Wild Turkeys

We are officially at the beginning of turkey hunting season and my husband, The Turkey Slayer was super excited. He’d never been turkey hunting and our farm neighbor, Johnny Cash was stoked to show him the ropes. Turkey Slayer was eager because, besides the new challenge of shooting a wild turkey, he would get to wear as much camo as he wanted. It seems that, unlike deer, who are a bit dim and don’t really take notice of hunters in their bright orange gear, wild turkeys are pretty wily, have great eyesight and are hard to fool. So, turkey hunters get all dressed up like Viet Cong and stalk down the enemy: Tom Turkey.

Wild turkeys used to be an interesting novelty. When our daughters were little, Turkey Slayer would take the girls on hikes in the woods or in the country. On one of those hikes, they all came across a flock of wild turkeys. “Girls look, those are wild turkeys,” he whispered to them. Our youngest, Meriwether, was about three years old and was fascinated by these strange, dark, prehistoric looking creatures. On the car ride home later, she took a swig from her sippy cup and whispered, “Dad … those turkeys were wild!” as if to say they were crazy, off the hook, unhinged.

In the years since I’ve been noticing turkeys all over the suburbs: walking past strip malls, hanging out in backyards, outside the doctor’s office. Much like suburban deer, wild turkeys are very incongruous in civilization and frankly, they’re a bit surly. Out in the country, they nibble their way across cornfields and woodlands. They stick close to the ground. They have wings but don’t use them much, kind of like tonsils or apendix. They do jump/fly up into trees to roost at night and over fences when need be, but mostly they just grouse around, hunting and pecking for food on the ground.

I was invited to go along on the turkey hunt this week but sadly could not make it. Besides, I’ve got no beef with turkeys. The closest I’ve come to one is, like most of America, on Thanksgiving Day. I’ll never forget my first turkey roasting experience. I was a young mother, about to host roughly 50 family members for Thanksgiving Dinner. The fact that I’d never roasted a turkey didn’t dissuade me. How hard could it be, right?

That day, I was up early, had already set the tables and was ready to tackle the bird. I washed him in the kitchen sink, like a chubby, slippery newborn baby, and then dried him thoroughly. My sister-in-law down the street was doing the same thing for her family and we kept calling each other for reassurance on what the hell we were doing.

“Ok, I’ve washed him and dried him. Now … where are the damned giblets?” I asked her. 

“I don’t know. I’ve been looking for them too,” she said.

“Wait … I think I found them,” I cried. “They’re in the cavity. Just reach in and grab them.”

“Ewe ... Ok, got ‘em,” she said with victory in her voice. 

“Wait … I thought there were more. This is just his neck,” I said, confused. “I guess maybe they just throw that other stuff away.”

“Yeah, that’s probably right. They’re gross anyways,” she said. “Gotta go.”

We each proceeded merrily along, basting, rubbing, stuffing and roasting our respective birds. All of the sudden, about two hours into the process, there was a commotion in my mudroom hallway.

“Stop!” someone screamed. I turned around to see my sister-in-law and her sister, falling down, laughing hysterically. “We found them!”

“What the …?”

“The giblets! They’re in the butt!” they screamed.

I gingerly opened the oven, pulled the big tom out and checked my turkey. Sure enough, there they were, giblets steaming in a paper bag shoved up his arse. I quickly extracted them and threw them in with the neck parts I had simmering on the stove and then returned my turkey to the oven.

“Good Lord,” I thought. “What a humiliation for Mr. Turkey.” This was a bird that Benjamin Franklin lobbied to make our national bird, so impressed was he by the turkey’s intelligence and stature (take that, Bald Eagle). Now, the poor species have been domesticated and humiliated with his kibbles and bits shoved up his downside. Quite a fall from grace, I would say.

But he is tasty.

The Turkey Slayer sadly returned from his hunt empty-handed. “I got close to a couple of hens. We kept calling back and forth to a tom, but … nothing …” he sighed, plopping down on the couch. “Turns out the darned guy was toying with us all along, strutting around in a field of horses the whole time. Bastard …”

“Too bad, sweetie,” I said, rubbing his head. “But, you’re a mild-mannered guy. I don't think you stood a chance against them. You know … those turkeys are wild.”

