Heather Huffman's Blog, page 25

Ferocious

I have a plan; we’ll see how it works. This weekend, we’ll be expanding our usable pasture by putting in more fencing. The next step – the one that intimidates the heck out of me – is building three-sided shelters for the horses and cows.

And I need to get most of this finished in the next couple of weeks. Oh yeah, and one of those weeks, I’ll be in St. Louis taking care of my mother after a surgery.

No sweat.

But the part of the plan I’m most excited about? We’re adopting two Great Pyrenees/Corgi mix puppies who will be our LGDs for the horses and cattle.

Most people think I’m nuts for being excited about this particular mixture of dogs. I have to admit it’s amusing to think about puppies coming from this:

and this

And while most LGD owners I know are wary of what this combination produce, I think it will be a good mix for guarding my horses and cows. Let’s hope so, because our dynamic duo comes home in November!

Meet Po!

And this little guy, who still needs a name!

If you have any suggestions for a name, leave me a comment – I’d be thankful for the ideas. And if you happen to live anywhere near the Ozarks and you’re in the market for a unique protector dog, drop me a line. There are two little sweeties from this litter still looking for a home!

And wish me luck on building the shelters. Hopefully we’ve practiced enough with the chicken shanties to build something that’s well, not a shanty. I’ll keep you posted on that.

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Catching Up

Every so often it hits me that I haven’t blogged in a while, and I know it’s just a matter of time until I get a gentle nudge from my dear, sweet friend and book manager. Today is one of those days. Sorry Heather L!

So here’s what I’ve been doing the past couple of weeks instead of blogging:

1) Writing, a little. I finally made some progress on the book I’m co-writing with the talented Sylvain Reynard. I have to say, I’m stupidly excited about this novella. Once the ball was back in his court, I was supposed to make some progress on my next novel, Roses in Ecuador, but that hasn’t exactly happened yet. Hopefully this week it will.

2) Puppy-sitting. A friend needed help finding homes for six puppies, which I was happy to give. When the new owners couldn’t take their treasures home right away, we brought them home with us to puppy-sit. Yes, SIX puppies.

The puppies have been a lot of fun to have around, but they’ve also been a lot of work. Especially since the little stinkers like to hunt chickens. Thankfully, four of the six are now with their forever homes, and the last two go home next weekend.

3) Fighting with a spare tire. So, my dad gave me a stay of execution on the truck and said he didn’t need it for a couple more weeks. Only problem – the truck picked up a thorn when tornadoes went through last week and got a flat. This would have been an easy enough fix if it had all the parts it needed to get the spare out from under the bed of the truck. Of course it doesn’t, so something that should have been simple has been a total headache.

4) General fumbling through this homesteading thing. Straight on the heels of the massive drought came torrential rains – the kind that flood chicken coops and horse pastures. Keeping animals warm and dry has been a challenge this past week or so, but I’m glad the rains showed me what I need to shore up before winter hits. I’ve quickly learned that I could work from sunup to sundown every day and never accomplish everything I want or need to do to keep this place running. Most days, I really enjoy the work and I thank God for the chance to raise our own food. Some days, I feel overwhelmed by my to-do list and trying to juggle the farm chores with books and being Mom. The good stuff definitely outweighs the bad, though. I’ve never seen my family so happy, and I know I’ll eventually get this thing figured out. Sort of.

5) Cow shopping. Now that we’ve laid in enough feed for our horses and then some through the winter, we’ve decided that now is as good of a time as any to begin our hunt for the next step in our family’s self-sufficiency: a milk cow. I think I have a pretty good lead and I should hear something back tonight. Wish me luck. Maybe my next post will be about my cow!

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Goodbye is Never Easy

I have a goodbye to say tomorrow, and it’s making me sad – and truthfully, a little cranky. But before I get to the goodbye, let me give you a little back story.

I haven’t had a decent car since my roommate totaled my truck when I was 18. Not one that I really loved. I bought a Ford Focus after that, in attempt to be practical, and it was a decent enough car. But then I got married and my husband took it, leaving me with his duct taped Acura. (For the record, that wouldn’t fly with the 35-year-old me. I’m not really sure why I let it go then, but I digress.)

