It all started when I killed my tiller. OK, so maybe it's not a mortal wound, but it doesn't exactly till, either. When the thingy that holds the roundy part in place fell completely off as  I rammed gently bumped the cinder blocks at the end of a row, I knew I was in trouble. 

Having been raised in the inner city, and knowing little about gardening that I didn't read in a book, I keep quiet and learn a lot from watching my friends. When I noticed two weeks ago that my friend-who-was-born-with-a-hoe-in-his-hand, had his garden turned over, the "Aha!" moment came, and I knew that it was the appointed time. I still couldn't tell you the last frost date for my area, so I'll listen and learn when to sow my collards, too. 

After killing breaking the tiller, my first thought was that my coveted outside time was over, and, after a winter's worth of being cooped up inside, this was no small matter. Crushed, I instantly started thinking of the steps involved in repairing the tiller: load up the tiller, spend half a day getting everyone shoed and jacketed, drive into town, find the part, escort seven children to a public restroom, then drag everyone home only to discover that I didn't get the right part. Then I was sure the broken part would cost thousands of dollars, have to be special ordered, take months to be delivered, and gardening season would be over before it ever got started at my house. 

Once I caught myself and called this thought process by it's rightful name, Worry, I repented, and began to look for the bright side of not having the tiller available. My garden is not terribly labor-intensive, anyway. It is a raised-bed (read that: very soft soil) Square Foot (read that: very tiny) garden. I could always  just turn over the soil with a hoe. Even though tilling was kinda fun, it was still a little more like breaking a wild pony than I preferred. So this would be an enjoyable form of exercise with immediate tangible results (read that: instant gratification).

Anyway, I am the girl who is always lamenting about the ridiculous ironies in our culture. What sense does it make to get a desk job, determined to 'not work as hard as my parents did', then buy a riding lawnmower because you don't have time to cut grass, then a health club membership to 'get some exercise'?  It is like simultaneously running the air conditioner to cool air on a hot sunny day and the clothes dryer to heat air. Or driving to the park to take a walk. Or sending Momma to work to be able to pay for private schooling and convenience meals (and therapy because of the stress). Simpler is better.

So I pulled out my hoe.

About half-way through my methodical hand turning of the garden I started to wish I had never been so smug regarding the aforementioned inconsistencies. At our house, you lose any right to fuss about stuff that you aren't doing something about (read that: Don't talk the talk if you aren't willing to walk the walk). Just as I determined to suck it up and smile my way through to the end, Mr Visionary showed up with the exact piece needed to repair the tiller. When he had the thing perfectly fixed and tested in less than five minutes, I knew two things. First, my worrying had been way out-of-hand. The piece cost $.68, and was easily picked up on a routine errand while Mr. Visionary was already in town. Second,much as I would have liked to should finish it by hand,  I would have go against my high ideals resigned determination and use the tiller to finish the garden.

After all, I wouldn't want to offend Mr. Visionary.

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I surely would have thought the days of women swooning were over. What with the 1960’s having done their upheaval and corsets, too, being a thing of the distant past, fainting was, in my humble opinion, only for the overly dramatic. Recent events however, have caused me to rethink my position.

Not having bounced back from this stomach virus quite as quickly or as well as Mr. Visionary and the children, my felt need was rest. Still quite dizzy upon standing, I was hoping to be horizontal most of yesterday, and school was conducted from Mom’s bed.  Queasiness was making the thought of preparing food less-than-delightful, so when our dear friend (who is now even dearer) Miss Elizabeth brought us soup for lunch, my gratefulness to her and the Lord abounded.

Lunch over, and naptime graciously looming on the horizon, a knock at the door alerted me that perhaps my plans were changing. Greeted by a large mass of raw-and-dripping meat, I learned that Old Mr. Clark had been hunting.  His I-come-bearing-gifts grin alerted me that perhaps I should delegate the ‘stroll on over to the back of the truck’ to the boys. Neighborliness having gotten the better of me, I helped him hang our gift-deer in the woodshed and managed to stomach a few instructions about how to proceed from here, all the while purposing to not look the thing in the mouth.

After watching the Flower Child scratch the horns and coochie-coo at this dangling dead deer, I knew I needed to call in reinforcements. A frantic plea to Mr. Visionary to get home speedily, a cold washcloth to my face, and a parenting-by-speaker-phone conference with Dad and the boys to “not talk about it to Mom” were stop-gap measures to tide me over until said help arrived.