He could have been our national bird, but he was too wild.

Blue Bird, Red Bird

I saw my first bluebird of the season the other day on our farm. Not a blue jay, which is kind of a tyrant in the bird kingdom, a bluebird. Blue jays are pretty enough but have an ugly squawk and an even uglier disposition. But bluebirds are another story. They, too, are beautiful, but in that wholesome, girl-next-door kind of way, busily living their best lives, swooping over open fields, popping from one fence post to the next, singing their quizzical, melodious songs. When a bluebird takes flight and the sun catches its wings, its iridescent blue color is dazzling. One can’t help but gasp aloud with joy, “Oh! It’s a bluebird!”

Seeing a bluebird at the end of February is a good omen that spring is nigh. That, and all of the sudden, I am hearing the cardinals sing again, from the tippity tops of the barren trees. Cardinals always remind me of my parents, especially when I see them in the late winter and early spring because that’s when each of my folks went to heaven, 13 years apart. My dad loved nature and after he died, it seemed we were always seeing cardinals at just the right times. It’s as if his angel was a cardinal and would make surprise visits to give us encouragement or just say hello (though I’m not sure Big Jack would ascribe to this pantheistic viewpoint). Once, when we were having a heavy family meeting after my dad died, my mom, siblings and I were all over at the homestead, huddled in Mom’s back room, deep in weepy, emotional discussion. All of the sudden, there was a pecking at the window on the large, sliding glass doors looking out onto my dad’s backyard. We stopped talking and looked up to see a fat, red cardinal, hovering in the air like a hummingbird, frantically tapping at the window. “Let me in! I have something important to say!” It was the darndest thing.

But none of the bird/angel visits was more dramatic than when my mother was in the long, painful process of dying. It was a cold, blustery late winter day. An old family priest friend stopped in to give Mom her last rights. The group of us huddled around her, tearfully getting ready to say good-bye, praying The Hail Mary and Psalm 23: “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.” The psalm doesn’t mention a cardinal, but in this case, it should have.

Mom’s bed was directly in front of a window on the second floor of the facility where she was staying. All of the sudden, I noticed something out of the corner of my eye and instinctively looked out the window. There, just above Mom’s head was a bright red cardinal on a tree branch, looking right into the window. A calm came over the dimly lit room. I felt the presence of God and of my dad, beckoning my poor, suffering mother, “It’s ok, Marge, let’s go.” Just as I was focusing on that beautiful, bright red male cardinal, in swooped a female cardinal, who lighted right next to him on the branch. I signaled to my siblings what was happening right outside the window and we all continued praying, holding hands and laugh/crying at our little avian miracle. The cardinal couple stayed there until we were finished with our prayer and then silently flew away. Our priest friend was amused but didn’t seem too surprised. I got the impression he’d been witness to all sorts of quirky visitations and miracles.

Since Mom left to join Dad, I now see both male and female cardinals at opportune times: when I’m in despair or troubled especially. I had a health scare a few years back and was praying in the car as I drove. All of the sudden, there they were, cardinals swooping on the road in front of my car, just letting me know Mom and Dad are near, God hears you, all will be well.

I’ve discovered that I am not alone, that the cardinal is widely known as a sign from loved ones who have passed on, a symbol of God’s love, an angel visiting. The backyard of our home is often filled with cardinals, nesting in our arborvitae, singing one of their distinctive, piercing melodies from the treetops. That song is so optimistic, so beautiful and self-assured. And it is said that cardinals mate for life, which makes their sightings all the sweeter.

I will keep looking for bluebirds on our farm and will delight in their rare, precious beauty. But I will never get tired of seeing cardinals anywhere, any time. How could I? When the going gets tough, as it inevitably does, I look for my cardinals.

Hi Mom and Dad!

On Walking

I’ve always been a walker. I guess I got it from my dad. He loved to go for a walk after dinner and I would often accompany him when I was little, my shorter legs taking four steps for every one of his long, six-foot-four inch tall strides. I often say I would sooner walk from here to the moon than run from here to the corner. My body just doesn’t like running. For me, walking is exercise, meditation, prayer and therapy all rolled into one.

