Catherine Friend's Blog, page 6

Happy Anniversary to Us

If you've read Sheepish, you know that Melissa and I flew to San Francisco in the fall of 2008 and legally married. This Saturday will be our 3rd anniversary.... and close to the 28th anniversary of our first date. Holy smokes.



With Melissa's permission (I've shared so much of our lives that I decided I needed to run this blog post past her), here are a few photos from that day, September 17, 2008, the day the farmers got married... Neither of us wanted a traditional wedding, so we created our own day, and we loved it.



San Francisco City Hall







This is the grand staircase. Weddings take place in the small rotunda at the top of the stairs.





Melissa signing the marriage certificate...





Photo op at the bottom of the stairs while we wait.



 





The wedding party: Lori, Sheryl, Melissa, me, JLee, and Cheryl. It was lovely having our friends with us.



Legal at last. :-)







At the restaurant with wedding party after the ceremony, opening gifts. Mrs. and Mrs. pillowcases!







Ending the day at the Pacific Ocean...





 





Twenty-eight years. It's hard to imagine that much time has passed, until I found this photo our nephew Jason gave us. He'd had it on his phone. We have no idea who took it, since Jason wasn't even alive yet. Here we are, total babes in our late 20s... 





We had no idea then, of course, that we'd end up living on a farm, raising sheep, and writing about it. We're never going to be rich, but we chose a path rich in experiences, animal connections, and nature. 



Thanks for sharing my meandering down Memory Lane. 

Stealing the Correct Corn

Some people tell me that as teenagers, they used to sneak to the edge of a farmer's cornfield and swipe a few ears. Hmmm. I'm guessing the farmer would have said 'yes' if they'd asked, but it does raise an interesting question: what's the best kind of corn to swipe?





Until Melissa and I moved out into the country, I didn't realize that farmers plant two types of corn. The first is sweet corn. It's what people eat. It, not surprisingly, is sweet. Sweet corn is harvested when the kernels are nice and moist, and the plant is still green.





The second kind of corn is field corn, or livestock corn. It's what livestock eat. This isn't very sweet. This corn is left on the field to dry out, and isn't harvested until the plant---and the kernels---are dry. 





But for a few months, both types exist side by side. I've been fascinated by this little secret that most people don't notice as they whiz by on the highway: You can tell the difference between sweet corn and field corn by the color of the tassels.





Sweet corn tassels are whitish-yellow. Field corn tassels are orangish.





See the difference?







It's probably not a good idea to steal a farmer's corn, but at the very least, you can impress friends and family with your knowledge when you pass the two different types of corn.



Hope everyone had some sweet corn for their Labor Day picnic, 'cause the season (at least up here in the north) is almost over. 



Sigh.

What Does a Farmer Look Like?

I get lots of fan emails, which is fun. Usually people tell me what a particular book of mine meant to them, or how our lives intersect or run parallel in some way.  I love getting these emails, even those that make me stop and think a minute.



I received one of those the other day. The woman enjoyed my books, and was pleased to find my website and see what I looked like. Her comment, however, seems to indicate she was both pleased and stunned. Pleased because, as she wrote, "you look like the women I know."  Stunned, perhaps, because after reading Hit by a Farm, she assumed I was a "tall, muscular woman."



Melissa laughed 'til she choked at that one. I've always had muscles; they're just very shy, and prefer to hide under a little flesh.  :-)  



But, hey, it's true, I am tall.



When we started the farm, Melissa had a bad back, so I did most of the heavy lifting. I used the post pounder to slam metal fence posts into the ground. I did the hammering (when Melissa picks up a hammer with her right hand, her left hand gets very nervous.) I carried the bags of grain from the pickup to the barn.



Over the next few years, farm work actually strengthened Melissa's back, and we eventually shared the heavy work.



But what does a female farmer look like? We look like the women you know. We are tall and short and rail thin and medium build and nicely curved. We farm with our husbands, wives, partners, or on our own. We clean up really well when we go into town, but if you were to drop by unexpectedly, you might find we haven't showered for a day or two (or three!), and we're wearing old, ratty clothing.



I've seen women farmers with Michelle Obama biceps. I've seen women with no visible biceps do plenty of heavy lifting.