With instruction from Old Mr. Clark, Dad and the kids skinned the deer after dinner, but the rest (cutting, packing) was left until this morning. Before breakfast.

There’s been a lot of under-the-breath muttering in my house recently. When Mr. Clark left, I was reminding myself that ‘the blessings of the Lord, it maketh rich, and he addeth no sorrow with it’.  When I pined for that nap that was not to be, I repeated, “…as thy days, so shall thy strength be”. Overheard just this morning: “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me…I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me… I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me…all things. ..I can do this…I can do this…even (gulp) this…”

Before leaving, Old Mr. Clark mentioned one last thing,"If any strangers show up and leave you deer, I sent 'um. I told four or five of my buddies that y'all wanted venison".

Suddenly even those last nine pounds of pregnancy weight seem surmountable.

P.S. With strict instructions to not photograph anything gross, Literary Lady got a few cute shots I was going to post. Unfortunately, neither homestead nor homeschool blogger will allow it today. Go figure.

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Deep sigh.


It's over. I was truly dreading it, knowing that the dispersing of such information could very well cause us to be the laughing stock of the church, I didn't want to tell.


When you go to church with almost all farmers, especially folks who were raised on a farm, eating, sleeping, breathing farm life, you just know they giggle at you when you make mistakes. A dear sister from church who runs a feed store has visibly reddened and had to exercise tremendous amounts of self control over some of my questions to her.  She's a patient woman. She manages to maintain her composure enough to educate me even when her coffee is attempting to come out of her nose.


But it didn't happen. Actually, it never has. As much as I anticipate it, it never actually occurs-they never laugh. Instead, our revealing the newest of our dumb mistakes educational experiences simply spurs our friends'  stories of their early years on their own farms, when they were just learning .


Case in point: we were recently expecting our Jersey dairy cows to calve. I was joyfully expecting their arrival, and the ensuing flood of milk, butter, ice cream, cream cheese, yogurt, ice cream, kefir, ricotta and ice cream that we would have once more. Did I mention ice cream? (Our children used to have asthma and ezcema, and can't have pasteurized milk, so we've been without dairy during the dry period.)

When we recently announced that we found out our cows are not even pregnant, lots of folks were disappointed with us, but they assured us that it was a common mistake. Not having them checked by the vet after breeding to be sure they were pregnant is an ommission that apparently everyone has made. But only once.


'Well, I guess you won't be making that mistake again!'


No, I can assure you, we will not make that mistake again.


We'll have a list of plenty of others to work on...

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While I've never read the book or seen the movie, I am vaguely familliar with the story of The Horse Whisperer. Sounds like an interesting story, and I may read it someday (or perhaps not). But for now, our family has stumbled into the lead roles of a real-life version of the spin-off.  It has been given a working title of The Cow Watchers.

Bred at the same time, our two Jersey cows are expecting calves soon any minute, and we are more-than-a-little-excited. Our first experience with calving last summer was less-than-perfect. In fact, we missed the whole thing. Since our newly-bought Millie delivered three months earlier than we were expecting, we woke up to find the calf instead of getting to watch the birth. We have high hopes for this go-round.

Just like human Mommas, we have an idea when to expect the calves, but don't know for sure when they will arrive. Enter the Cow Watchers. We have spent much time observing these ladies, scrutinizing every minute change in their anatomy and behavior. We have discussed, speculated and wondered aloud (but not at dinner). In true Johnny Bench fashion, I have even squatted behind my cows, gazing so fixedly at pieces-parts that I have at times blushed and felt the need to aplogize to my ladies.

Life just never seems to turn out like you imagine it. When I was saved in high school (Thanks, Mike!), I was not-so-affectionately dubbed the Head-Chick-Gone-Jesus-Freak. I seemed to my friends then as changed as I seem to myself now. I cannot believe I am living this life. I cannot believe I am enjoying it so much. God is good. Life is good. And suprisingly enough, cows are fun.

Now, I have to go watch. I hope I remember my lines...

Pardon Me, Ladiies...

