February - March
February is a lovely month, short and sweet and midway through March before you realize it’s gone. That’s how March zips by before I know it, catching up on the things that I was supposed to be doing in February. I was so excited for egg setting month (February) and egg hatching month (March), that I almost didn’t notice how soggy and cold they were.
Almost. Except when it’s cold and soggy there’s always the evidence of noticeably muckier stalls to muck. The chillier temps meant a delay in the fun of planting and a couple week delay in baby chick moving day. The chicks have now made it to the outdoor baby coop and have completely abandoned their warmer for the roost, even though it made the move with them and I disapprove of the decision.
I guess they were ready. Amin was super ready for moving day, even if I wasn’t. Throughout their extended stay in the guest room, he did keep the snide commentary with regards to living in a barn to the bare minimum, but only because he knows I find the prospect so delightful. I’ve drawn him floorplans.
With all of the rain and cold of the past two months, it’s fortunate that February and March are also big discount chocolate months. Discount chocolate and goat snuggles can get me through even the darkest days. Unlike mine, the goats’ dispositions are completely unaffected by the weather. They’re perpetually happy and there’s always a hop to their chubby goat waddle. Not even rainy days and Mondays can get them down. Granted, there will be absolutely no waddling through actual rain lest they melt, but they’re happy to peer out at it. They say you can learn a lot from animals and all those they’s who say that are right. My goaties are some of the best teachers at the barn. They’re also much gentler in their methods than the pony, who has a more crack your knuckles with a ruler, schoolmarmish, style.
One of the most important things the hooved treat disposals have taught me is that there’s always time for a snack.
That wasn’t the first thing, though. The first thing they taught me was that I’m not really much of a farmer. As in, I’m not a farmer. This was a touch disappointing, because I’ve always wanted to be a farmer. Always. I do vaguely remember my mother trying ever so delicately trying to steer me towards other possible career paths on occasion. Paths with more reasonable hours and slightly smaller quantities of manure. Maybe she knew things I didn’t, or maybe she was hoping someday I would stop tracking mud and manure through her house. She’s an optimist, although she may have given up hope by now. Apparently, so am I. Someday, I was going to be a farmer and I had it all figured out. I spent hours in my room, stacking and arranging books to model the perfect barn design layout. I walked miles along the fence line of the neighboring dairy farm, inspecting and daydreaming about my own future operation. I was ever vigilant, hoping daily that the boy who worked on the farm next door would drive by on the giant tractor so that I could catch a glimpse. I needed to know more about that tractor. It was not entirely because he was cute and obviously the perfect boy as he was driving a tractor and knew his way around a cow. As it turned out, I did get a great little barn, stacked just right. I did find the perfect boy. He doesn’t necessarily know his way around a cow, but he’s cute and knows his way around me well enough that character flaws such as inadequate bovine knowledge can be overlooked. That’s about where I stalled out in the grand plan though, because the goats arrived. They took charge of barn business from there and I haven’t been running things since. In spite of all my research and planning, once those tiny hooves hit the dirt a thousand questions started a race in my brain. Our goat vet is forty minutes away. What if there was a problem with kidding? Who would disbud any horned dairy babies? Could I do it? Was I brave enough to keep horned goats with my polled girls? How would I screen potential buyers for kids? Would they agree to a background check and submit a statement of intent? Probably not. Would my husband agree to keep all the babies? My dairy farm was a fail on arrival. That’s the story of the shortest lived dairy operation in history and how our very nice little buckling became my sweet little wether. I haven’t given up hope completely. The other thing the kids have taught me is perseverance. Head down and a running start, repeat as necessary, will usually topple just about anything.
There’s always the possibility of tomato farming. My fertilizer production system is up and running spectacularly. So, I still plot and plan, now I just have to run any ideas by my supervisors for final approval.
Almost. Except when it’s cold and soggy there’s always the evidence of noticeably muckier stalls to muck. The chillier temps meant a delay in the fun of planting and a couple week delay in baby chick moving day. The chicks have now made it to the outdoor baby coop and have completely abandoned their warmer for the roost, even though it made the move with them and I disapprove of the decision.
I guess they were ready. Amin was super ready for moving day, even if I wasn’t. Throughout their extended stay in the guest room, he did keep the snide commentary with regards to living in a barn to the bare minimum, but only because he knows I find the prospect so delightful. I’ve drawn him floorplans.
With all of the rain and cold of the past two months, it’s fortunate that February and March are also big discount chocolate months. Discount chocolate and goat snuggles can get me through even the darkest days. Unlike mine, the goats’ dispositions are completely unaffected by the weather. They’re perpetually happy and there’s always a hop to their chubby goat waddle. Not even rainy days and Mondays can get them down. Granted, there will be absolutely no waddling through actual rain lest they melt, but they’re happy to peer out at it. They say you can learn a lot from animals and all those they’s who say that are right. My goaties are some of the best teachers at the barn. They’re also much gentler in their methods than the pony, who has a more crack your knuckles with a ruler, schoolmarmish, style.
One of the most important things the hooved treat disposals have taught me is that there’s always time for a snack.
That wasn’t the first thing, though. The first thing they taught me was that I’m not really much of a farmer. As in, I’m not a farmer. This was a touch disappointing, because I’ve always wanted to be a farmer. Always. I do vaguely remember my mother trying ever so delicately trying to steer me towards other possible career paths on occasion. Paths with more reasonable hours and slightly smaller quantities of manure. Maybe she knew things I didn’t, or maybe she was hoping someday I would stop tracking mud and manure through her house. She’s an optimist, although she may have given up hope by now. Apparently, so am I. Someday, I was going to be a farmer and I had it all figured out. I spent hours in my room, stacking and arranging books to model the perfect barn design layout. I walked miles along the fence line of the neighboring dairy farm, inspecting and daydreaming about my own future operation. I was ever vigilant, hoping daily that the boy who worked on the farm next door would drive by on the giant tractor so that I could catch a glimpse. I needed to know more about that tractor. It was not entirely because he was cute and obviously the perfect boy as he was driving a tractor and knew his way around a cow. As it turned out, I did get a great little barn, stacked just right. I did find the perfect boy. He doesn’t necessarily know his way around a cow, but he’s cute and knows his way around me well enough that character flaws such as inadequate bovine knowledge can be overlooked. That’s about where I stalled out in the grand plan though, because the goats arrived. They took charge of barn business from there and I haven’t been running things since. In spite of all my research and planning, once those tiny hooves hit the dirt a thousand questions started a race in my brain. Our goat vet is forty minutes away. What if there was a problem with kidding? Who would disbud any horned dairy babies? Could I do it? Was I brave enough to keep horned goats with my polled girls? How would I screen potential buyers for kids? Would they agree to a background check and submit a statement of intent? Probably not. Would my husband agree to keep all the babies? My dairy farm was a fail on arrival. That’s the story of the shortest lived dairy operation in history and how our very nice little buckling became my sweet little wether. I haven’t given up hope completely. The other thing the kids have taught me is perseverance. Head down and a running start, repeat as necessary, will usually topple just about anything. 
There’s always the possibility of tomato farming. My fertilizer production system is up and running spectacularly. So, I still plot and plan, now I just have to run any ideas by my supervisors for final approval.
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