The fastest growing category of farmers in the 2007 Census of Agriculture was women. And the more that people see women farmers as just like the 'women I know,' perhaps the more women farmers there will be.



That said, there's nothing wrong with a little muscle on a woman farmer. Here's me, just the other day:









Okay, not really.

My Summer Camp

What happened to August?



Seriously. Where did it go? It's already half over.  



I spent a few days with cousins at their lake cabin, then did a book signing at a lovely little bookstore in Dorset, MN during the Taste of Dorset festival. But because I was inside the bookstore, I hardly got to taste anything! Poor me.



Then I jumped right into teaching a weeklong writing camp for kids. The morning class was 3-5th graders. The afternoon class was 6-10th graders. At the end of the first day I stumbled home, sure I'd never make it through the week. Somehow I scraped myself off the living room sofa and moved the sheep and the big steers to new pasture. Then I managed to do 3 hours of prep for the next day. Cleaning the kitchen? Making supper? Nope.



Every day was like that. How do farmers with two fulltime jobs manage? Holy smokes. I suppose if I taught kids writing every day, it'd become easier, so that might make a difference. But this week? Not so much. And every night, did I clean the kitchen or make supper? Nothing left for those tasks.



At the end of every afternoon I felt as if aliens had attached tubes to my brain and sucked everything  out. Poor me again.



Good news is I survived. Even better news, the kids survived as well, even though by mid-week there were a few rowdies I was considering hanging by their thumbs from the ceiling fan. Luckily I've been chased by geese and knocked over by sheep and nudged by really large steers, so keeping kids in line doesn't frighten me.



At camp we did some fun stuff, some hard stuff, and I packed their brains as full as I could. Hopefully some of it'll stick. But when it comes to writing, much of what you learn leaks out, and you have to learn it again. Just too much to know.



Here's proof my kids were still smiling at the end of the week:







 Here's proof the sheep were still alive at the end of the week:







As for me? I must go clean the kitchen... if I can find it.

Taking a Break

A writer (and farmer) needs a break now and then. Every summer mine is to drive nearly seven hours north until the road runs into the waters of Rainy Lake (or crosses the bridge into Canada.)  I stay with nine other writers on a small private island once owned by Ernest Oberholtzer, the man responsible for preserving broad swatches of nature in northern MN and Canada. In the 1930s (?) he stood up against the proposed hydroelectric projects that would have destroyed the wilderness.



The buildings on Ober's Island have been preserved. His belongings, down to his piano music, have been kept in the cabins. All who use the island are respectful of its past, and its future. Oh, and there are spirits still living in the Main House...but that's another story.



So here's my 'cabin' this year, a lovely building called Front House, because it's at the front of the island.











Here's the view forty feet from Front House.











The kitchen is an old river boat, now surrounded by a deck. 





You step inside, and go down stairs. This would be the part that was in the water when it was a boat:





The island does not have running water, so if you want to get clean, your only choice is to jump in the lake. During heat waves, it's lovely. On a normal summer day, however...holy frijoles, it's cold. Here's the swimming beach:





I feel so lucky to be part of a group that has been able to visit this island, off and on, for nearly fifteen years. It's been the place where I recover, think about my life, and get excited about writing all over again.



So, new novel, and possibly a new nonfiction as well (acck-not sure), here I come....

Bottle Lambs: A Three-Part Story

Every good story needs a beginning, middle, and end.



Here's the story of two bottle lambs that live on pasture with their moms, but get a bottle from me twice a day. (I tried embedding the videos in the blog post, but blogger went bonkers, so the best I can do is provide the links. Gaack.)



Beginning:



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1_sahDOpJDE



Middle:



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DEDugl3VaQs



End:



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Am9fv0-7Kf4



This weekend I leave for my annual writing retreat with 9 other writers on a tiny island in Rainy Lake, between MN and Canada. I say 'annual,' but I missed last year, and the year before, so I'm really ready to 'retreat' this year. I wish a week of calm reflection for all of you as July races by.









Melissa will be in charge of the farm.



Hope she can handle it.  :-)

The Princess and the Flooded Barn

Sunday Melissa hooked up a hose to the barn hydrant so we could have access to water outside the barn. When she returned an hour later, the entire barn floor had flooded, covered in two inches of water.  What?