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During the time Jonah was angry with God, the Lord made a plant to grow up during the night to shade him. When the Lord saw fit to have the plant wither and die the next day, Jonah was even angrier with God.  While our current circumstance is not exactly parallel to Jonah's, the similarities are sure.

Our barn cats are a needful and effective addition to our farm. Without their proficiency in eliminating mice and moles, we would be overrun with snakes. When the cats step out of the realm of mice and moles, and into birds and, as in the present case, baby squirrels, our Deuteronomy 6 role changes. Instead of confidently proclaiming God's wisdom and ways, we quietly ponder the mysteries of His will, praising Him with certainty in the former, and by faith in the latter.

Yesterday afternoon our children rescued a baby squirrel from one of the barn cats. They researched how to nurse him back to health, and exuded all that is tender care and concern for him. They optimistically ignored the statistics that showed squirrels rarely surviving cat encounters. They prayed for his recovery, and in a mother's humble opinion, did everything possible to ensure his return to health.

His death late last night was a hard blow to the children. After the funeral, it should prove to be a hard lesson as well. "Then said the Lord, Thou hast had pity on the gourd, for the which thou hast not labored, neither made it grow; which came up in a night, and perished in a night" Jonah 4:10. When their compassion for the squirrel is compared to their compassion for their siblings, my prayer is that they are equally grieved.

The Flower Child, who never met a baby or a critter she didn't love...

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He taught me a lot about men and women-even though he was neither. Male-yes, human-no. Mr. McGillicutty was my first experience with roosters. And he was my hero.

When we ordered our billion Buff Orpington hens and roosters from the hatchery, Mr. McGillicutty was the free exotic breed chick. Being much larger than the others, he commanded their respect, and being distinct in appearance, he garnered our attention. His two-stepping-don't-make-me-come-after-you dance kept the hens in line, and his larger-than-average spurs governed the roosters (and us).

I marveled to watch Mr. McGillicutty in action, caring for his flock. As harsh as he may have seemed, he truly was conscientious in meeting their needs. Whenever he'd find a tasty morsel, he called the flock, allowing them to enjoy the treat while he remained vigilant in watching for dangers.  When the security of the flock was in any way threatened, he quick as lightning herded the ladies to safety, while he stood firm, ready to face the enemy. 

And face the enemy he did, many times. Even when the enemy was us. Standard procedure with Mr. McGillicutty involved not stepping foot out of the house without a large stick. We kept an assorted supply by the back door since his patriarchal ways demanded that we be armed at all times. The neighbors never did quite get used to seeing me hanging out laundry with a stick in one hand and clothespins in the other, and our UPS driver was sure he'd never seen anyone meet him at the sidewalk "packing that kind of heat". 

It seemed a fair trade for the safety he provided for our hens. We also couldn't have asked for better training ground for our boys young men. Every time the girls went outside, the boys went along, weapons in hand, and formed a protective barrier from Mr. McGillicutty. Their opportunities to put into use their mental preparations for war and chivalry abounded. Mr. McGillicutty helped our guys put their sticks where their mouths had been. Our guys grew from green and boastful to experienced and humble with Mr. McGillicutty's assistance.

Mr. McGillicutty is gone now, but I still hear the children speak of the lessons to be learned from the roosters and hens. We watch the hens and are aware that they trust their roosters and know they will provide for and protect them. We watch the roosters and understand responsibility and authority.  

When we watch our boys, we are proud to know that our security will one day be in their hands.

When we watch them whack themselves with their own stick, we're thankful that this is not that day.

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It is a very rare shade of purplish-blue. Picture pomegranate mingled with concord grape juice. While it would be beautiful on an exotic fruit, it is not terribly flattering on my face. Delightfully I'd go back to my normal coloring, but I cannot. At least not yet.

I have been holding my breath for approximately three weeks straight-waiting...watching...and anticipating sprouting seeds.  My dreams for these seedlings are considerable, hence there is a lot riding on their viability. This is the year of my first real garden, and I have dreamt of this day for...well, forever. I am not looking for a learning experience year-I want prolific, vigorous plants overflowing with abundant harvests. I want something to look back on during the rough seasons that will invariably come, and recall that this can go well.  That gardening is worth the effort.

Is this realistic? Probably not. But it is my heart's desire. Well, that, and I want lots of cucumbers to subdue my craving for homemade pickles.

