If you were asked to paint a picture of a farmhouse, you would likely include a big porch with rocking chairs. In the backyard, you’d likely paint an inviting hammock between two massive trees. If you took a drive out to the country on a quiet Sunday afternoon, you’d expect that to be part of the scenery. One day I was thinking how our home has a big front porch and huge live oak trees in the backyard, but it was still missing the rocking chairs on the porch and the hammock hung between the trees. Here I am writing about living on a ranch with farm animals and we didn’t have what you think of when you think of someone living the country life. So, I asked my husband for a hammock for Mother’s Day. He responded, “Really? You see a lot of hammocks but you never see anyone lying in ’em.” Hmmm, true. The children overheard our conversation and made daddy get me what I wanted because I’m their mommy not his. I relaxed in that hammock only a handful of times those first few weeks. But, I admit, I haven’t since. Yet, that didn’t stop me from later the same year requesting rocking chairs for our front porch as a birthday gift. I remember waiting for him to say something about how that hammock he got me only moves on windy days. He instead lovingly responded with a “Yes, dear, whatever will make you happy.” So, I began a routine of rocking on my front porch with my cup of coffee every morning. But, this was short-lived, ending the day after the day after my birthday. It’s likely your painting of a farmhouse wouldn’t have a farmer relaxing on the porch anyway. It’s because one thinks of the farmer as always being in the pasture, or in the garden, or at the barn doing something that farmers do. That’s where they are and that’s where I am. The rocking chairs and hammocks would have to be empty for your painting to be an accurate portrayal of life on a franch.
Author: Franch Girl (Page 6 of 9)
My face was only inches from the vent of a chicken. I realized I was breathing through my mouth and tightly closed my lips. You see, everything that comes out of a chicken comes out of its vent. I certainly don’t mind seeing an egg suddenly appear up close – I like eggs. But, most of the time, it isn’t an egg. So, it was difficult to keep my attention on the judge as I kept glancing at the vent for a warning sign that the dreaded was about to happen. My eldest daughter was beside me skillfully handling her meat chicken with a confident smile and with her eyes fixed on the judge. My poor friend was on the other side of her. I felt a twinge of guilt that we had left out some details (namely that chicken poop may be squirted on her face) when she agreed to help my daughter show a pen of three chickens at the county poultry show. As the judge came our way, the three of us had moved our chickens from their resting position like a football under our arm. We were now holding the chickens upside-down by their legs with their breasts exposed and readied for the judge’s hands – hands which are trained to judge the quality of the chicken by the size and dimensions and tapering of its breasts. He even has a college degree to prove it. We all obey his instructions as he moves us around the arena ordering each pen of chickens and the children holding them from last to best. Six weeks ago these chickens were a day old and now they are nearly 10 pounds. The arena is packed with children competing for a belt buckle and a higher rank in the upcoming livestock auction where local companies bid on all the livestock shown at the competition. Our children save whatever they win at livestock shows for college savings. So, our final location in the arena can mean the difference between being able to fund the cost of a semester’s worth of books and funding an entire semester of classes. I scan the arena wondering who knows the secrets to growing the meatiest chicken breast this year. Every person who has ever shown chickens has opinions on what gets you in the top ten of any poultry show. Last year, it was whispered in our ear to mix chicken feed with melted lard as we neared the show. I chuckle softly remembering how embarrassing it was to fill a cart full of tubs of lard at the local grocery store. We took every last tub from the bottom shelf of the baking aisle that day. We figured that it wasn’t a high-selling item and we were doing a service to others in our community forcing them to make healthier eating choices for a while if there wasn’t any lard left in town to cook with (it’s likely there aren’t truckloads of lard replenishing their supply on a daily basis). Well, the lard may have worked – a 10th place ribbon hangs in our barn from last year’s show. A previous champion mentioned to us that red sprinkles in their feed encourage chickens to eat. Chickens are attracted to red, I learned. So, this year, we covered our feed in red sprinkles. I had decided to do a big online order of red sugar sprinkles. That way, I didn’t have to explain to a store clerk why my basket was filled with a few dozen red sprinkles. The judge finally seemed satisfied with how he ordered us and reached for the microphone. The audience quieted to listen to his reasoning which was basically “these breasts are bigger than those.” The ribbons were handed out. Our children’s chickens’ breasts were seventh. Our children were happy to have improved in the standings this year. We still have yet to learn the secret to earning the buckle though. Our children already started talking about next year so I know I’ll be spending more time near the vent of a chicken in the future. Thankfully, the friend who helped is still my friend. And as a thank you, some prized chicken breasts will soon be delivered to her freezer.