Part of our routine on the farm is to take long walks there, through the woods, up one hill, down another, passing cornfields, yearling horses, mooing cows, babbling creeks. Winter, spring, summer, fall … it’s a gorgeous gift to be able to take in the air, walk, think, pray. The wife of The Mayor, former owner of the property, was an avid walker like me. I’d see her making her daily seven-mile loop as I would drive in. I could tell she found the same therapy in it that I do. She left us too soon, a little over a year ago. I guess God wanted to show her even better trails, but I think of her every time I walk the property with her sunny smile and friendly wave.

Just after we acquired the farm property I had a chance to take an epic walk of a lifetime: El Camino de Santiago de Compostela in Spain. I had heard of this centuries old pilgrimage – The Way of St. James – years ago from my college roommate. The entire Camino is some 400 miles and stretches from the southern border of France, over the Pyrenees Mountains and across the top of Spain to Santiago, the supposed burial site of St. James. I love a long walk, so I was intrigued.

Then came a little movie called The Way about The Camino, starring Martin Sheen. The day after I saw the movie, I was in the parking lot of my local grocery store, looking up details on The Camino: Where is it? How long does it take? How can I do this? But I was in a hurry, so I put my phone away and ran into the store, right into my friend, Gidget. “Hey, long time no see! Listen,” she said to me over the cantaloupes. “Do you know what the Camino is?” Me: “Um, yeah, I literally was just in my car…” Her: “Do you want to go on it with me? I’m putting together a group.” Me: “Um, yeah. I’m in.”

Fast-forward four years. I have now been on three different versions of the Camino with a group of women who also love to walk … and drink wine, eat cheese, and most importantly, laugh, laugh, laugh. I could literally write pages on each journey. Suffice it to say that real pilgrims carry all that they need for the month-long journey on their back and sleep in humble alburges or roadside hostels with dozens of other pilgrims along the way. Well, our Camino is a bit more Camino Light and we are The Housewives of the Camino. The first Camino was four years ago and was a journey of the last 100 miles of the Camino. It was amazing beyond belief. I found myself smiling all day every day, in spite of aching feet and tired legs each night. Some of my favorite times were when I was walking alone across the countryside, my Camino sisters either ahead or behind me, and just listening to the breeze through the trees and the sound of a lonesome cowbell. I even had a little miracle when, after a day of silently praying and chatting with my deceased mother and asking her for a sign that all is well, I came across her name, MARGE, scrawled across a bridge I was walking under. It took my breath away, making me laugh and cry at the same time because it was so my mom: not subtle at all. It was awesome.

Camino II was Camino del Norte, a 90 mile walk through Basque Country in northern Spain, ending in the tony village of San Sebastian, home of the most Michelin rated restaurants per capita than anywhere else in the world. You’re damned straight we visited one of those restaurants (feeling very, very underdressed in our Eddie Bauer travel dresses).  I have a fistful of toothbrushes from the fancy bathroom there to prove we were there (Stay classy, me.) That trip included an impromptu private mass in the home of St. Ignatius of Loyola, just outside of San Sebastian. A couple of Camino Sisters and I went rogue one day and did a side trip to Loyola, arriving at Ignatius’ home about a half hour before closing. We did a quick trip up one, two, three flights and stumbled upon a chapel on the third floor, just as the priest, Gaston, was setting up mass. After we finished singing “No one prays like Gaston, no one stays like Gaston, my what a guy … Gaston!” we settled in for mass, ended up being moved to tears at how lovely, holy and special the occasion was …  and then, at his suggestion, taking selfies in the chapel with Gaston and almost getting locked into the basilica in Loyola.

I just got back from Camino III, El Camino Portugués, a 90-mile seaside hike up the west coast of Portugal and Galicia, Spain. Once again, it was perfection. Miles and miles of breathtaking scenery were enjoyed on roads, walking paths and from my perch in the front of our little bus alongside an equally nauseous Camino Sister (we cannot handle the motion in the back of the bus). The eleven us definitely boosted the wine, cheese and tile economy while there (You’re welcome, Portugal and Spain.)  This walk included walking between, into and through many, many wineries. Our favorite had to be the one in Argo, Spain, where we met The Most Interesting Man in Spain. This guy loves his job, his country, his wine … and definitely loves the ladies. So, he was thrilled to have eleven middle-aged American women for wine Show and Tell. He poured his wine liberally, told us obscenity-laced stories of his father, the founder and gave us plenty of cheese, ham, olives and bread. As we left, we each got a big hug and a kiss from The Most Interesting Man in Spain. I'm pretty sure he slipped some of us his tongue and grabbed some ass. That night was marked by a much-anticipated (and feared) dinner of local eel back at our 17th Century manor. Not enough wine was consumed all day or at dinner to make that eel palatable, but I could see that the cook was offended by our pinched faces, so I choked that sucker back as best I could. I swear, I’m still burping up eel today, two weeks later. Not the souvenir I had planned to bring back with me.