Not being an experienced gardener, concerning the care of my seedlings I have resorted to the thing I do know: Mothering. I have checked their bottoms for too much wetness, made sure they were warm enough, covered their heads, checked their temperature, and made sure they were getting plenty of sunshine and fresh air. When those measures were not producing results, I sung to them, prayed for them, and even read the seed packages to them: "This says, 'Heirloom seeds. Mexico Midget Tomato...65 days...start seeds inside 6 weeks before last spring frost...Soil temperature 72-80'F...Transplant outside 1-2 weeks after last spring frost'...So...why...aren't...you...sprouting?"

I cannot explain why some are not sprouting. Despite having done everything "by-the-book", I have a sinking feeling that there is one last thing I need to do. Be patient and wait. I am realizing that this really is just like mothering. "So then neither is he that planteth any thing, neither he that watereth; but God that giveth the increase" 1 Cor. 3:7. We plant the seeds and water in faith, knowing that the results are in His hands.

So I'll wait, and take a breath...but I'll sneak a few extra seeds in, too.

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I think she has something against me. There can be no other logical explanation for her moodiness. Outside of the time I whacked her behind after she slammed me into the iron horse stall gate (blush), I cannot recall ever offending her.  Possibly she is easily offended and harboring ill feelings based on some offense of which I have no memory. Perhaps she is emotionally scarred. Or maybe she is just a sexist.

My paranoia has been growing the last few months, in direct correlation to her schizophrenic performances. There is a distinct contrast in the way this lady behaves with me alone, versus Mr. Visionary. (Note to Mr. Visionary: I am not making this up.)

Surely this experience is not original, as I am sensing a bit of deja vu. (Play Twilight Zone music here...) Haven't I said this before? "They act differently when you are not here." Oh yes...the children. (Note to Mr. Visionary: I am not making this up.)

Millie-The-Heifer likewise has a split personality. This cow is the model of the contented dairy cow persona when Mr. Visionary is around. She quietly follows him, placidly gives him her best 'carton poses', and I can attest to actually having seen her smile at him. She just hates women, that's all.

During my sweet, servant-hearted (eyelashes blinking) attempts to relieve Mr. Visionary from the milking chores, Millie-The-Heifer becomes militant. Her reputation for kicking is world-renown, hence the use of not one, but two kick stops. These are presumably placed precisely on the acupressure points for schizophrenia inducement. The madness which commences two seconds later, entails widening eyes, flared nostrils, and attempts to buck off the stops. In reality, all that happens is that she slams that sweet, servant-hearted one into the stall doors. This is where I lose my testimony and threaten the freezer.

Enter the Cow-Whisperer. "The sweetness of the lips increaseth learning" (Proverbs 16:21). "A soft answer turneth away wrath: but grievous words stir up anger" (Proverbs 15:1). Just as the Lord enables me to be kind when I want to be grouchy and to speak gently when I desire to be angry with my family, He can enable me to be kind even to this cow.

I will ask for His help in dealing with Millie. By His grace I will learn what to do in order to win her over. I will even request (and heed) Mr. Visionary's advice. 

But I will not whisper in her ear.

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There's a conspiracy going on around our farm. Somebody is holding out on me in the egg department. A lot of somebodies.

I got oh-so spoiled when our first group of hens started laying. I had billions of hens, and billions of eggs to go along. When you're feeding a crew three meals a day cooking from scratch, you need a boatload of eggs. Boy, did we live it up! Eggs for breakfast every morning, quiche for dinner some nights, custards for dessert, not to mention mine and the children's favorite: thick homemade eggnog.

Last spring we lost 24 hens and three roosters in one fell swoop when a pack of wild dogs came running through the farm in the middle of the day (when all the chickens were free-ranging). Now that one hurt. To make up for the loss, we picked up a few dozen pullets from a local store. 

Our first encounter with hens-on-strike was last summer after the new hens had gotten integrated in to the clan. I turns out that the new ladies must have brought lice into the coop.  We didn't figure out why the hens were getting so skinny until it was really bad.  Since we didn't want any creepy chemicals covering our critters (catch the alliteration?), we treated the lice with diatomaceous earth. The plan was succesful, and their laying pattern picked back up again.