A quick and easy way to get to know someone is to read his or her to-do list. If they don’t have one, well, that says something too. I never would have imagined years ago that my to-do list would read the way it does today. Here is an example of some of a recent to-do list:
* Butcher 48 chickens
* Deliver milking goat to breeder so we can have fresh goat milk in 5 months
* Give goat Chlamydia vaccine before she meets buck
* Sign up kids for basketball season
* Clean out kids closets to donate clothing and toys
* Clean out laying hen chicken coop and put down fresh bedding
* Wrap exposed barn pipes to prepare for upcoming freezing temperatures
* Write a better post for franchlife.com
* Give horse dewormer, and dogs theirs too
* Prepare for in-laws stay in guest house
* Call veterinarian to float horse teeth
* Schedule private banjo lesson for husband (this is a must if you ever buy your husband his first banjo and all he knows how to play is “Boil ’em Cabbage Down”)
* Trim sheep hooves and ear tag recent lambs
* Start training border collie puppy for sheep herding (well, first, learn how to train border collie for sheep herding)
* Borrow sheep shear clippers for upcoming sheep show
* Schedule babysitter for date night
* Sweep barn (this one isn’t ever checked off, as soon as I finish sweeping the other end of the barn is already dirty)
* Take kids to library (this should probably be up at the top of the list)
* Organize supplies and equipment as calving time nears for our two cows due in February
* Make an appointment for a pedicure or massage (this one is for me, not an animal)
I also include errands off the franch on my lists. You will almost always see the local feed store listed. It comes in a close second to the grocery store of places most visited by me. I’m proud to say that at least feeding my children remains the top priority. If we kept all the to-do lists we’ve ever made, it’d be an interesting way to see how our priorities changed as we lived the seasons of our lives. What does your to-do lists say about you?
It wasn’t when he returned home from his first deployment to Iraq. It wasn’t the day our children sprinted into his outstretched arms as the surrounding crowd cheered in the airport after his tour in Afghanistan either. Our children were very proud of their father for serving in the military knowing how he worked tirelessly to save the lives of injured soldiers. But, he didn’t become a hero in our children’s eyes until the day they witnessed with their own eyes their father in a life-n-death moment on our franch. The story goes… The first cow on our franch had given birth before our family just moments ago. Our children had witnessed the miracle of birth, something that my husband and I dreamed years before that a franch would give to our children. But, immediately my husband knew something had gone wrong. All of a sudden, my husband was beside the still calf all the way across the field. I don’t even remember how he got from next to me to that calf without what seemed like any time passing. He yelled out that she wasn’t breathing. I remember it being in such a way that he wasn’t yelling it at us. He was yelling it to himself. He later said that all he could think of was how his children couldn’t witness something so wonderful end so horribly. All the years of study and practice in responding immediately to life-n-death situations with a calm mind and steady hands made him seem as though he had rehearsed every move he made. He pulled away the amniotic sac that was covering the calf’s nose and preventing her first breath. Still not breathing. So, he effortlessly picked her up and draped her over the fence. Holding her head upright, he cleared the fluid away from her nose and tickled her nostrils to promote her breathing. Still not breathing. Without hesitation, he blew his first breath into the nostrils of the calf. Still not breathing. Again. Again. Then, again. Until the next breathe was the calf’s first. My husband immediately carried her over to mama cow and it was amazing to see the instincts of a first-time mother cow caring for her calf. “Daddy, you’re a hero!” yelled one, then all of our children. They were beaming with pride over what their daddy had done. He turned to us with a huge grin. His beard was dripping wet with amniotic fluid tinted a dark red and who knows what else. Without any hesitation, I kissed him anyway! He had indeed saved her life! Our youngest daughter to this day likes to tell of how her father became a hero when he gave, in her words, “mouth to face” to save our calf.