Since then, it’s been a string of duct-taped cars. If ever I do splurge for the car payment, I manage to find the lemon from what’s normally a decent brand. I bought a Corolla right before the recalls hit, and yes, mine was impacted. That’s actually my current car. It has all kinds of fun little quirks, including the fact that it repels hubcaps. I have no idea why, but they tend to fly off the car when I’m tooling down the highway. I’ve stopped replacing them, lest someone get injured due to my desire to have hubcaps. The car is covered with scratches, usually from flying hubcaps.

A friend once told me that my car looked like it’s been through a war zone. Sadly, he’s right. I tell myself that my little Corolla is one of God’s ways of keeping me humble.

Corollas aren’t known for being good farm cars, either. I live on a dirt road. I have horses, dogs, ducks, chickens – all animals which require hauling things like hay, feed, bedding and fencing. All things which are lots of fun to cram in the back of a Corolla that’s already busting at the seams from three growing boys.

So it could be said that I need a new car, preferably a truck. On a personal quest to live debt-free, I’m determined not to take on a car payment. Saving for a truck always gets derailed by things like massive droughts that make my feed bill go up by 566%. (That’s not an exaggeration.)

Alas, I’m truckless.

My dad just so happens to have a truck. It’s a silver Silverado with an extended cab, and it’s a blast to drive. My boys adore this truck. I adore this truck. He also happened to be out of town most of the summer. Usually, whenever he’s out of town, my sister snags his truck. She doesn’t need it; she just likes to drive it.

And while I can’t blame her, I was getting desperate, so I begged for my turn with Daddy’s Silverado. For the past two weeks, we’ve known the bliss of having a truck. I’ve stocked up on Chaffhaye for the horses, feed and bedding. I’ve picked up free wood from all over southwest Missouri, enough to finish my chicken coops, build a doghouse, and still have wood to spare.

Even if gas is $500 a gallon, it’s been amazing. (Okay, that number might be an exaggeration.)

More than the convenience, I love the rumble of the truck’s engine. I love the way it drives. And then there’s the cool-factor when I pick Dylan up from football practice. He much prefers swinging his gear into the bed of the truck instead of jamming it in the trunk of the Corolla. His little brothers love to sit in the bed of the truck to watch him practice, too.

In short, we love this truck. And tomorrow, I have to give it back.

Normally, I’m not a materialistic person. My joy comes from God, the sound of my boys’ laughter, and time with my animals. I truly mean that. Don’t get me wrong, I’d love a bigger house with a little more land. Occasionally I splurge on a cute purse or super cute shoes. I am human. But when it comes to having a truck of my own, I toe right up to obsession.

It hit me today as I was driving back from the feed store that this is my last day with Daddy’s truck, and a wave of sadness washed over me. So I did the only thing I could. I rolled down my window, cranked up my favorite Josh Turner song, and had a goodbye run over my favorite hills.

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Dye Job

Apparently, Kali decided she didn’t want to be a blonde anymore. She decided to go red, which she accomplished by playing in the wet clay down by the pond. I hope she likes it because it doesn’t seem to be going away anytime soon!

 

 

Pond!

The intent when we got ducks was never to keep them in our backyard. We got them for our rather large pond, which is a short walk from the house, behind the horse pasture.

But with the drought, quite a few predators have made our pond their new watering hole, which made me nervous about putting the ducks back there. Besides, the ducks are really cute. I love watching their antics.

But 6 adult ducks is a bit much for a yard to take, even if it’s an acre. (The ducklings don’t count.)

So today, I got the bright idea that if we walked the ducks down to the pond, they might be able to find their way home tonight. If not, we’d herd them back up to their house in the yard.

To my shock, it actually worked! When I went out to feed tonight, they were waiting patiently at the gate between the pasture and the yard. Such good ducks.

Dylan caught my favorite duck, Skater, to carry him down to the pond. Ducks stick together, so if you can catch one or two, the rest will follow you.

They’re thinking about it…

Apparently nobody told them the saying “like a duck to water.” This is much bigger than their kiddie pool – they had to talk about it a bit before they went in.

Kali and Charlie decided to show the ducks how the pond works.

Not to be shown up by the dogs, the ducks have decided to give it a try.

Okay, maybe this isn’t so scary after all…

Keeping the shoreline in easy reach… there’s no sense getting too crazy with it.

The ducks are having a blast now. They spent the rest of the day swimming, splashing, and – of course – chattering about the adventure.

 

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When Did That Happen?

