Farm life changes us

It's interesting to note the many ways we change when we move from suburbia to a farm (no matter how small or hobby-farm it may be.)

I am still a stay at-home mom, but my life, and my general appearance is very different. I no longer wear makeup (as a general rule), because when you're out doing chores in the high heat of summer, makeup just runs down your face and into your shirt. I no longer bother to grow my nails or polish them, because when I'm working with the horses or cleaning a chicken pen, they get dirty and torn. I keep my hair simple - long and straight, because it's easier to pull up and out of my face so I can see when I'm trimming a hoof or collecting eggs. I have a lot more work clothes than dressy clothes, because I spend so much more time getting dirty than I do lunching with ladies or going to wine tastings.

Our priorities change too. A couple of years ago, my mother asked me what I wanted for my birthday. In years before we owned a farm, my mother would spoil me with a lovely art print, or piece of collectible pottery, something beautiful, but inherently impractical. That time when she asked, I told her what I really wanted was about ten tons of pea gravel to put around the barn to improve the drainage there. She was amused, but didn't really understand (Mom was ever a city girl, despite her father being such a lover of livestock.) Now for gift-giving occasions I ask for things like a power washer, or a new incubator, things like that. No flowers or perfume or jewelry for me, thank you, stick to things I can use! Oh, I still have pretty dresses and jewelry I can wear if I chose to, but the opportunities for such are fewer, and farther between now, and I can honestly say I don't mind a bit.

More on perspective changing

Living on a farm makes one rethink many things. Before we got involved with farm animals on a day to day basis (when we lived in Duluth), we lived in a small house in the suburbs. I was then (as I am now) a stay at-home mom. Our house was kept pretty clean, the only real dirt brought in was by the children and the dog, and it was easily handled. I remember being somewhat pie-eyed when we first began taking lessons at our friend Cynthia's house, and her buddy Leigh Ann teasing me about it, saying "still not used to the dirt that comes with farm life yet, eh?"

Fast forward five years to farm life here in Kentucky, and it's a whole different ballgame. Dirt is just a part of living on a farm, especially in this area of the Bluegrass, where it doesn't snow much, and mud becomes a whole season in and of itself. Rubber boots are mandatory now, each one of us has at least one pair, plus the shorter rubber shoes for when we're not walking in the deep mud of the pastures. It doesn't snow much here, so when we get precipitation, it's Mud Time.

Despite my efforts, dirt comes in the house. Mud in Kentucky laughs at the idea of a doormat.
We have whole separate sets of clothing in which we do chores, so that when we go to town we're not wearing mud, or blood, or feces of some sort (owning animals means you invariably have one or more on you at any given time.) I remember when we had babies in Saskatoon, I prayed for carpeting over our hardwood floor. Now we have carpeting, and I'm thinking of ripping it all up and just going to hardwood (Cynthia, I know you're smiling, you with the glorious tile floors in Duluth.) I had to purchase a Dyson vacuum just for animals in order to truly get the carpets clean in this house (the Great Dane and three indoor cats don't help, I suppose.)

But all in all, one does become more tolerant of good clean dirt. It's almost impossible to keep out, and unless I want to spend my entire day cleaning (I'm not that kind of girl, Martha does not live here), it's going to be here if you come to visit. Just how farm life is. Keeping baby chicks in the basement over the winter doesn't help either, they tend to shed as they feather-in, and chicken dust floats all over the place. It's part of the price we pay for being here and living this wonderful life.

The National Animal Identification System, or NAIS

As a small hobby farmer, you would think I have nothing in common with large factory farms. In theory, that would be correct. But in reality, we have one large connection, and that's the National Animal Identification System.

It's a complicated notion that sounds simple. Identify every animal on every farm, ostensibly to be able to track the progress of disease, and find its source, should it occur. That's a laudable goal, but the manner in which the USDA is implementing the program they've developed is nothing short of draconian.

I don't want to get into a huge discussion about the NAIS, there are lots of websites with excellent information about it, no need to reinvent the wheel. Go to www.nonais.com for an overview of the system that will make your hair curl. But I will give you my brief take on the plan.

The premise is simple. Each farm which has livestock is given a number (trackable by GPS.) Each animal on each farm is given an individual number at birth, and then any time any animal goes anywhere off the farm, the movement of that animal is reported to a centralized database. So if illness in a horse, let's say, shows up at a show, the USDA could track all the movements of the horse, and find all of the other horses which had been exposed to the disease, and deal with them. Each farmer must tag or otherwise electronically identify all his animals, at his own expense (and the RFID chips that are being proposed are not cheap, costing between $2 and $5 each, depending on species.)