She dug and shoveled until the water drained out, but then we had to figure out what was going on. She turned on the hydrant again, and about 30 seconds later, water came bubbling up through the dirt floor. We quickly shut it off again.









Water coming up through the floor isn't good. And it literally bubbled.



Monday morning Melissa goes off to work. Dealing with these sorts of problems is now my job as Head Farmer, but I must confess that because Melissa has taken care of this stuff for years, I might have become...well...somewhat of a spoiled princess...



So first the princess calls the wrong plumber, the guy who does the inside stuff. "Nope, you want Mark for that."





So then she calls Mark. He says he'll send someone out. The guy comes a few hours later and is very nice. The princess shows him where the water comes up. He shakes his head. "Mark thought the hydrant might need a new float, but it's clearly leaking from the pipe itself." [She thinks the word he used was 'float,' but princesses don't like to bother with technical details.]





The guy and the princess look at each other. They both know the pipe, which runs from the well to this hydrant, is six feet below ground. There is no room for a back hoe to come into the little barn and dig. "Someone's going to have to dig with a shovel," moans the princess. The hole must be six feet deep and four feet across so the guy can get down there and work.





The look on his face? It ain't gonna be me.



The look on the princess's face? It ain't gonna be me. (She only uses ain't when she really, really means it.)





The guy fiddles with the  hydrant. "Let's check the float first.Could you shut off the power to the well?"



The princess asks him how to do this, then runs to the  house, fights her way through the laundry room to the breaker box, and shuts off the breaker to the well. She runs back to the barn.





The guy shows her something. "Look, this hydrant is really loose." He turns the thing at least three times until it's tight again.



"How could that be the source of the leak?" the princess asks.



"If the pipe was loose, the water could have leaked out the threads. Let's turn the well back on and try it."





The princess skips off to the laundry room again, this time confident she knows what to do, then returns to the barn. The guy lifts the hydrant handle and they both stare at the ground, watching for water.





Nothing!  'That's amazing," the guy says. "We fixed it. How did this hydrant get so loose?"





"Perhaps partying racoons, or evil ducks, or barn ghosts," says the princess. Really, she has no idea, but she cleverly disguises this with her reply.





Then it hits them both. "No one has to dig," they say in unison, heaving a mutual sigh of relief.





The princess feels so proud that she's resolved the problem (with a little help from the well guy), that she returns to the house and replaces the broken toilet seat in the master bath.





Princess power!

Duck Drama: The Conclusion

Some of you may remember that in late May, a visiting (and unleashed) neighbor dog startled our duck, Mr. Bodgepie, into the air. Instead of circling around the house as he usually does, then landing, Bodgepie was so upset that he just kept flying. He flew south, and we found out a few days later, from a neighbor, that he'd taken up residence on the Zumbro River, maybe 3/4 of a mile to the south. 



Several captures were attempted, but failed. We resigned ourselves to the idea that he was down there to stay, since he'd have to do some major flying to get up out of the river bed and over the trees, high enough to see our house and barn.





Late last week, 39 days after Mr. Bodgepie's flight, Melissa looked out the front door and shrieked, "He's back!" Somehow the boy managed to get his heavy carcass up into the air high enough, and far enough north, that he recognized home.









That's the good news. The bad news is that his wife Helen was a little miffed that he'd left. She had to raise their three ducklings herself. (Actually, she does this anyway---the males don't really participate---but this is my blog post, so I'm going to imagine she's feeling a bit huffy about this.)





As we watched Bodgpie pie waddle toward the barn, I said, "If he turns left toward the food, he's hungry. If he turns right into the barn (where Helen was), he wants sex."





Not surprisingly, he turned right. Both Bodgepie and Helen wagged their tails, so this was good. But then Helen decided to punish him for abandoning them. No nookie for Bodgepie.





Here are Helen and her 'babies':







Mr. Bodgepie was frustrated, to say the least. (I should note here that our rooster died last fall, so our hens have been celibate, not by choice. Whenever I come up behind one of them, she assumes the position, hoping I can help. Ah...no.)  Sunday morning I witnessed a most disturbing sight: Bodgepie trying to mount one of the hens. I broke it up before he damaged the hen, but I suspect she might have been inviting some action.