I cleaned my son’s room today. This isn’t something I make a habit of doing; I think my future daughters-in-law will thank me for it someday. Usually all three boys are responsible for keeping their space clean, but today I was making room in Dylan’s bedroom for a bigger bed.

Sometime over the summer, his voice got deep and his shoe size shot past his father’s, and, if I had to guess, his overall body size is now past his dad’s, too. (Although Adam still has 1 1/2 inches on the kid in height, something he’s very quick to point out.)

Since my oldest son is now huge, he no longer fits on his twin bed, so we decided it was time to invest in something a little bigger. Thus the room-cleaning today.

As I sorted through Dylan’s things, it hit me like a tidal wave just how much he is changing this year. It’s more than the voice and the size, or even the contact lenses and perfectly-mussed hair.

There are still signs that he’s my little boy, a toy dragon shoved under the bed, the rock collection scattered across his bookcase… But the room is starting to be overtaken by things like a cell phone and football gear. His initial response when I ask, “How was your day?” isn’t to chatter my ear off, but to instead offer up a quick, “fine.” Sure, he’ll open up to me when I push for more details, but I can see the day is quickly coming where that might not be the case.

I love the young man Dylan’s become. He’s the son every mother dreams of having, and I thank God for the chance to be his mom. But sometimes, on days like today, I’m struck by the fact that when it comes to the time I have with him in my home, there are fewer days ahead than behind.

And I’m reminded to soak up every one of them.

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Liar, Liar

I’m an honest person. No really, I hate lying. I often have at least one person angry with me because I just can’t help but tell the truth. Keep that in mind as I bear my dirty little secret…

Today is my youngest son’s 8th birthday. One of his presents was a small fish tank that we let him open early so the water would have plenty of time to sit before we put fish in the tank. The plan was to let him pick out a couple of goldfish to put in it today, and maybe add another one or two down the road after the tank settled.

The store I’d hoped to get his fish from didn’t have anything healthy enough to buy, so we wound up spending another two hours in the car looking for a place that sold fish.

By the time I pulled into the chain pet store, it was my last hope. I didn’t want to go to this particular store – I know from past experience that adopting a puppy is easier than buying a fish from this place – but I was not about to disappoint my son on his birthday. We were going home with a goldfish, come hell or high water.

So when the 16-year-old clerk asked me what size tank I had, I answered, “20 gallons” without missing a beat. Our tank is significantly smaller than 20 gallons, but I knew she wasn’t letting me out of that store with a goldfish if I gave her the real number.

According to my husband, she was staring right into his soul. She knew, but she  also sensed that denying me a fish at that point could incite a brawl.

This is entirely possible.

As she captured the two fish my son had deemed perfect, she quizzed me about their future living conditions and informed me I could bring them back to their fish hospital if they didn’t look entirely healthy at any point in the first two weeks.

I didn’t point out that the fish on the next row down were being sold as feeder fish. I didn’t ask if the feeder fish had less of a soul than the $4.00 fish. I did reiterate that I’ve owned fish before – we’d be okay with our two goldfish.

As the fish clerk filled out the paperwork for us to take to the register, I instructed my kids, “Not one word until we’re in the car.”

I also prayed my teenage son wouldn’t burst into laughter. He looked close. His eyes were watering by that point.

So we have our fish. Now happily swimming in their tank, which is not 20 gallons. Dear Lord, I hope those fish live long and healthy lives. I don’t want to further compound my lying ways to replace them.

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Pink Puppy

A couple of days ago, my son got the bright idea to take the berries off this plant…

This Pokeberry plant growing on my fence line – I didn’t uproot it because I’d planned to use it for dye.

… to mix his own dye (using an old turtle shell for a bowl, of course)

This is all fine and good, except that he left the dye sitting outside after he went in.

The puppy took advantage of this oversight and decided to accessorize. Note the pink polka-dots on her leg in the picture below.

I’d have gotten a better shot of the pink – there was quite a bit more on her other side – but every time I tried, she went into puppy-crazy mode, so I settled for the picture of her looking contrite.

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Jesse James and Banticore

I’ve always been fascinated by the Missouri outlaw Jesse James, but he’s not who this post is about today.

One of my favorite things about Booktrope, my publisher, is their lineup of authors. I love how we interact, how we band together to help each other out, and I love their books. Every time I read something from another Booktrope author, it makes me proud to be a Booktroper.

