Archive for May 2017

The New Imperial Potentate


What new mischief is afoot in the field?

Gingersnap is especially curious and excited….and nervous. And confused! She’s 13 months old, and barely understands what’s happening, but she knows she likes this new thing!

He’s just her size and everything, and mommy is always busy licking the butt of that other new thing that she didn’t like at all!

Meet the new imperial potentate! The Honorable Mister Jericho Jersey! Jericho comes from Spring Creek Dairy, a small commercial dairy farm here in Roane County. He’s a 10-month-old Jersey bull. He was a bottle fed baby, and is very tame (at least for now). I like young bulls. I don’t like them much after about two years old when they figure out, hey, I’m a bull! Then it’s time for them to go. Speaking of bulls who go, don’t worry about Bo the Hereford bull, who did indeed go. He didn’t go to the freezer. He went to a nice farm in Sissonville where they put a bell on him and he’s tinkling away in their pastures. I’ve always crossed my dairy girls with beef bulls, but this year I had a longing to breed them to a true blue dairy boy. I’m still waiting for Glory Bee to have her little half Hereford calf, hopefully sometime soon. Blossom is also bred from the Hereford, and she’s actually moving back home to my friend Sarah’s farm this weekend. Glory Bee and Moon Pie are so mean to sweet Blossom. They are like the mean girls club. They have been pushing her out for a year, and I finally decided it was better for Blossom to go, despite the fact that she is actually my favorite cow to milk (because she’s so sweet tempered). Taco, her little steer calf, will stay here (for now….) to be Jericho’s buddy when he’s not busy with all his new girlfriends. That is, once Jericho figures out what to DO with all his new girlfriends!

He likes leaves right now. And butterflies. And flowers. And maybe I should have named him Ferdinand.

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Spring View


Looking down on the farm from a walk in the upper pasture.

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The Slanted Little House

"It was a cold wintry day when I brought my children to live in rural West Virginia. The farmhouse was one hundred years old, there was already snow on the ground, and the heat was sparse-—as was the insulation. The floors weren’t even, either. My then-twelve-year-old son walked in the door and said, “You’ve brought us to this slanted little house to die." Keep reading our story....

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