Highland Farm

If you’ve ever subjected yourself to the scrutiny of a physical assessment at a gym, you’re probably familiar with the term “trouble zones.” Personal trainers look you over, discuss your fitness goals, and identify those areas of greatest concern and weakness, dubbing them your “trouble zones.” Generally they are areas that announce to the world your propensity to reach for that one extra slice of meat-lovers pizza and which inch (hourly) toward being uncontainable by Spanx.

From a fitness standpoint, my challenge throughout adulthood has been my thigh and hip areas. They are my caloric graveyards, where Ben and Jerry’s goes to be entombed in my fat cells. I’m fairly certain that my metabolism has worked out some sort of immunity deal with any food item boasting over 13 fat grams per serving. I imagine the conversations between the two to be something similar to this:

Metabolism: “State your name and your nutritional value.”

Food Stuff: “Dove Swirl Premium Ice Cream Bar. 250 calories, 16 grams of fat.”

Metabolism: “Ah, yes. You may pass. You will not be burned for fuel and may dwell here unharmed for as long as you wish. I have your family members registered as occupants of the Lower Left Gluteal Province. Arise, and join them with great joy.”

When Laura placed my leg in its new riding position yesterday, I felt a familiar burn targeted with sniper accuracy into my outer thighs and hips. The only other two instances that I have been expected to engage those muscles and hold a position for any significant length of time with them revolved around a different kind of stirrup……and epidurals and large payments to my obstetrician. It was immediately apparent that, if I wanted to ride this way, I was going to have to confront- and finally address- these areas.

Problems with my legs are old news. In fact, it’s ironically what brought me to riding in the first place. I was born with Bilateral Subluxing Patellae, which is an incredibly fancy way of saying that my knees aren’t solidly placed where they should be. It was very painful as a child, and I spent a good deal of time in othopeodist’s offices as they tried to formulate treatment plans. When I was 9, it was determined that full reconstructive surgery on both legs was necessary to get me out of braces and onto a path of recovery. Thankfully my parents wouldn’t allow it, and had the foresight to know going through that procedure at such a young age would render me arthiritic by my teen years. The doctor, feeling as

Age 11, with "Post Haste."

 though he was out of options, asked me point blank “What do you want to do? What are you interested in?” Without hesitation, I answered “Ride. I want to ride.” I’m sure my response ellicited a few eye rolls from my folks, as they had been hearing me say this for years, even this early on. The doctor responded that there was a chance that the English (specifically English) riding position might be able to strengthen the muscles surrounding my knees just enough to hold them where they needed to be- without surgery. For a young girl who had been stuck in piano lesson hell up to this point, this news was a dream come true for me. Not only was I going to get to ride, but I had a doctor TELLING ME THAT I HAD TO. Even now, I get a little rush off of it. Ahem. Sorry, Mom.

Well, work it did, and with every posting stride of up-down-up-down, my little Forrest Gump legs righted themselves without the intervention of a scalpel. Looking back on the financial requirement for this this new medically NECESSARY (YEAH! Oops, sorry…) undertaking, I calculate that tossing me on the guerney would have been a whole lot cheaper for my dear parents. As long as I was in the saddle maintaining that intense level of fitness, I didn’t have problems with my legs.

In the years since I retired competitively, I have had a marked decline in the function and comfort of these joints. There is no possibility that I am going to sneak up to you undetected on a flight of stairs, as the crunch-crunch-crunching that is audible with every upward step would instantly give me away. I am reminded of other ways my inactivity has affected my physically each time I look in the mirror. My point? The cause and affect of those physical trouble zones have never been a mystery to me- not even in childhood- and this morning, it wasn’t really my butt that was the most sore from yesterday’s experience. It was my mind. Now THAT I was not expecting.

How could I find myself being such a stranger in a strange land while standing in the atmosphere in which I have always felt the most at home?? How could I feel so stripped of knowledge and ability in something I have devoted a large part of my life to?  People say “you are never too old to learn something new” and of course that’s true, but you would expect such knowledge to come through an entirely new venture- not where you have extensive experience.

So I started to look at that experience, and look closely. Little “bings” of light started popping up inside my head, and they weren’t the kind of soft, filtered, flattering “bings” that illuminate and cast a comforting glow on a new concept. They were glaring, undiluted fitting-room-during-swimsuit-season-after-a-winter-of-carbohydrates kind of bings.

Oh, look. I just found a whole new trouble spot that has nothing to do with my pant size.

To ride hunter/jumpers, one must constantly have an awareness of what comes next. You memorize a pattern of jumps, and from one jump to the next, you look forward. For over a decade, I had it drilled into my head to “LOOK TO YOUR NEXT FENCE!!!!! LOOK TO YOUR NEXT FENCE!!!!”  I approached a fence, and by the time I was in mid-air over the obstacle, I was supposed to already be focused on the next one. Additionally, these patterns were different from class to class, so I never knew what feats would be expected of me and my horse from hour to hour.  I trained in generalities to prepare for the unknown specifics of competition.  ”Living in the moment” was definitely not an option- it was all about looking for what was next and learning to prepare and adjust with as little notice as possible.

With my hunter, Fifth Dimension, looking (what else?!) for my next fence.

Until yesterday, I hadn’t realized that this had become my modem operandi in life. Divorce, custody issues, the inherent ups and downs of day to day existence- I have been conditioned to look for the next obstacle. Land, five strides and it’s up and over another wall. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Holy smokes- I’ve been in the saddle all these years, even though it’s been safely stored away in my trunk upstairs.

To summarize:

Prior Understanding: Solid contact and a tight rein between my horse’s mouth and my hands means control and enables communication. 