You may recall that my husband and I struggle to find rhythm with each other to smoothly cut a piece of wood with a two-man saw. So, I knew going to a dance hall to do some Texas two-step was likely to end in some sore toes. But, it was my husband’s birthday request, so I put aside my barn boots and pulled on my fancy cowboy boots and took his arm with a smile. I agreed with my husband that everyone who owns land in Texas should know how to two-step. Thankfully, it isn’t that complicated of a dance. But, we soon learned it’s way more difficult than the simple back-n-forth motion of the two-man saw action. It’s two quick steps and then two slow steps. Instruction videos (yes, I admit, we practiced on our franch before we left for the evening) had promised it’s an easy dance to learn, “It’s just like walking.” That doesn’t sound hard, does it? But, add in some turns and spins and side-by-side moves and then somehow my husband was on the first quick step and I was on the first slow step. And, it doesn’t work unless I let my husband lead and I follow. I kept forgetting that. We had a couple of near collisions with other dancers. Thankfully, they were all friendly and forgiving. Maybe because our lack of skill had them feeling good about their rhythm that evening. Others had noticed our fun and they smiled at us as we laughed at all our mistakes on the dance floor. At one point, an older couple tapped my husband’s shoulder. My first thought was that we were so bad we were actually getting tapped out and it wasn’t even a dance competition. To my surprise, they actually wanted our permission to take pictures of us for some dance hall advertisement! The caption of our photo will likely read, “Everyone is welcome, even those who don’t know how to dance.” You see, the definition of “dance” is to move rhythmically to music following a set sequence of steps. And so, I don’t think I can say we ever “danced” that evening. We both occasionally moved with the rhythm of the music during the evening but hardly ever at the same time. Since it’s a partner dance, that’s a problem. We did the steps but not always in any sequence that made any sense. In the end, all our missteps didn’t matter because we had a blast doing whatever you want to call it. We are now determined to attempt all the moves of the Texas two-step. So, don’t be surprised if you overhear us in our barn repeating “quick-quick-slow-slow” (pause) “quick-quick-slow-slow.” We’ll probably be shoveling dirty stall bedding into a wheelbarrow. But, maybe, one day, you’ll find us dancing.
I rushed inside with my muck boots still on to check the kitchen clock. Our family had already celebrated the New Year with my visiting in-laws earlier in the evening before my husband left for his night shift in the Emergency Department. We had pretended it was midnight and had counted down from “10 to Happy New Year” with a balloon drop over the balcony of our stairway. Our children and my in-laws had soon after gone to bed. But, I had stayed up looking forward to relaxing by our fireplace, reflecting on the past year, and counting the seconds down to the real New Year. Well, I had decided at 11:40 p.m. that there was still plenty of time left in 2014 to check on our children’s show chickens. Re-filling their waterers with fresh water and piling more feed on their feeders apparently had taken a little longer than expected. I had heard a flurry of fireworks exploding from distant parties. But, I hadn’t thought 20 minutes could have passed so quickly, so I had figured our neighbors were warming up for their finale. I even lingered a bit watching the happy chickens thankful for their fresh water and food. I had then noticed that all of a sudden the skies had become quieter and that’s when I had sprinted at world record speed from the barn. Standing in the kitchen breathless with a trail of mud mixed with chicken poop and bedding flakes on the tile behind me, I stared in disbelief at the clock. 12:04 a.m. Seriously? I had rung in the New Year in a barn with chickens. Never again. The next thing nailed to our barn wall will be a clock.