Our second encounter is happening now. My ladies are molting. I have never seen such ugly chickens in my life. (I know, being a city kid, that doesn't say much.) Those sweet, puffy mommas have recently become jagged, scrawny creatures that will never grace the cover of any magazine. I have been rationing eggs fiercely the last month or so, because it appears that molting and being on strike go together.

Since hope springs eternal even when grocery budgets do not, I'm on the lookout for an increased harvest from the nesting boxes. "Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen" Hebrews 11:1.

Things not seen, huh? I think eggs qualify there.  

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Contests are good. Especially when the winning entry gets to actually perform their idea in real-life. The children are preparing their submissions with anticipation.

The view from my bedroom window is a section of sparse woods, past that is the riding ring and barn. The fact that this property has a riding ring  was supposed to be a great selling point. Even I thought, "Oh, wow, we could have our own riding ring" while considering this house. The fact that I truly had no idea for what one uses a riding ring didn't matter. The fact that we we don't have horses, nor are horses in any future I imagine for us, was also inconsequential.

When Mr. Visionary asks why I am not interested in horses, I answer in two simple words. "Christopher Reeve." Of course there are more reasons, including the fact that for us, horses do not pull their own weight (pun intended) on a farm. We spent three times what we paid for our family van on a tractor so we wouldn't need horses. I'm only interested in critters that give something back to our livelihood somewhere in reasonable proportion to the amount of work involved in their care. For example, our cows and chickens give us meat, eggs, milk and manure-in-abundance  in return for our labor. Sometimes manure in the middle of my labor (milking) but that is a story for another time. In any  case, horses are out for now.

Which brings me again to that riding ring. It sits unused, while we pay taxes on it, and it takes up space on our farm. The question arose, "How can we utilize the riding ring?", hence, the contest. The plan is to get us thinking creatively first, then to think in terms of profit. When the first contest is over, we'll make a plan for having the riding ring "give something back". The Riding Ring's  only saving grace now is that there is essentially no labor involved-it just sits there.

The contest is entitled: "Top Ten Uses For An Empty Riding Ring", and although the list is growing, we welcome suggestions. Following is the list as it exists now:

-A "Time-Out" pen for fussy heiffers

-A homeschool project reinacting a Roman coliseum, complete with gladiators (you'll never guess who volunteered for that position), and spectators sitting on the rail fence

-A motorcross track for bicycles

-A super-sized sundial so airplanes will know the current time

-A one-ring circus with the fence standing in for a tightrope (as if we need more circus-type activity here)

-Make a corn maze, and charge our neighbors (most of whom are retired) to walk through it

-Let the grass in it grow "real, real high" so the girls can harvest "wheat" from it

So send in your creative (or even zany) entries, as the contest ends soon. (Don't ask us when soon is.) Please keep in mind that the children are expecting to actually execute the winning idea.

(Note to my children: That is the prize. Grin.)

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SuperBowl fans probably aren't this animated.  One of the big girls breathlessly interrupted school lessons to run in and make the  announcement, imploring us to, "Come quick!". The rest of the crew nearly bowled her over in our efforts to "see for ourselves".  After the boys charged onto the scene, their next logical maneuver was to jump wildly on  my bed and cheer. The eldest just smiled sweetly, Miss Doodle ran around in circles, and Mom formulated a science lesson on the spot. Judging from the Hoopla, you'd think something utterly amazing had happened.

Well it has.

Th Lord Of All The Universe has done it again. Although nothing new for Him, we are discovering it for the first time, and stand in awe. Our collards are sprouting! Soon to follow should be either the tomatoes, peppers, eggplant, basil or marigolds. Heated debates are raging over which will sprout next. What we lack in experience, we fill in with opinions. ( I suspect a lot of folks do.)

The debates also include at what temperature we should set their electric blanket. We thought buying a seed propagation mat was financial overkill, so improvising, we put an electric blanket on the table under the seedling flats. The question at hand is, "Would they like setting 4 or 5 better?" 

Our considerable challenge now is to keep Miss Doodle away from the sprouts. Our two-year-old is thinking Scripturally, which is desirable, but her chronological interpretation may be a bit off. "To every thing  there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;" (Ecclesiastes 3:1-2). I appreciate the enthusiasm, but this is not that time to pluck up.

The bounty has been set high for anyone catching her trying to climb the gate to the seedling room...