New Expectation: Let the horse have his head- no amount of struggle and gripping will ensure your destination or safety.

Prior Understanding: Look to your next fence. Always look to your next fence.

New Expectation: Be in the moment. It’s all you have, so you better be present for it.

Prior Understanding: You’ll never know the course. Constantly train for the unknown.

New Expectation: The pattern never fluctuates. Put your effort into improving your performance in what is certain and happening presently and shelve the rest.

Trouble zones are unsettling whether they necessitate work outs of the body or the brain, but I get the sense that the cerebral types are less apt to have quick fixes associated with them. My Google search for a liposuction procedure that sucks out the reflex to propel myself out of the present turned up empty, so, until that option becomes available, I’ll be right here…in the saddle…on the rail (sort of)…in my “zone.”

It’s not rare that I have a humbling experience. In fact, they happen quite often since having children. Nothing brings you down a notch like being puked on in public or having your 4 year-old tell the ex-boyfriend you’ve just run into in Target (when your hair is unwashed and you’re sporting the oh-so-attractive Mountain Dew t-shirt with cow feces on it) that we “have new kitties at home that bleed from their bums.” If a public announcement of the poor colon health of recent feral cat adoptees doesn’t stun you conversationally at least for a moment, then you possess a constitution of steel and I whole-heartedly salute you.

Today was not only a humbling experience for me, but a downright revelation. Some of you know that I have spent virtually my entire life with horses. I started competing on a show circuit when I was 11 years old, and did not “hang it up” until I was in my early twenties. I rode English- specifically hunters. This meant that I flung myself and my horse at solid obstacles in hopes of making it to the other side still attached to one another and unharmed. Sometimes I did it quite prettily and was given awards. Sometimes I did it horridly and was given reprimands. Each day was consumed by the sport and my commitment to it…except Mondays. Mondays we (the training brats) were “off.” Tuesdays we trained, Wednesdays we watched our trainer school our horses, Thursdays we trained again, Fridays we packed, and the weekends were travelling and competitions. It was life. It was the only thing I knew, the only thing I wanted, and, to date, the only thing in which I have ever felt truly and utterly competent (dare I say successful?). Until today.

Like most women of a- ahem- certain age, there came a time when I realized the need to have something just for me outside of my children, my marriage and my laundry. Apparently for me this time was last week. Realizing this was not the challenge- finding something that I truly wanted to do was. I knew that I would never again be the carefree and fearless young adult that beamed when my trainer racked up the fence height. Higher, faster, farther…it was alllllll good back then. There were no responsibilities, no constraints, no worries outside the arena that were more serious than what to wear to prom. Today, there are two little people who would find it a real inconvenience to have mommy’s leg in a cast, and a husband who has made the gentle request that I “stay on the ground” with my equine pursuits. “Pooh,” I thought. “There goes the challenge.” Oh well, slam-dunk easy success and a wall full of trophies wouldn’t be that bad, either, so I turned my attention to the “western sector.”

I have always dressed in Western style, regardless of the fact that I rode English. It’s just who I am and have always been. I’m more comfortable in a Stetson than bare-headed, and I feel a bit naked at the

With Jessie, my beloved Barpasser's Image filly. Jessie was everything I thought I never wanted (note the blue eye), and ended up becoming the "one" who captured my heart forever. Still an english rider at this juncture. Funny, huh?

 waist without a buckle the size of a satellite dish on it. I have ridden Western recreationally, but never received formal training in the discipline. “Why not now?” I thought. It was a logical transition from an apparel standpoint, and come on…those Western Pleasure folks don’t do anything but perch up there and bip around in slow motion. The toughest part of their experience is choosing what color rhinestones they want on their shirts. 

I made the call to Montross Quarter Horses in Chapel Hill, NC (www.wereabouthorses.com) and set up my first lesson for this morning. I even perused some show-clothing websites to see what might catch my eye, as CERTAINLY, with MY extensive background and skill, it would only be a matter of hours until I would trot into the arena and back out with an armful of blue ribbons.

Folks, I don’t believe I have ever been so wrong about something in all my life. In fact, my lesson experience today brought into question everything I ever felt I knew about horsemanship and riding. Everything.

John Montross and his beautiful wife, Laura, have lists of professional accolades that run miles long. John is an inductee of the North Carolina Quarter Horse Hall of Fame, and is quite simply the most accomplished and decorated equestrian professional I have ever been in the presence of. Laura is patient and enthusiastic, and has achieved huge success at the highest levels of competition not just in Western Pleasure, but in almost every other genre of equine sport. They present a united front of competence and deep love and respect not only for what they do, but also for each other, and they do so in such a humble manner that you almost forget the staggering amount of combined ability that they make available to their students.

Western Pleasure, for those of you unfamiliar with the discipline, is a Western style of riding in which the horse appears to be in slow motion, and the rider to be in a sequined and polyester induced coma. The rider doesn’t move- you see nothing, no cues to the horse, no fussing, no adjusting, no nothing. For 40 years, even with my extensive understanding of horsemanship (cough), I thought that because I was seeing nothing meant that they were doing very little. The truth was revealed to me today over the course of one excruciating hour and 14 very painful butt cramps- Western Pleasure riding is like taking a yoga class on the back of a 1000 lb animal. You have to be aware of every footfall of the horse while simultaneously being aware of every muscle flex in your own body. The mental exertion which this necessitates is equivalent to doing quantum physics without pencil and paper. You remember in Harry Potter where Professor Snape is enacting a spell on Harry and is fully focused, not blinking and directing every ounce of strength into accomplishing one thing? Yup, that’s what just walking forward was similar to. It was like I was draining  my Jedi power reserves and using The Force continually- you couldn’t see what the hell I was doing, but dammit- I was doing it. Hard.