There are days on the franch that are simply exhausting. I wanted to be able to say “today was one of ‘em” but last night I was simply too tired to write. Some evenings my husband and I collapse on our couch both asking why we are making our lives harder by living on a franch. We don’t have to do anything that we do on our franch. We are in fact choosing to do it. Actually, that’s the way it is with most of life, isn’t it? It helps on those harder days to remember it’s a choice. Occasionally, we romanticize what life would be like without all the responsibilities that come with farm animals. Then, thankfully, there are days, like yesterday, when we rub our sore muscles smiling at each other as we listen to our children re-tell the stories from a day well lived. Yesterday our family butchered the first round of broiler chickens on our own in our backyard. Our children are participating in a chicken competition at an upcoming junior livestock show. As we get closer to show day, only certain birds meet the standards of the judge so those that do not measure up can be butchered early. It was a day all of us worked side-by-side in the fresh outdoor air from sunup to sundown. It began first appreciating the life of each chicken. We all expressed the heart-wrenching hardship of picking up a chicken from its pen to be butchered moments later. Prior to choosing that first broiler, we had yet another family debate over whether we’d finally become vegetarians as we were all emotional and hesitant about starting the process. Then, it was unanimously decided that we love our homemade chicken wings on Super Bowl Sunday. (We aren’t ashamed of our love of chicken wings and apparently we’re not alone – it is estimated that 1.25 billion chicken wings were devoured during Super Bowl XLVII!). Yesterday, we didn’t need to lecture our children on the importance of teamwork. This lesson was learned in how we all depended on each other to complete their assigned tasks for the process to go smoothly. Something we will always remember about yesterday was how our five year old daughter was set on proving she was as grown up as her siblings. She didn’t bring us over to where the lines are in the garage marking her height to show how she’s grown over the past year. Instead, she firmly planted her feet beside the butchering table and watched the entire process with determined, wide-opened eyes. Last year, only four years old, she had insisted on helping and then immediately erupted into hysterics crying, “I thought you were only going to take its feathers off.” (To this day, I don’t know where she came up with the idea that that was happening. It isn’t like she’s ever seen an alive chicken scurrying about without its feathers before?). Once she knew she could handle what was happening, she eagerly asked for ways to help and then worked at her tasks as much as the rest of us did at ours. At the end of the very long and tiring day, you could see in all of our expressions a real sense of accomplishment in yet again raising our own food. We are indeed choosing to live a more exhausted life by living on a franch. But, for us, it means a fuller life with everyday experiences for our family that I once only read about. And if I could live all these days on our franch over again like the movie Groundhog Day, I’d happily live them the same way every time. Exhausted by all we do. Yet, at the same time, energized by all we do each day. Life’s good on the franch. And now you all know what we’ll be eating come Super Bowl Sunday.
Christmas on the franch isn’t anything like the paintings in the Norman Rockwell Christmas collection. Our life is actually pretty much the opposite of his artwork. But, the imperfections of our day lead to good laughs and memories. It’d be interesting to see how an artist would paint our Christmas on the franch. The first piece of work portraying our day would be of our children pulling on overalls over their pajamas. In the background, there’d be unopened presents still under the Christmas tree. It’s expected that morning chores be completed first even on Christmas day. Excitedly, our children go about their barn responsibilities as they guess the contents of the wrapped boxes of different shapes and sizes. The artist would later have to paint our children opening their gifts with hay on their pajamas from filling up the feeding troughs, wet sleeves from cleaning out the chicken waterers, and dirt under their fingernails from a quick barn sweep. In an art gallery exhibit of Christmas on the franch, you’d see watercolors of unusual gifts unwrapped on Christmas morning. One year, my husband decided it wasn’t right for his lady to sit on an overturned bucket while milking the goats. So, my special gift was a homemade milking stool. Needless to say, my husband isn’t gifted in the craft of woodworking so his plans of a stable three-legged stool didn’t quite work out. But, that wobbly, lopsided four-legged stool remains one of my favorite gifts ever and is proudly on display in my dining room. (And, by the way, I still sit on an overturned bucket to milk our goats). Another gift likely only a francher would be grateful to open on Christmas morning is an automatic water bucket. A painting of me beside a Christmas tree with a genuine smile and sparkling eyes holding an automatic waterer could very well be hanging on the wall of a gallery someday. Anything automatic on the franch is time saved for a busy franch girl. Painting our Christmas stockings hung over the fireplace would frustrate any artist because their work would never be finished. You see, our children insist on a stocking for their animals. And, the animals are always changing on our franch. My poor mother gets requests for her hand-sewn stockings almost every year as new animals arrive either through a sale or birth. Then, there are the stockings that stay in the Christmas storage bin out in the shed the next year (like the one for the dog that wouldn’t stop eating our chickens, and the one for the calf that was sold, and then there’s the one for the lamb butchered earlier in the year…). Unexpectedly, there was one brief moment during this year’s Christmas celebration that our family felt like Norman Rockwell’s The Thanksgiving Picture. Except it wasn’t roasted turkey. Instead, even better, we served fresh roast leg of lamb with rosemary. It was a lamb born and raised on our franch. And, each of the main ingredients of the side dishes was fresh from our winter garden. On the table with the lamb was creamed cabbage, sweet-n-sour beets with apples, broccoli sunshine salad, mashed potatoes, and fresh pumpkin pie from one half-green, half-orange pumpkin that had barely made it through an early frost and had surprisingly ripened off the vine in our barn. We all marveled that what was before us on the table was grown with our own hands. Though I must admit that something about our meal wasn’t perfect. We had planned such an extensive menu that it was served four hours later than promised. So, by the time we were gathered at the table, our children were already full from eating candy canes and chocolate stocking stuffers all day. Our family definitely doesn’t live up to the perfect standards of a Rockwell painting at Christmas or any time of the year, but what family does?