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Smart folks start small. They live on an acre (or smaller) lot in town and start living the dream as much as they are able. They live life to the fullest where they are now. The benefits are, that when they do make it to the dream (I purposely didn't say if), they don't start out as  greenhorns (like us). Their transition to the country resembles the leaping of a graceful doe instead of a backfiring jalopy.

The downside to not actually being there in the country is that it simply is not the same. Before you were a parent, you likely read books and heard volumes from well-intentioned friends and relatives, and thought you had a grasp on what it would be like.  Then your bundle arrived and you knew without a doubt that "no one ever told me about this". As your child grew, you looked at your spouse and with certainty proclaimed that, "this wasn't in any of those books we read". The conversion from city to country living is identical.

We couldn't have read different books, or asked different folks, to learn what it "would really be like". It wouldn't have helped. Everyone's journey is personalized. "For I know the plans I have for you declares the Lord, plans to prosper you , and not to harm you, plans to give you a hope and a future..." Jeremiah 29:11 (emphasis added).

Here are some of the things we have learned on-the-farm which were never in the books:

-That our kids can hoop and holler at the top of their lungs with the house windows open , and no one will know or wonder if they should call the police. (Very important during family pillow fights.)

-That homeschooled kids with great imaginations have potentially greater opportunities for crazy stunts. Like the time our oldest (DD10) naively thought Dad was serious when he told her he'd give her $100.00 if she could ride our bull calf. Yes, she (and the next four down) all tried it. Did I mention that this was before the calf was banded? (Meaning he still had his full quota of bull testoterone. Yikes.)

-That even doing math seems delightful when you're lying on a blanket under a weeping willow tree.

-That there is a reason folks never compare learning to milk a cow to falling off a log.

-That there is such a thing as "too many roosters".

-That you don't need a garbage disposal if you have chickens.

-That country living can get so much into your blood that you start feeling crowded on fifteen acres.

-That your family will someday stop rolling their eyes, and will eventually just smile politely about your newest escapade.

-That a long driveway beats an exercise video hands down.

-That mail carriers have names.

-That believing in Creation comes naturally when you get to experience it every day. No carefully researched documentation or intricately worded explanations needed, just eyes.

-That hens make the best babydolls, although they don't care much for bonnets.

-That goats don't really eat tin cans. In fact, they are fussier eaters than toddlers.

-That birth happens without our intervention.

-That there are approximately 1,000 uses for an apron on a farm.

-That with no city lights to mar the view, it is easy to think of Abraham and God's promise when you can actually see the stars .

-That I am one of those blessed through that promise.

"Land spreadin' out so far and wide, keep Manhatan, just give me that countryside..."

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Few chickens have ever lived so well. Of this I am confident. Two years ago, when we moved to Old Paths Family Farm (our first farm!), we bought baby chicks. Fifty-five of them to be exact. Fifty beautiful Buff Orpington hens and five roosters. It is probably everyone's starter critter project. They are little (at first), and cute. What could be better? Chickens are to farm critters what radishes are for gardeners-a good first project. Their housing is generally simpler as well. A chicken coop is easier and quicker to build than say, a barn.

That is, unless you are married to Mr. Visionary.

I had fifty-five chickens living in an enormous makeshift cage in my mudroom for months waiting for housing to be built for them. "With housing so simple, what took so long?" you may be wondering. My Mr. Visionary was building no ordinary chicken coop, you see. Everything he does turns out to be more than I expected, more than I needed, and able to withstand hurricanes, floods, earthquakes, and even young boys. (Those of you with young boys will fully understand the criteria involved in that building code.)

The Chicken Castle, as we lovingly refer to it now that the ordeal is over, is a masterpiece. It is 10X14' on a concrete slab. It has 8-foot high sidewalls, vaulted ceiling, two standard steel walk-doors, a billion nesting boxes, and enough roosting posts for an army of chickens. Every nook of this stronghold is trimmed, chinked, or covered with wire. It has attached to it a 10X16', 8' high cage area with chain-link fencing on three sides and on top.