In actual practice, such a system would be a nightmare for the small farm owner. Any time I go on a trail ride with my horses, any time we cross over the land of another farmer, or enter any show ring, or public place, each and every one of those "movements" would have to be recorded, by me. My horse would have to have an expensive microchip implanted (which some studies have shown cause cancer, especially in light-skinned horses, of which I have two.)

So let's say I go out on a ride, travel just four miles down the road. I pass twelve farms. Each movement onto a farm, then off the farm, has to be logged (hard to do while riding, but I suppose I can write while my horse walks.) On off, on off. For each farm we cross, and each horse we're riding (we like to go out as a family.) So for four horses, which go on and off twelve farms, that's a total of 26 individual movements per horse (have to count on and off our own farm), times four, for a total of 104 movements. Each must be entered into the central database with the day and time (possibly including minute!) All for just one simple trail ride.

Under the NAIS as it stands now, we'd have to do that with every single animal we own, anytime they leave the farm, (and return, if they do.) And it gets even more silly when it's applied to animals such as chickens. Under the current draft proposal, each and every chick will have to be tagged, with a multi-digit number (something like 12 or 14 digits), identifying it for life. Now anyone who knows anything about chicks (especially bantam chicks) knows there's no possible way to do this. Any such tag would be much too large for a tiny chick. And chickens would tear the tags off each other, even if we could figure out how to get them on. I hatch between 100 to 300 chicks a year, how on earth will I be able to log all those numbers and report any movements such birds make? Even if I had the time to do so, how would I afford the cost for that many animals? It's not like I'm getting rich selling chickens, I assure you.

The program gets really interesting when it compares how an individual farm, such as ours is, fares against the big factory farms such as those owned by Purdue and Tyson. Those corporate giants are permitted to log whole barns full of birds with just one number, under the logic that they all move "as a lot" through the chain from hatch to slaughter. Very convenient (and cheap!) for them.

The system as it is proposed is overwhelming for small farmers. Many folks like us feel it's a move by big corporate farms to put the small farmholder out of business. Many are concerned about the loss of genetic diversity which would come if only the big factory farms were left to raise animals for the food chain. Not to mention the fact that in most, if not all cases, incidences of bird flu are directly attributable to the large factory farms, not the small farmholder (who generally raises his animals in ways which are much more humane and easier on the immune system than factory farming.)

I don't want to rant forever here. I do encourage all of you to read the following blog for some interesting information about how past government administrations have impacted our environment and health by allowing the FDA and USDA free reign with our food and livestock. See this link for some interesting comments, and if you'll pardon the pun, food for thought:

http://henwhisperer.blogspot.com/

I encourage all of you to do some research before you vote this fall, and make sure the person you're voting for is going to do the right thing for you, your children, and (without sounding too preachy), our planet.

The things we do...

Sometimes I wonder, even about myself. One of the things I do here is raise various breeds of chickens. One breed I am working with now (for my daughters) is Silkies. They're cute (if you like that kind of thing) and fuzzy and appeal to most folks. One aspect of them is a problem though; they have what's known as a "vaulted" skull, which basically means they have holes in their heads.
(See this link for photos to illustrate what I mean: http://www.browneggblueegg.com/Article.html)

The problem is, because they're chickens, they get easily startled, and are prone to bonking their heads. Without skull plates to protect their brains, a head bonk is a serious thing for a Silkie, often resulting in neurological damage, and a condition known as "Crookneck." This refers to the tendency of an injured bird to screw its neck around and look up at you upside down and backwards. It's really rather pitiful to look at.

Last fall I purchased an expensive breeding cock bird in order to get a particular color in my flock. The male is Splash, which means he has two copies of the Blue gene, or BlBl. In order to get Blue birds (which is what I want), I breed the Splash male to my Black females (who have blbl, or "not blue") to wind up with Blues (Blbl.) Blues are lovely, a soft grey, and a color I work with in my Dutch as well (modified by the Cream gene igig, which is likely more than you wanted to know about chicken genetics.)

At any rate, I've hatched several Blue chicks this spring, and at least two of them are pullets (young hens) which is wonderful. What's not so wonderful is that one of them has bonked her silly head, and I am now treating her for crookneck. I even; ((gasp)) took the chick to the vet, something I would never do with any other breed. I felt rather stupid and foolish, but he was very nice, and gave me the prednisone I needed to treat her with. I am also supplementing her with B and E vitamins and putting Arnica gel (a homeopathic remedy) on her head, which is working really well. With some luck and time she should completely recover, and as long as I keep her in an area where she won't re-bonk her head, she should never have any further problems.

But I do wonder at myself sometimes. I mean, going to the vet with a chicken is something I never thought I'd do. Just goes to show you, never say never.