Everything is contrary to what I was taught. Leg position? Wrong. Wait, my leg doesn’t go that way. Wait, my thigh can’t hold that position. I’m supposed to do WHAT with my butt?? Ouch. Seriously. I thought I was just going to sit here. In rhinestones.

My friends who grew up training with me will wet themselves at this admission- I never made it out of the round pen, or a walk, during the entire hour lesson. In fact, I couldn’t even keep the horse walking on the rail. The mare I rode was no stranger to championships, and was the most highly trained, sensitive, intuitive creature I have ever had the privilege to learn from. And learn from HER I did. Every muscle flex I made was a cue to her. Tension in my lower back translated to her and she reacted instantly. I even made her reverse direction a few times and I have no idea how (I’m thinking it was gas). I swear this mare could feel if I were clenching my teeth (thankfully, while annoying to her, this was not a cue to tell her to do anything drastic).

At almost the hour point, my butt literally went into visible spasms. My muscles were so fatigued- from nothing more than walking- that I was physically unable to relax them. My buns would not unclench. The mare reacted exactly as she had been trained to when presented with constant pressure in that area- she started backing up. So, there I was, with all my accomplishments, pride and confidence crumbling away from me, unable to unlock my ass and get Ruby out of reverse.

The irony in this moment was deep for me. See, when I was desperately searching for “me” time activities, my prayer to the Lord was to “help me find a way forward.” And here I was, unable to get my horse to stop backing up.

As I exited the arena, I took a moment to apologize to a woman who I had never met before. She was deep in concentration, skillfully maneuvering her horse in a way I can only hope to in my lifetime (if today is any indication of my ability, a lifetime might be an unreasonable time frame). “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve never met you before but I have judged you harshly and unjustly.” I said so with humor and lightness, but in truth my message was sincere.

How often do we judge others who we perceive to be doing nothing? How often do we assume that “ponds with no ripples” have no life under the surface? We have no idea what strength and resolve it takes for some people to just maintain a forward direction and stay on the rail, even in slow motion.

Well, tonight I have a little more insight on that score, a little more respect for things I know nothing about, an acute awareness that sometimes God takes us in reverse to move us forward in a better way, and…..

A very, very sore butt. I’ll take it.

Jeff Gannon of Green Door Design Build ready to rock-n-roll! Smile? Check. Uber-appropriate "Barnstormers" t-shirt? Check!

The email came in one Monday morning: “…Waiting to hear back from movers. How would tomorrow work?” As I stood dumbfounded staring at the phone, my stunned brain started slowly ticking off the things that had to happen in order to be prepare for the move. Tomorrow. Mitch had only 3 hours before he had to be at work, and in front of us was a barn filled to the brim with feed, equipment and, well, cows. Tomorrow? We needed to get the barn moved. We needed to get rolling with some of these projects, and this would be the first of the “no going back now” undertakings. Tomorrow. I typed our reply: “Holy COW! OK….”

So, Mitch and I started chucking things out into the barnyard like we were participants on a game show challenge to empty the stalls in 30 minutes or less. It wasn’t pretty, or particularly effective, and for a while I felt like we were working in circles. By the time Mitch had to clean up for work, we had piles of crap everywhere, a sliver of hope that we could be ready on time and sore backs. It was enough to go on.

The next morning, I headed off for carpool before first light (thanks, Daylight Savings) and Mitch headed to the barn. The next time I saw him, he was knee deep in cow patties and surrounded by heavy equipment. Our contractor, Jeff Gannon, stood in the middle of the emerging chaos with a big smile on his face and a most appropriate “Barnstormers” T-shirt. Clearly, he was ready for this, and his enthusiasm was enough to convince us that we were, as well.

Oldham House Movers were the experts on hand to render this all possible, and again we had the pleasure of developing a genuine personal affection to complement the professional respect these guys already had from us for even agreeing to take us on! Now, in the grand scope of what this company does, our barn was a walk in the park- a muddy park, but a park none-the-less. They are used to multi-level homes with plumbing, foundations, garages and chimneys, and a few stalls with overhangs didn’t even register a blip on their challenge radar. William Oldham is the owner and patriarch of the Oldham House Movers family, and in addtion to having 40 years of experience moving structures, he’s an absolute joy and kick in the pants, to boot. Tim is his son, and can wield a skid steer as though it’s another appendage. John, William’s son-in-law, crossed over from the world of selling homes to moving them, and never batted an eye at crawling under steel beams that were being supported soley by Tim’s deft manuevers with the skid steer. Victor was in 10 places at once, always instinctively knowing what needed to be done, when it needed to be done and how it needed to be done. It impressed me what little conversation the process necessitated amongst their team- it was seamless precision perfected by years of experience.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. So, in order to save you from unecessary long-windedness on my behalf, I am presenting the moving experience through a photo journal. I’m happy to say that there were no accidents or unplanned occurences, with the exception of the incessant rain that complicated traction, so my $10,000 check from America’s Funniest Home Videos will have to come from some other source in the future. With our propensity to take on such projects and the simple fact that I am usually involved in some capacity, no doubt another opportunity with present itself shortly. No doubt.

As you probably deduced from the title, this is yet another renovation blog post that has little or nothing at all to do with renovations, and focuses on the other subject close to my heart- chickens. All farm creatures are near and dear to me, but this time of year draws my focus to the poultry pen more than any other. As spring bursts forth this week, so have numerous slimy little beings from the incubator, and I’m more than thrilled with the initial results from our new machine.