Our chickens free-range during the day, occasionally popping in to lay or for a snack or drink, then stay in their Castle at night to sleep. Once the door is closed at night (the opperative word being closed), it is an insurmountable fortress for any chicken predator. The only time we have lost any chickens have been during the day, when they are roaming about, or in the evening before we have closed the steel door. I have a feeling that most critters in the woods around here tell bedtime stories to their offspring about our Chicken Castle. And about their relatives who have lost their lives attempting to break in. I may have to check with Mr. Visionary on this, but at last count the roll was 1 fox, 2 raccoons, 6 opposums, and one wild dog who have lost their lives to Mr. Visionary's shotgun. With Charlotte's Web, Wind In The Willows, and Milo and Otis floating around in their memories, the kids are convinced that there is a Legend of The Chicken Castle being  recited to the young in animal land.

Once while working outside an overhead  shadow alerted us that a chicken hawk was flying by. Quickly, we visually scanned the yard for chickens. Not a hen in sight. After a brief panic, we checked the Chicken Castle. Our rooster, Chief (that's Head Rooster to you), had rounded up every hen into the Castle. Mr . Visionary looked poignant and muttered, "They feel safe in there, don't they?" I think I even saw a glistening in his eyes. Yes, Mr. Visionary, they do feel safe there-you done good. You done real good.

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For a girl who grew up in the city living vicariously through Little House On The Prarie books, this is truly a momentous occasion. Mr. Visionary has installed my gate.

What?

Perhaps a little background could be helpful here. Occasionally as a child I was able to spend a week at a time at my great-aunt's farm. I could sit for hours in her garden plucking weeds, tossing out rocks, and thoroughly rolling in the dirt. It was glorious. I'd dream of growing up and having a garden of my own, and of sitting in the rows eating warm vegetables straight from the plant. I've always loved reading about Adam and Eve walking through the Garden, and imagining them nibbling on this or that. "One day..." I'd say. (Happily would I skip the snake and the attire, but the garden I'd take.)

I'm grown up now, and I have my first chance to have a real garden. I bought Square Foot Gardening about five years ago, and have devoured it these last few years. We have been married almost 16 years, but alas, we have also moved a lot. So just about the time I would find a good sunny spot and  spend a few seasons ammending the soil, it would invariably be time to move again. Bummer.

I have hit the jackpot at our new farm though. "Oh, she must have great soil there, " you think. Sorry, nothing but rocks and red clay, unaffectionately known around these parts as Virginia Hardpan.

But...(drumroll please)

Behind the barn I found a huge pile of cinder blocks. Voila! Raised-bed square foot garden! Mr.Visionary helped me make good soil from scratch (not the same way God makes dirt from scratch-I started with something whereas He started with nothing). We used that lovely humussy soil out of the woods full of composted leaves, aged manure from our grass-fed Jersey cows, a winter's worth of ashes from the woodstove and some sand left over from the block laid for our home addition. It is perfect. (At least it seems perfect to this city kid who never had a garden before.)

I ended up with two, four by thirty-two foot beds, raised eight inches above ground. Mr. Visionary even built a six-foot high fence around it to keep our free-range chickens and guineas out of it. Before the gate was up, they thought I had built them a custom dust bath. But today, the gate is up!

Yeah...and?

Well, now that the gate is up, it means I can start my spring planting out there. I have a plot plan, a box of heirloom seeds, my squares are divided, Mr. Visionary has built six-foot high trellises for my vining plants to grow up, and the gate is up. In short, all I need now is time to get out there and play in the dirt. A little experience would help, but I've heard that's not for sale, and I probably won't find it in a pile behind the barn, either. Guess I'll have to make my own...from scratch. I'll let you know how it goes.

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It is finally warm enough here to kick the baby chicks out of the house. Only newbies would have decided to allow broody hens to set in December. But we were stupid, and excited, and sure enough, our broody Mommas hatched 5 Barred Rock chicks in time for Christmas. It sure was cute to have the fuzzy, splotchy little puffballs in a clear tote box in the kitchen, and listen to the sweet peeping during school and meals.

However...the cuteness wore off quickly. They outgrew two more tote boxes overnight, and the smell of chicks during my hold-down-the-couch days of morning sickness forced them into banishment in the guest room. For endless weeks of winter, House Rules dictated that the death penalty would be in order for anyone who opened the guest room door for longer than .3 seconds, and only for emergencies.

Two chicks survived their season of exile, and with Spring in the air, (and my guilt thereby subsided), they are officially out of the house, never to return. Besides, they have their own house-the Chicken Castle. (More on that later.)

Now...about that guest room...

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