Whether you believe it to be true or not, I think we all can agree it’s the greatest love story ever told. The story is written in the most read book in the history of the world. The plot of any romance novel or movie pales in comparison. It’s the story of how the Savior of the world humbly began his life in a stable and willingly gave his life on a cross. Our franch helps us teach our children the reality of His birth. You see, your mama’s manger scene doesn’t tell the whole truth of that day. His birth did indeed happen in a stable. But, the nativity scenes sold in stores are clean, fresh, and flawless. Well, this isn’t really the case for any place farm animals are kept. For one, our barn is always dirty and dusty no matter how frequently the children sweep. Our children are used to their friends holding their noses because of the smell of fresh manure in our barn. We think of our feeding trough that’s bent and dented as it’s used twice a day every day to feed our livestock. It’s licked repeatedly, pushed over, and rolled in the dirt as the animals search for every last grain pellet. It’s likely that the feeding trough that cradled the hero of the world wasn’t brand new or scrubbed perfectly clean by Mary and Joseph. Our children have played on our hay bales for hours, but I’ve never found them asleep on the hay because it’s simply not a comfortable bedding choice. Yet, hay is what kept Him warm in the manger. A stable is also certainly not the most peaceful place for a newborn to sleep. Our drafty barn is filled with noise as the wind rattles the barn doors and all the farm animals make their Old McDonald sounds. The King of kings surely deserved a beginning opposite to circumstances such as these. But, God’s plan for His son was not a high-profile birth in an elegant palace on a hilltop. Instead, He came to earth in the lowliest of circumstances. Why? It’s all in His name, Immanuel, which means God with us. He wasn’t hidden behind some elegant gate guarded by an army of soldiers living a pampered, privileged life like the kings and queens of the ages. He was born in a barn so that even the lowly and filthy shepherds wouldn’t feel ashamed to go to Bethlehem to see Him. And so, our manger scenes could use a handful of dirt to remind us of what God was willing to do to show His love for us all. But, before you sprinkle some dirt on your mama’s antique nativity scene, you might want to first tell her why.
Our chickens give us fresh eggs every day. Correction: we take fresh eggs from our chickens every day. Sometimes we snatch ‘em right from under them as they rest peacefully in their nesting boxes. You may think chickens aren’t aware or don’t care that the eggs they’re laying disappear every evening at chore time. Well, one day, we were surprised to find a pile of about twenty chicken eggs in the middle of a cactus! Our chickens preferred the spines of a cactus to a clean nesting box filled with fluffy flakes. Why? Their eggs remained where they laid them for days. Chickens care. So, our children work really hard to give the chickens a comfortable and happy life. Our family decided to do something special with the eggs we collect from our chickens. We often have more eggs than we can use in a week so we give them to our friends. Our friends in turn give a donation which collects in a jar on our kitchen hutch. Our children save all of this money to donate livestock through a charity organization that works to end hunger and poverty around the world by providing livestock and training to struggling communities. All families receiving a gift of an animal through this charity agree to give an offspring of each gifted animal to another family in need. Our chicken eggs have thus far provided goats, bees, chickens and recently, a water buffalo for a struggling community. It’s incredible to think that the offspring of our children’s donated livestock are blessing even more. This has been an awesome opportunity to teach our children how to bless others with the blessings they’ve received. All that we have is after all from the generous hands of God above, and so we actually only give what has been given to us. I think if our chickens understood what their eggs have done, they’d never think about laying their eggs in a cactus again.
advice to me