For those of you unfamiliar with the hatching process, here’s a brief little tutorial: The incubation period of a chicken is 21 days. The eggs must be turned several times each day to avoid unbalanced development, and humidity and temperature levels need to be held to very specific points, with the necessary humidity levels changing at different milestones throughout the process. Humidity levels that are too high can result in poor hatch rates and developmental problems. Levels that are too low can cause the membranes of the eggs to dry out, making it impossible for the chicks to pip (break through) the shell and emerge.

Chicks are wet when they emerge from the egg, and need up to 24 hours in the incubator to fluff out to the form most folks are used to.

At day 18, the eggs cease to be turned, which allows the chicks inside to orient themselves to which way is “up” and subsequently “out.” During the next period, the chicks absorb the last of the yolk through their umbilical cords, which provides them with all the nutrition they will need for the first 2-3 days of life. This is what enables commercial hatcheries to send day-old chicks through the mail without food and water. They don’t need to wait 3 days to know what to do with new forms of sustenance, though. The knowledge is instinctually ingrained and immediate. Straight from the incubator, they will scratch at their bedding, a foraging behavior that, once outside, they will use to unearth bugs and other tasty delights.

On day 21, the magic happens. Often you can hear the chicks peeping inside the eggs prior to hatching, encouraging one another. Some hatch very rapidly after pipping the shells, others take much longer and the membranes can dry out around them. Humidity levels are kept higher at this juncture to ensure that this doesn’t happen. A frequent question posed to chicken fanciers is how, when a chicken lays but one egg a day, do they all end up hatching simultaneously? The answer is that incubation doesn’t begin until the eggs sustain a temperature of over 75 degrees- basically when the hen stops getting up off her nest, has her “clutch” (group) of eggs ready to go, and settles in to the task at hand. She will still get up to eat, drink and turn the eggs, but her absences are infrequent and the eggs can usually tolerate the short spans very well. The fact that a hen can accomplish quite simply what it takes complex machinery, thermometers, hygrometers and constant vigilance for a human armed with an incubator to do is humbling, and a tremendous reminder that, more often than not, nature and natural processes are best left unaltered and to, well, nature.

So, why do we mess with it? Quite simply the instinct and desire to raise babies has been genetically altered in many breeds in order to increase commercial productivity levels. “Broodiness,” or the hormonal state in which a hen decides it’s time to enter the realm of parenthood, puts her in a sort of chicken coma. She goes to her nest and doesn’t want to do anything but sit on her eggs- no Nintendo, no reindeer games, not even chocolate brings her around. From a productivity standpoint, it’s not good for business. Picture stoner Jeff Spicoli from Fast Times at Ridgemont High being put on the candy conveyor belt featured on I Love Lucy. There isn’t going to be much accomplished other than the consumption of said candy. Consequently, modern science has found ways to make certain breeds less predisposed to broody behavior. Can you imagine if this technology had run rampant and applied itself outside the hen house? We may have never had a James Dean, and I shudder to think what would have become of Elvis. The moral is that broodiness, in certain circles, is good.

It’s not all science, though, that keeps certain breeds from reproducing effectively. Some breeds just aren’t interested in re-populating their pens (Hmm….now if THAT gene could be isolated in humans, we might be on to something…), and it takes the helping hand of man and machine to keep the gene pool full. Sometimes, all it takes is a surrogate hen with a more willing nature. Orpingtons and Silkies tend to go broody frequently, and they aren’t picky about what they hatch out. Golf balls, other hen’s chicks, kittens- they will never demand a DNA test on hatch day and are just happy to get what they get, any way they can.

Our newly hatched Marraduna Basque Hen chicks!

Our first round of Hickory Chickery “hatched here” chicks emerged this week. They are Marraduna Basque Hens (“hen” is part of their name, and not a designation of gender). I acquired this rare breed quite by happenstance, and grow more and more impressed with them each day. They hail from the Pyrenees region of northern Spain (so conversation shouldn’t stall at their dinner parties with our Great Pyrenees puppies) and are recent immigrants to North America, coming into Canada in 2008 and the US only last year. Their name in Basque is “Euskal Oiloa” (Oiloak is the plural). They are frequently hailed as the “ultimate homesteader’s chicken” due to their hardiness, high fertility, low mortality, good production (approximately 220 large brown eggs per year), dual purpose status (used for meat and eggs), excellent free-ranging and foraging skills and curious, friendly natures. Some believe them to be the friendliest breed in existence, and I will attest to the fact that they are very bold and inquisitive right from the start. For this reason, they make excellent pets. I believe, as do others with this breed, that they will be the next “must have” breed for backyard and farm alike. It doesn’t hurt that their barred (striped), multicolored feathers make them good looking, to boot!

