-teacher memory.  I was thinking about how, in my ignorance (innocence?), I evicted that queen bumblebee from her nest by leaving it in the hot sun, a few posts back, and then about  Julie Zickefoose's story of how she cares for her nestlings in cold rainy weather. Y'all, she makes “omelettes” for them.  Don't take my word for it. Read it yourself. The ends to which JZ goes for her baby birds is a remarkable story. 

These things were moiling I guess, because somehow I found myself leafing through poetry books for a verse I thought was called “The Exposed Nest.”  Found it, wonder of wonders. Too bad RF didn't know about JZ's recipe for baby bird omelette.

The poem is exquisite, full of just-right turns of phrase.  I have loved it in years past. Today it made my throat catch.  And just now, typing the words made me "go all soppy," to quote the lovely New Zealand blogger, Jane Robertson. 

I like to think Frost’s mother-bird did come back and was filled with gratitude. dkm

The Exposed Nest

You were forever finding some new play.

So when I saw you down on hands and knees

In the meadow, busy with the new-cut hay,

Trying, I thought, to set it up on end,

I went to show you how to make it stay,

If that was your idea, against the breeze,

And, if you asked me, even help pretend

To make it root again and grow afresh.

But 'twas no make-believe with you today,

Nor was the grass itself your real concern,

Though I found your hand full of wilted fern,

Steel-bright June-grass, and blackening heads of clover.

'Twas a nest full of young birds on the ground

The cutter-bar had just gone champing over

(Miraculously without tasting flesh)

And left defenseless to the heat and light.

You wanted to restore them to their right

Of something interposed between their sight

And too much world at once—could means be found.

The way the nest-full every time we stirred

Stood up to us as to a mother-bird

Whose coming home has been too long deferred,

Made me ask would the mother-bird return

And care for them in such a change of scene

And might our meddling make her more afraid.

That was a thing we could not wait to learn.

We saw the risk we took in doing good,

But dared not spare to do the best we could

Though harm should come of it; so built the screen

You had begun, and gave them back their shade.

All this to prove we cared. Why is there then

No more to tell? We turned to other things.

I haven't in my memory—have you?—

Of ever coming to the place again

To see if the birds lived the first night through,

And so at last to learn to use their wings.

                                                                                                       -Robert Frost