Of all the pretty fantastic authors in their library, one of the funniest is Jesse James Freeman, author of Billy Purgatory: I am the Devil Bird. If anyone is going to make me do a spit-take, it’s him (or Steven Luna, author of Joe Vampire).

While I’m grateful to everyone who’s hosted me as a guest on their blog, the interview that still makes me giggle is 11 Questions of Badassary (The Serious and Classy Author Ed.) w/ Heather Huffman!

My kids have come to expect  that if their parents are snickering at the computer, Jesse or Steve are probably the cause.

The thing about these guys, and they’ll probably be mad at me for letting their secret out, is that they’re more than funny. They’re good people, too. The kind I’m happy to know.

So when my sons got new roosters, I guess it was only natural that they named them after two of their parents’ favorite authors, right?

Meet Jesse – the New Hampshire Red rooster that protects the ladies in our production bird flock.

Jesse James, my son’s New Hampshire red rooster

At first he drove me nuts; he was ill-mannered and constantly running his mouth, so I threatened to rename him Sunday Dinner. My son Blake begged me to give him a chance. He offered to take full responsibility for him. It’s hard to say no to Blake – and I had no desire to actually kill a chicken anyway – so Jesse lives on. (And the non-feathered Jesse assured me that he was only living up to his name, so it really wasn’t the rooster’s fault.)

At this point in the narrative, it’s worth mentioning that Steve Luna is affectionately referred to as Manticore around the Booktrope Lounge (convoluted story not worth explaining).

So when my oldest son picked up his blue Bantam Cochin rooster, his name was, of course, Banticore.

Banticore, my oldest son’s rooster

 

Banticore is a really pretty rooster, but he’s young, which means he hasn’t learned to be a gentleman – he tries to have his way with all of the hens in his coop, all of the time. That’s pretty common for young roosters – I’m sure it has nothing to do with who he’s named after.

We recently got some new ducks. One of the boys wants to name  one of them Luna. I’m not sure though – naming a chicken and a duck after a colleague? That’s just strange.

My new Welsh Harlequin drake

 

 





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Jesse James and Bantacore

I’ve always been fascinated by the Missouri outlaw Jesse James, but he’s not who this post is about today.

One of my favorite things about Booktrope, my publisher, is their lineup of authors. I love how we interact, how we band together to help each other out, and I love their books. Every time I read something from another Booktrope author, it makes me proud to be a Booktroper.

Of all the pretty fantastic authors in their library, one of the funniest is Jesse James Freeman, author of Billy Purgatory: I am the Devil Bird. If anyone is going to make me do a spit-take, it’s him (or Steven Luna, author of Joe Vampire).

While I’m grateful to everyone who’s hosted me as a guest on their blog, the interview that still makes me giggle is 11 Questions of Badassary (The Serious and Classy Author Ed.) w/ Heather Huffman!

My kids have come to expect  that if their parents are snickering at the computer, Jesse or Steve are probably the cause.

The thing about these guys, and they’ll probably be mad at me for letting their secret out, is that they’re more than funny. They’re good people, too. The kind I’m happy to know.

So when my sons got new roosters, I guess it was only natural that they named them after two of their parents’ favorite authors, right?

Meet Jesse – the New Hampshire Red rooster that protects the ladies in our production bird flock.

Jesse James, my son’s New Hampshire red rooster

At first he drove me nuts; he was ill-mannered and constantly running his mouth, so I threatened to rename him Sunday Dinner. My son Blake begged me to give him a chance. He offered to take full responsibility for him. It’s hard to say no to Blake – and I had no desire to actually kill a chicken anyway – so Jesse lives on. (And the non-feathered Jesse assured me that he was only living up to his name, so it really wasn’t the rooster’s fault.)

At this point in the narrative, it’s worth mentioning that Steve Luna is affectionately referred to as Mantacore around the Booktrope Lounge (convoluted story not worth explaining).

So when my oldest son picked up his blue Bantam Cochin rooster, his name was, of course, Bantacore.

Bantacore, my oldest son’s rooster

Bantacore is a really pretty rooster, but he’s young, which means he hasn’t learned to be a gentleman – he tries to have his way with all of the hens in his coop, all of the time. That’s pretty common for young roosters – I’m sure it has nothing to do with who he’s named after.

We recently got some new ducks. One of the boys wants to name  one of them Luna. I’m not sure though – naming a chicken and a duck after a colleague? That’s just strange.

My new Welsh Harlequin drake