A Handsome Marraduna Basque Hen Pair. Credit: Feathersite.com

Up next for us this week is a hatch batch of Lavender Orpingtons. Orpingtons are a favorite breed for me, due to their friendly dispositions and large, loosely feathered bodies that give them a rather rotund appearance. While Lavenders are relatively new on the scene and still considered “rare,” they aren’t in the league of their Jubilee and Gold Laced brethren. The downside of popular new colors and types of birds is that many breeders will just churn them out for cash, without keeping an eye on perfecting their strains and enhancing and developing the characteristics that made them unique in the first place. The result is a mass of watered down stock without character or vigor, produced with nothing but the almighty dollar in mind. I have been fortunate in my acquisition of birds lately, and am careful to only pull from farms of a like mind for quality and health. Our Lavender eggs came from Wild Horse Farms in Edenton, NC,. I can say without hesitation that I have never seen the equal of these Lavs, and I was excited to have to opportunity to buy into this farm’s flock. Even those of you who don’t harbor a dysfunctional interest in all things chicken (who are still reading at this point) can see that these birds are something special! The picture below is of the parent birds of the eggs that will be hatching here this week. This, my friends, is chicken eye-candy, or, as I like to refer to them, “hot chick pictures:”

A Spectacular Lavender Orpington Roo and Hen. Courtesy of Wild Horse Farms

My next entry will be about something construction related, I promise. The current lull on that score is short-lived, no doubt! Financing and the waiting which that process necessitates will pass soon enough, along with the last breaths of Old Man Winter, and there will be new and exciting creatures with which to fill these pages….like faucets.

There has been a lot of activity in the Acquisitions Department of Highland Farm lately. That SHOULD be good news, and I suppose that it IS good news. It’s just that, at the moment, Highland Farm itself is not technically prepared to be on the receiving end of anything other than a whole heap of work. However, the visions that we have for the farm and the timeline in which we’d like to realize a few of these visions have pressed us into taking action now for things we want to have in place later, and consequently these actions have brought us (and our current abode) to our present state of being.

Planning is good. Very good. In fact, the more planning the better. At some point, though, you need to stop planning and start “doing” (I think my previous post on re-allotment will clarify where I stand on the “doing” end of things). The farm renovations have been less than straight-forward from a planning perspective, and that has made knowing when it is time to “do” extremely difficult. Each part of the plan is dependent upon another, but we are discovering that “A” isn’t necessary followed by “B” in logical, lateral order. There is no clear determination of which domino actually needs to fall first. For example, it would be ideal to have the cows moved out to the farm before the spring grasses come in. That way, the process of acclimating them to the rich, new greenery will be lessened, and I won’t have to haul them back and forth between our properties for a few hours each day (their stomachs cannot handle the sudden introduction of new and unlimited food stuffs, and turning them unmonitored into the pasture would be much the same as turning a desperately hungry, lactose-intolerant vegetarian loose in a Cold Stone Creamery and Outback Steakhouse, but with potentially fatal consequences). We also would like to have the livestock buildings off of our current property in order to give the land time to rejuvenate and recover itself before we put the house on the market. In order to do that, there needs to be fence at the farm to contain the cows. Before the fence goes up, we need to move the barn. In order to move the barn, the cows have to have an interim place to stay. Is anyone else hearing shades of “There was an old woman who swallowed a fly” in this?? If we allot (there’s that infernal term again) funds to the immediate moving/construction of fence and outbuildings and then the home appraisal comes in low, we will have already used “excess” funds that would then be needed for closing of the loan. Conversely,  if we focus soley on the house, we will end up with a residence that we can’t move into, since we can’t move without the livestock in place, and the livestock can’t be in place before the outbuildings are moved, and… Well, you get the jist…even without my excessive use of ellipsis. The path forward is about as clear as mud, and believe me, living with livestock makes me an expert in all things mud related. 

 Any normal person would take this as a sign to “sit, stay and wait” for a clear direction to emerge, but not the Merritts (Mitch, regardless of bestowing that name upon me, will attempt to distiguish himself from me in this regard, but since I alone control the keys to this blog, his attempts will be futile). Even mired to the hilt in our current timing quandry, we summoned the courage (read: funds, stupidity, etc.) to take a few steps toward our future goals.

The primary recipient of our attention has been the “Hickory Chickery,” which will be the non-edible

Week-old Jubilee Orpingtons begin to display their signature white-tipped plumage

poultry side of operations. I was very excited to receive the first members of what I hope to grow into significant flocks of some of the rarest and most sought-after chicken breeds in the country (insert snickers, eye-rolls or mock displays of shock & awe here), and much of my time since their arrival has been spent “ooohing” and “ahhhing” over them as well as worrying  that the wind will blow the wrong way and make oxygen less to their liking. Each rainshower puts me in a panic that a power outage will cause their carefully monitored heat lanterns to go dark, so much so that I’ve taken to knitting tiny chicken pajamas in case of such an emergency.

The fact that you probably didn’t even question the above statement is testimony to how far off the edge of poultry reason many people feel I have gone, my husband included.

Speaking of my dear husband, let me mention that he now shares his kitchen with a state-of-the-art incubator, another of the aforementioned aquisitions. Before you take pity on him and offer up your guest bedroom, however, let me say that he hasn’t been completely withdrawn and suffering throughout this process. In fact, he rather enjoyed calibrating the equipment, and showed real skill with the hygrometers, float valves and hatch trays that now make up the majority of my days. He seems to take as much pride as I do in seeing that the temperature and humidity fluctuations are kept to a minimum for the soon-to-be babies, and was encouraged right along with me when an initial candling of the eggs (lighting them up to show the contents inside) showed proper development of the majority of our charges.

All things that go “peep” on the back porch this spring aren’t priceless. We did take the step- JOINTLY, I might add- of purchasing a large amount of standard pullet (females not of production age) chicks for our future laying flock. The eggs from this flock will be sold for consumption with operations to be overseen by Mitch…or at least that is the plan at this juncture. We are presently toying with all kinds of options for them, ranging from housing design to diet. Yes, you can not only feed your chickens organically, but also soy-free in order to appeal to those who need their eggs to carry that disctinction due to allergies or other health related concerns. Decisions, decisions.