Bodgepie has always been polite---he spent months wooing Helen before she would trust him. Turns out this time he wasn't willing to wait months. Yesterday, in a flurry of wings and huffing, he chased her out of the barn and, well, nailed her.  Apparently this is how it's done down on the river.



For his sake, I hope he remembers that this isn't how it's done on this farm. We'll cut the boy some slack, given his traumatic nearly 40 days and 40 nights on the river, so hopefully he'll remember how to be a gentle duck again.





Another neighbor came to visit last night, with her dog unleashed, so we had to tell her the whole story. It's great that neighbors visit, but we may need to post a signed: If your dog scares our duck back into the air, you'll have to go get him and bring him back. Thanks.

June Mish-Mash

I keep waiting to have something interesting to say, but it doesn't seem to be happening this week. I think I'm too tired from all the promotion. So here's just a mish-mash of stuff:



1) I have 11 promotional events in June---3 left, and then I can hibernate for six weeks. I'm having lots of fun, and people have been very gracious and enthusiastic. I am, however, getting a little tired of the sound of my own voice. Talking about myself does NOT come naturally. The morning after an event, I always feel a little funny, as if I'd talked too much at a dinner party the night before.



2) Mr. Bodgepie (the duck) is proving to be elusive. We drove to the neighbor's where he's been hanging out. There he was, in the entrance to a big equipment shed. We pursued him deep into the shed as he scooted under the equipment. It was dark and confusing, with all the tires, etc. We were on our hands and knees. "Do you see him?" Melissa calls. The neighbor replies from the front of the shed. "He's out here." The little @#*& had doubled back on us. Melissa approached with the net and he took flight. Clearly we're going to have to be smarter than the duck...









3)  Melissa, lover of delicate flowers (which, I might add, doesn't describe me!), is at it again. Found these scattered around the house the other day.















4) A few years ago Melissa planted a wild rose on the south side of the house, in an odd place. You couldn't see it from the front yard or most of the back yard or the driveway. Why there? This spring, while sitting at my computer, I turned my head to the left and looked out the window. Oh, that's why. What a sweetie....







Here's to a wonderful summer for everyone, a summer full of surprising wild roses and other romantic stuff. 

Would I Choose to Farm Again?

At one of my recent presentations, a man in the audience asked if I would do it all over again, meaning choose to farm.



It was a fair question, but hard to answer. I can't 'un-know' all I've learned during the last fifteen years, so if Melissa were to once again ask me to help her start a farm, I can never again be that young, fairly clueless woman of 37. I can only start from here. If Melissa were to say to me tomorrow, "Hey, let's sell the sheep and start a dairy farm," I'd say, "If you want to remain married to me, I wouldn't recommend it."



But as I think about the question, I realize he was really asking me if I have any regrets about my choice to farm. Americans tend to get all twisted in knots about our decisions---am I making the right choice? the wrong one? For years I've tried to side-step this anxiety by just accepting that I make a decision, something happens, and I make the next decision. This feels easier to deal with than worrying about right vs. wrong.



Do I regret being a part of this farm? There are hundreds, if not thousands, of blogs now being written by men and women who've moved to the country and started farming. These blogs are written by people who clearly want to be there, who thrive on crazy hard physical labor, sweating in the sun, etc. I'm not them. They aren't me. I seem to have made a career out of being different, of being a somewhat reluctant farmer. It's a weird spot to be known for doing something that doesn't always feel comfortable to me.



Do I regret being part of this farm? Since we started farming, eight out of the eleven books I've written since then have been influenced/inspired by the farm. My three novels were an escape from the farm, so the farm influenced these as well! I cannot regret something that has given me so much to say, that has shaped my writing voice and helped me connect with so many people touched by our stories. 



I live in a lovely location, surrounded by wildlife and livestock. I feel closer to nature than ever before. I'm more aware of both my strengths and weaknesses because farming shines a relentless spotlight on both.





No, I don't regret saying 'Yes' to Melissa all those years ago. I feel as if I have one foot in the city, and one foot on the farm, and if that turns me into a bridge between the two worlds, then that's where I'm supposed to be.... for now. :-)