Not From Here

My husband and I have moved around a fair amount for his job. Since we married, we've lived in Western Canada, Wisconsin, northern Minnesota, and now we're in Kentucky (where we have our first farm.) It's funny for us, as when people ask us where we're from, it's not an easy question. Neither of us is from where we live now, or even where we've lived as a couple. I think I counted once and since I went away to college, I've moved something like 17 times. So DH and I often refer to ourselves as NFH (Not From Here.)

When you live in a place all your life, you make connections that run deep and wide. They're wonderful, you have family all around you, always someone you can call in a pinch to babysit or help with a project around the house, things like that. But when you move around a fair amount (it's not quite as bad as being in the Army), you do learn to be independent, and that's not such a bad thing. When we were a new couple with little babies, we couldn't call our moms and ask for help babysitting, they were at least 1,000 miles away! We had to learn to make friends, and get along with people of all sorts of cultures and backgrounds, and our kids have too, which I think is a good thing.

Where we live now, people know I'm not from here as soon as I open my mouth. I do not speak like my neighbors (although I'm learning) and they are reminded of it any time we talk together. To them, I'm the one with the accent (but to me, they have the accent!) But we always find a common ground of one sort or another, and often it's something to do with farming. Our community is primarily farmland, although the big city up the pike is encroaching a bit. Many people in this area still set tobacco, even though it has been deregulated as a crop. And there are tons of horses in our area - my husband once estimated he saw as many as 50 horses in one long horseback ride down our rural road.

So there's always something I can chat with my neighbors about if I find myself running out of conversation. Things like, how the hay crop is going to turn out this year, if many of the local varmits are showing up in their barns, whether we're going to get some good corn this year, or have another year of drought. Some things are great levelers, and living in the country we are so much more affected by the weather that we are much more conscious of it, all the time. And being able to find something in common with our neighbors that way, makes the fact that we're NFH just that much less obvious, if only for a little while.

Perspective changes

Living on a farm certainly changes your perspective about certain things. When I was younger, I thought raccoons were adorable, the book "Rascal" was one of my favorites as a child. My mother even used to go so far as to buy children's cereal to feed the raccoons that lived in her yard (even I thought that was a little crazy.)

However moving to a farm has changed the whole cuteness factor for raccoons at this point. Now I think they're nasty, brutish creatures, and we actually trap and kill any we can. Raccoons are smart opportunists. If you leave grain in a big garbage can, they'll not only rip the top off (bungee cord or no bungee cord), and eat the grain, they'll also defecate on what they haven't eaten so as to completely ruin it. Raccoon have small little paws that resemble nothing so much as human hands. They are very dexterous, and can put those little paws through holes smaller than you'd think. They are vicious, and will kill and eat anything they can reach, even pulling chickens out of cages piece by piece and eating them alive.

I don't care for raccoons any more. Or skunks, or possums, or stoats, weasels, or minks for that matter. Varmints who want to kill my chickens do not warm the cockles of my heart, no matter how cute their little faces may be. A live trap and a rifle work really well for me (to be honest, for my husband.)

The year we found them killing chickens (before we covered every pen with hardware cloth), my husband trapped and killed 30 raccoons in 30 days. It became a routine. He'd come home from work early in the morning (he works a night shift), check the trap, kill the raccoon, and take the carcass out to the hill in the west pasture. It got so that every morning there'd be a flock of buzzards waiting in the tree for him to bring them their breakfast. We took to calling that big oak the Buzzard's Cafe, and actually started to like the buzzards for how efficient they were at cleaning up the carcasses. Funny how your perspective can change about things when your situation changes as well.

Ups and downs

Living on a farm certainly has its ups and downs. Sometimes, when it's cold and windy and nasty out, the last thing I want to have to do is go outside and slog around, hauling water, and doing chores. I'd really rather be back inside where it's cozy and warm, and I recall the days when I was a suburban housewife in my little house in Duluth. No real need to go out unless I had to drive somewhere, and there were no animals outside waiting on me to bring them warm water to drink.

But other days, when the weather is nicer and the sun is shining (amazing how much affect that has on my mood), I am SO GLAD to be living out in the country. I can sit down on an upturned bucket, look around over our fields, and rejoice in our good fortune. We have lots of land. Our nearest neighbor is far enough away that I can't see in through his windows, and he can't see in through ours. If I wanted to, I could theoretically sunbathe naked on the back deck, and the only ones who could see me would be the critters (not that I do that very often!) ((grin))

So it evens out. I will admit that spring is my favorite of seasons. Summer here gets much too hot for me, I hate getting soaked in sweat and having to work with it running down my face into my eyes. I dislike the winter less than the peak of summer, but I don't care overmuch for being too cold either. Spring and fall are my favorites, cool enough to work outside comfortably, warm enough not to be stressful for the animals. The middle ground is where I like to be, even when it comes to the weather.