The final big news worth mentioning is the addition of two employees to the farm. OK, so, in reality, these workers haven’t even been born (or conceived) yet, but we are already looking foward to them as valued and esteemed colleagues and much-loved new family members. Those of you who are rushing out to send us baby booties and baskets of Pampers- relax. THESE babies will be excessively hairy and grow up to be about 150 lbs apiece. Still sounds like you, I hear you saying, and quite frankly you’re right. Further clarification is warranted…

 Mitch and I have reserved two Great Pyrenees puppies from a breeder here in North Carolina. Disney’s “Santa Paws” movie featured this breed, and their upcoming release of the lastest installment of the “Santa Paws” flicks will not only feature Great Pyrs, but the actual dogs from our breeder, Rehoboth Farms. They are very proud of their Disney stars, and with good reason!

Great Pyrenees ( so named for their place of origin, the Pyrenees Mountains of southern France and northern Spain) are the benchmark for livestock guardian dogs, absolutely fearless and focused on their work and yet completely devoted gentle giants to their human families. It’s remarkable to watch these dogs work. They actually instinctively take shifts ’round the clock, making sure that all is right in the worlds of their charges, be they fowl, ruminant, feline, equine or human. Woe be to the coyote who makes the incorrect assumption that the giant mound of white fluff is asleep, because it isn’t. Ever. 

Our babies won’t become part of our lives until late fall, but Mitch is already coming up with names. Given the massive size and copious amounts of white hair, he has decided to name the male “Yeti” (which was approved by the board).  He has taken to calling the female “Doris” (declined by the board). The “board” in these proceedings consists of me and the chickens, and since most of the chickens are under the majority voting age, I retain their individual votes. Our human children are not invited to participate in the naming processes, since we invariably end up with things named only after Star Wars characters, Disney princesses or one of the following: 1) Sam. 2) Emily. 3) Cutie.

After the recent and un-timely loss of my sweet Winston, I uttered the famous last words of dog owners everywhere: “No more.” Mitch was of the same school of thought, as we already have a pack that demonstrates not one useful canine skill between the whole lot of them. They are alternatively destructive and heart-wrenchingly endearing, many times fluctuating between the two traits on an hourly basis. Recent losses to fox attacks (right under the literal noses of our other dogs) and shockingly brazen appearances of coyotes near our properties opened the door to the discussion of livestock guardians. Not only did this predatory acitivity concern us as parents of young children, but it made us realize the need for another component than ourselves if we are going to raise small animals on the scale that we hope to. Like centuries of farmers and ranchers before us, we turned to the canine world for that assistance. The fact that such assistance comes in a huggable package with slobbery kissies is just a bonus. 

And so, all this action taking of ours ironically brings us full-circle, as in the end we will have two more Merritts who need to learn how to “sit, stay and wait.” I guess it will be a lesson we can all learn together.

Front elevation, virtually the same as existing.

I’ve also come to realize that not having much in the way of tangible, visible product does not mean that there hasn’t been a significant amount of work and progress made at the proverbial table. That is a frustrating theory for me to embrace, as I’ve always been a “do-er.” Truth be told, refering to myself as a “do-er” is a just a euphemism for what I really am, which is impatient and focused on instant gratification. See? “Do-er” is much more palatable.

We are rapidly approaching the three month mark since we closed on the farm (I refrain from saying we “bought the farm” as much as possible for obvious reasons), and the only physical work actually completed on the property has been the felling of some ancient dead trees and the digging up of the septic system to determine its viability. We did end up being (ahem) “good to go,” one may say, as far as the septic is concerned, so I’m certainly not discounting the importance of that finding. Having it be functional and outside of the new floorplan’s footprint means not having to repair or relocate it, and that alone will save us about $10,000 in the long run.  Those of you who have been through a renovation or remodel  before are chuckling maniacally at that statement, since you know the real truth. No amount of money is ever truly “saved” in this process- it’s just generally re-allotted to some other area that is going to run over budget, and, boy, am I ever gearing up to have a few of those.

Left elevation, showing conversion of side porch into dining room and extension of upstairs living space.

Jeff Gannon and Zen Shoemaker of Green Door Design and Build in Pittsboro, NC are fronting this adventure, as I’ve mentioned before. I use the word “fronting” not to imply that they are covering the bill (Ooooooh…happy, delusional thought…), but to give the visual of them leading the charge forward. We are following confidently behind in their capable footsteps, with Mitch weeping quietly at the rear, checkbook in hand. I don’t think Mitch will ever forgive me for handing over my “idea book” to Zen, since it resulted in a significant increase in the construction estimate. That idea wasn’t included in my book, I tell him, but I still get “the look.” In my book’s defense, there are some pretty dang fine ideas in there, and well, sometimes it hurts on the way to greatness (that range hood IS stellar, huh, Zen?!).

One of the great things about this process has been having our contractor not only GET our vision for this place, but that they are totally on board with it and that we truly like them personally, to boot. Both Jeff and Zen bring something unique to the table, and the way their professional talents and personal attributes mesh and mingle means that they offer so much more than just a service and the provision of an end product. Jeff is gifted in his use of space, and is positively reverent in his approach to these older homes. He appreciates their quirks and details, and nothing- absolutely nothing- goes to waste. He has a knack of rendering something entirely efficient without the sense of sacrifice that usually accompanies that designation. Zen can take a “read” on an environment (and a person, for that matter) in a heartbeat, and looks to reflect the personality of both the client and the property in their designs. She is one of the few professionals who, in the scope of a project, has ever  stopped to ask me what I thought and felt about things. They both have taken the time to get to know Mitch and me individually and as a couple (God help them with that one) in an effort to understand exactly what we want. This is a feat in and of itself, since those of you who know and love my husband also know that he is not exactly an open book, nor is he apt to sit down and describe how he “feels” about things. Having Mitch Merritt spontaneously burst forth in a round of “Kumbaya” and a declaration of his innermost desires is currently running the same Vegas odds as me donning size 0 pants to watch the Democratic National Convention and throw back a Vegan meal centered around brussel sprouts and lima beans. And yet, I firmly believe that they do indeed have us all figured out…at least as far as is necessary for this project. It gets a little frightening to dig deeper into our psyches than that…

Right elevation, showing master suite addition and extended upstairs living space.