And so, I’m back in my Real Life now. It’s good to go away. It’s good to come home, visions of long walks, tapas and wine dancing in my head. While I was gone, two cousins and a good friend passed away, and there was a cousin wedding and a nephew wedding. Life and Death keep coming. Joys and sorrows continue. All of it only reinforces in me the importance of cherishing my walks, be they around the neighborhood, at the farm, or on far-flung paths. When I’m faced with the inevitable obstacles to happiness, fulfillment and peace, I keep visualizing those walks in my mind and I walk on, searching for my own faith, meaning, inspiration, hope, sanity. All will be well. One step at a time. As they say on the pilgrimage, ¡Buen Camino! Enjoy the journey. 

A message from my mom on Camino I, September 2013.

Walk on ...

Joan Crawford, Dennis and Mr. Wilson

One of my favorite past times on our farm is observing the animals there. In so doing, I have learned that, while we humans can idealize animals as being kinder and more decent than the human race, that is not always the case. Sometimes animals can be just as loathsome as we humans.

Our farm is actually a racehorse breeding business where owners bring their female horses to our farm to be inseminated, gestate and give birth under the knowing hand of The Sheriff, his father The Mayor and their right hand gal, Wonder Woman. About a year into our farm adventure, a mare came onto the property already pregnant. She gave birth according to plan and her little colt began nursing and thriving. Then the horseshit hit the fan. Mrs. Horse was clearly not right. Out of nowhere one day, she began beating up on her little colt. The foal, a colt they named Dennis, had scrapes and cuts inflicted by his nutty mom. It was emotional for the whole staff of the farm to witness. But the Sheriff and his team knew that colt needed mother’s milk as long as possible in order to thrive, so they hesitantly left him with her a few more days … until it became obvious that the mare, we’ll call her Joan Crawford, was a Mommy Dearest nightmare and had taken to trying to rip the hide off her colt. They finally separated them, sending Dennis to the animal hospital at The Ohio State University to recover from his wounds before he returned to the farm.

Enter The Companion Goat. I’ve learned that occasionally this kind of thing can happen in horses, that the mother is just a bad seed and needs to be separated from her foal. While the foal can be supplemented with formula or granular milk, he still needs companionship to thrive, so horse farms will routinely bring in a “companion goat.” They will also do this if a mother horse dies in childbirth. The little goat’s job is just to be a buddy, a wingman, a roommate. So, walking through the barns one would pass the stalls and see mama horse and filly, a mama horse and colt, a baby horse and … goat. It’s an unusual sight.

Dennis and the goat got along famously. They would nuzzle each other, run together out in the paddock or, like old friends in a coffee shop, just munch their food silently next to one another. It was really sweet.

The staff grew to love that silly goat and named him Mr. Wilson as a nod to the character in the “Dennis the Menace” comic strip. Mr. Wilson acted like a playful dog, scampering around the barn, chasing the cats, peaking around the corners. He even figured out how to open his and Dennis’ stall door, the little scamp.

But eventually, things took a dark turn. One misty morning, the Sherriff entered the barn to start the day’s chores and witnessed a disturbing thing. Dennis was abusing Mr. Wilson, just as his own mother had abused him. Again, it was shocking, and heartbreaking. The Sherriff and his staff had worked so hard to nurse that colt back to health and make him feel loved and nurtured. And poor Mr. Wilson. He must have been equally disillusioned. “Dude, I’m on your side,” he must have thought. “What the farm?”