So, on this last day of February 2012, what do we have? We have floorplans and elevation drawings completed, the presentation of which was a really fantastic experience of seeing exactly what had been in our heads come to life in front of us through ink and paper.  Some of these renderings I may actually know how to share on this blog. We have the appraisal ordered, the amount of which will determine how every inch of this proceeds from this point forward, and we should have those numbers back within a week. This will either 1) bring me a sigh of great relief and a flood of angel’s song or 2) trigger the most violent vomit reflex that anyone has ever witnessed in a single human being.  We have plans in place to move a 42′ x 26′ barn, fully intact, from our current property to the new farmhouse. Lest that phrasing sound like I’m likening our structure to an un-neutered male dog, let me stop here in my “progess list” and elaborate a bit on that particular undertaking.

Through our attempts to sell our current house last year, we learned that having our property set up for livestock made things a little more complicated from a marketing standpoint. Most people focused on livestock didn’t want a house as large or as formal as ours, and most people who wanted the large and formal house did not want to keep a flock of heaven-knows-what in their yard.  Our set-up therefore fell a bit outside the norm (shocker as far as the Merritts go, I know). Moving the existing structures to the farmhouse would accomplish multiple things. First off, removing the barn would allow the home to be marketed to a wider audience. People not interested in keeping livestock would have the benefit of nicely grassed and open areas to enjoy, while those that might want facilities could design to their tastes on an already fully-fenced property. Second, we would be in a position to gain two structures from one, as we would divide the barn into a run for the cattle and also a framework for the Merritt Ultimate Chicken Complex (you must say this in your best Nascar announcer voice) without having to start construction from scratch. It’s a damn-fine structure and was not exactly what anyone would call inexpensive, so it would be fantastic to not have to waste any of the elbow (and wallet hinge) grease that has been expended at our current property over the last 2 or 3 years.

Rear elevation, showing new upstairs, master suite, dining and kitchen windows. Note the rear of the home now is built in the form of a traditional center-aisle barn.

Now that I’ve presented my case for justifying this procedure,  I will tell you what it entails whilst hopefully minimizing the urge for you to declare that we’ve lost our minds (this entire adventure should provide adequate evidence in your favor should you choose to adopt the affirmative stance in that particular argument, however). The house movers aim to take the entire barn in one piece, overhangs included. The building will be reinforced (refered to in the South as being “shored up”) where necessary. This is done so that it can be winched onto the semi-truck specifically designed for such schemes. Please make note that the barn will be “winched,” not “wenched.” “Wenching” is an entirely different activity which I’m not at all certain is legal in the contiguous 48 states (nobody knows what goes on in Hawaii and Alaska as Hawaii is too damn far away and Alaska is too damn cold to care about for any long period of time). I just want to be clear about that, as I’d hate to see disappointment in anyone’s face if they showed up on barn moving day expecting all-you-can drink grog and corsets.

All the fencing at the rear of our current property will need to be taken down (and put back up afterward, of course), trees at the rear driveway will need to be removed to accomodate the bulk of the building, and apologies will need to be made to the neighbors for tying up the roadway as the truck does a 24, 368 point turn to get the thing rolling in a forward manner and off on the 28 mile journey to its new location.  Once there, it will be driven through the pastures, divided, and placed in two different points before construction begins to revamp those portions into the desired final products.

Sounds simple, right? Well, I for one will be up bright and early on moving day, with coffee in one hand and a fully charged video camera in the other. If something does go wrong, I just hope it doesn’t involve bodily harm to anyone and includes just enough property damage to avoid lawsuits but ensure winning the $10,000 grand prize on America’s Funniest Home Videos. Which, come to think of it, would be about the cost for replacing the barn…and the amount we “saved” on septic repairs…

Ah, yes. “Re-allotment…”

There is very little that I have found enjoyable about the aging process. Gravity claims a new part of my physique as a victim seemingly every day. I would think that the body would be more savvy in this war. I mean, the whole purpose of evolution has been to become more efficient, emphasizing the traits that work and shelving those that don’t. Consequently, it’s reasonable to assume that my posterior would realize that continuing to grow outward only gives gravitational pull the distinct advantage, stop the charge and rethink strategy. So far, my fat cells have been non-responsive to my pleas to regroup, and my requests to meet for lunch to talk things over have, well, not gone in the right direction.

Aging has brought more subtle changes to my world than just the overt physical ones- ones that, while disconcerting, I find easier to resign myself to. My inner nerdiness, for example, has taken on a much more pronounced and “outer” role in my life. ”When did this happen?” I ask myself. Did it coincide with the loss of modesty and dignity (left in the delivery room, final push) or the disappearance of flexibility and bladder control (neighborhood bar-be-que, trampoline incident; see also ”loss of dignity”)? I’m more apt to think it’s been a slow transition that I just haven’t had the opportunity to confront head-on before now.

There are lots of little jokes floating around about the differences between Nerds and Geeks. Nerd-dom is promoted as being centered cluelessly around all that is considered “un-cool.” Geeks are centered around  the “un-cool” as well, but differ from Nerds in that they CHOOSE to align themselves that way, wear obscure-reference graphic t-shirts and command high paychecks. My lack of technical know-how and a paycheck in any form prevent me from being classified as a true Geek, but I suppose my complete and total awareness of the dorky nature of many of my undertakings puts me at least in their honorary ranks. Let’s face it, my current project of becoming a steward and breeder of rare poultry types stymies a lot of the people I discuss it with. More often than not I’m met with the same glazed-eyes-half-opened-mouth stares that say “Seriously? You don’t look like the type” and are reminiscent of ones received years ago by college acquaintances when they showed up at the local tattoo parlor in their pearls.

Nowhere was I more aware of this reception to my ideas than in the office of our wonderful contractor. We had a tremendous 3 hour meeting this past week to discuss the plans and to make some adjustments before the final renderings are done. We turned our attention to the outbuildings we plan to incorporate into the farm, and focus fell specifically on the chicken yard, or, as they refer to it “The Merritt Ultimate Chicken Complex.” To call the creation a “coop” would be to call the Taj Mahal a “love nest.” This thing is 36′ long with multiple fully-covered runs, nesting boxes with automatic “roll out” bottoms for eggs which can be accessed inside the work room, which, in turn, is wired for incubators, brooders and holding areas. It’s hard-core and exactly what I envisioned for launching that portion of the farm’s business appropriately. See? See that look you just got after reading about it? That’s exactly what I’m referring to.

During the meeting, each question led to another peeling back of my onion layers of nerdiness.

“Why are the ceilings lower here?”

“Because that run is for Orpingtons and Orpingtons can’t get more than 18 inches vertically.”

You get the gist. There was a lot of laughing, myself included, but I left there with the clear realization that somehow, somewhere, I had become a nerd– a very informed, focused, proud-enough-to announce-it-on-my-license-plate nerd. And you know what? It feels pretty darn good.

Now all I need is that paycheck and a few graphic tees.

If you grew up in Arcadia, California as I did, those words would have special meaning to you. Having Santa Anita Race Track in the figurative backyards of the community’s children made Thoroughbred racing a part of our childhoods in one way or another. That’s not to say I was handicapping races in the 3rd Grade (it was the 4th), but the sights and sounds of racing seasons will remain with me forever. The most predominant of these memories surrounds the echoing voice of the track announcer, Trevor Denman. His high-pitched, nasally British clip could be heard miles away as the starting gates snapped open and he called out his signature line: “The flag is up, and…away they go!”

Fast forward more years than I care to count, and I am most certainly not in Arcadia anymore. My travels have led me all over our great country and a good portion of our neighbors to the north’s as well, but North Carolina ended up becoming home. Most recently, “home” has taken the form of a 112 year-old farmhouse that my husband and I purchased in December, 2011, with the intent of completely renovating it back to its former glory. While the idea of finding a larger project property with an old home was not a new one, the thought of finding one at this juncture of our lives was. My husband, Mitch, has researched all sorts of agricultural avenues over the last several decades, and always planned to do something towards retirement, never thinking that an opportunity like this would come along while we were still “in the trenches” with jobs and young children. We have livestock and poultry at our current home now, but are stuck within the confines of an HOA and a decidedly urban community, even though the subdivision is considered to be in a “rural” area of town.  Our current 4500 square foot home was built for entertaining and excess, and, while lovely, is admittedly at odds with everything he and I consider the ideal.  At currently almost half that number, the farmhouse is smaller on size, but big on attributes that we hope will help us realize our dream of simplifying our existence from stem to stern.

“Simplifying” does not mean, in this case, setting ourselves up for less work- quite the contrary, actually. One does not have to be a farmer oneself to have an understanding that such an undertaking is constant work.  The very term “farm” is virtually synonymous with arduous labor and calloused hands. Our goal, however, is to streamline facilities and processes to work smarter, not harder, while growing small branches of business we hope to sprout from the property. Ironically, we aim to do this by taking certain aspects of technology back several generations.  There is true genius in most antiquated agricultural practices- a veritable treasure trove of concepts whose beauty comes not just from the brilliance of good ol’ fashioned ingenuity, but from the sheer simplicity of the idea itself. Fences, for example: Living fences made from plants such as the Osage orange were promoted by George Washington as being the fence of choice. With a rapid rate of growth and intimidating thorns, these fence lines are not only aesthetically pleasing (the trunks are woven together by hand over the course of 4-5 years) and functional (being once described as “horse high, bull strong and hog tight”), but yield an inedible fruit that is everything from an incredibly effective and marketable interior pest control to a medium used in arts & crafts (also marketable). Something like this speaks to me, being that we spent over $23,000 on fencing 2 years ago and I still have to chase my intellectually challenged dog down the street in my pajamas more frequently than I care to admit. When all is said and done, I hope to be able to say that we have stayed true to that old adage of “work smarter, not harder” and have completely rehabilitated ourselves from our prior mantra of ”work incessantly and accumulate massive vet bills.” One can dream…. 

“Done,” however, is a long way off (with an estimated 5-6 months of construction on the house alone), and reels me back in to my inital thought for this post. Our first visible step in the renovation process began today with the felling of a 100 year-old oak tree at the rear of the home. It was completely dead, and we had no choice but to remove the behemoth. It will not be forgotten, though, as we plan to mill the lumber into seating for the dining room.  So, with the resoundingly final thud of several thousand pounds of crackling timber and the end of one magnificent life, comes the beginning of the rest of ours.

As Trevor Denman would say, “And…away they go.”