And so, to the sadness of all, Mr. Wilson went back to his original owner and Dennis lived alone in his stall, growing bigger and more combative every day. When all the other foals were eventually weaned from their own mothers, all the colts were put in the same paddock. Dennis was by far the biggest and meanest of them all. The other colts instinctively knew something was off with Dennis and took turns going at him, kicking him, and generally bullying him. It was like a very rough schoolyard scene and it helped make Dennis a badass, a thug. It was sad really. Dennis didn’t have a chance.

Joan Crawford wasn’t popular in the fields after the separation. The other mama horses kept her at bay on the outskirts of their circles. They new she wasn’t right either. Eventually, Joan’s owner sold her at an auction, with the caveat that she never be bred again because clearly girlfriend couldn’t be trusted as a mom. The day she was sent to auction, her paperwork was out of order and she had to return to the farm for a few days. When she was put back into the field with the other mares, there was a tense scene. One by one, each of the five or six mares in that field charged up to Joan, kicking and braying, as if to say, “Aw, hell no, Joan Crawford! You hurt your baby and we all know it, you crazy bitch. You are not welcome here.” That display continued for a couple of days until Joan Crawford finally left the farm for good and calm returned.

I’m sure Dennis went on to be a successful racehorse, big and mean as he was. And hopefully Joan Crawford is living a peaceful existence pulling an Amish plow somewhere, thinking about the error of her ways. Was Joan abused as a foal? Did she have a genetic screw loose somewhere? Was Dennis abusing Mr. Wilson because of an equally loose genetic screw or did he learn that behavior? Perhaps some combination of both? Who knows, but the whole cycle of abuse and nature vs. nurture was as distressing as it was interesting.

Life has gone on at the farm with dozens of foals being born and raised without incident each year since Dennis and Joan Crawford left. Watching the good, normal moms devotedly tend to their young each season is a beautiful sight and often makes me think of my own mom, of being a mom myself and how blessed I have been to have an excellent mother, good role models, a safe upbringing and good genes. In life and on horse farms, that should never be taken for granted.

Mr. Wilson and Dennis, in happier days.

Oh. Deer.

I have always loved nature and animals. I spent most of the summers in my youth outdoors either weeding for my father or trying to avoid doing so by hiding from him in the woods behind our house. In all those formative years, I rarely, if ever saw a deer in our neighborhood, in the woods behind our house, in the Metroparks, which I would frequent as a teenager, or even on road trips to the West Virginia resort my family would visit every year. The closest I ever came to a deer was watching Bambi on the Wonderful World of Disney on Sunday nights after a bath.

Today, it is a different story. As anyone who lives in the suburbs – or even urban neighborhoods – will tell you, deer are omnipresent. They are as commonplace as squirrels and way, way more obnoxious. When I’m working in the garden in my suburban back yard, I will often scare one up, waking her from her comfortable nap in my hostas. She will slowly get up and stroll away, muttering obscenities to me under her breath. She and her deer buddies in our neighborhood are like a marauding gang, roaming around with impunity, thuggish and ballsy. They just don’t give a what. When they cross a street, they seem to purposely take their time doing so.

“Yeah, I’m strolling across this major thoroughfare, stopping traffic both ways. And you’re just going to sit there in your minivan and take it, lady.”

And they’re a randy bunch, procreating with abandon. Every time I turn around there’s another newborn fawn all curled up and cozy in someone’s front yard. Mrs. Deer, you really need to take up another hobby. Sure, those babies are precious … until they’re eating my landscaping.

When I’m cooking on the grill in my suburban back yard, a deer will stand there, chewing and staring at me blankly. “Um, Mar,” he seems to say. “Those burgers seem to be overdone. And while we’re talking about food … you really need to plant more pansies in the front yard. I started nibbling on them this morning and before I knew it, I had eaten the whole bed.  They are like potato chips … you can’t have just one. Anyway, you’re going to want to plant more pansies, Mar.”

I hate urban deer. And I hate the silly fools who feed them.

Last week on our annual family vacation in West Virginia I witnessed a flock of these fools (I am referring to people here) hand feeding a veritable herd of deer. It was like a Disney World character autograph scrum.

“Here, Bambi! Have some Cap’n Crunch.”

“Why, thank you kind, simple tourist. And for your troubles, I will in turn give you some ticks with Lyme disease.” Lyme Disease is real and not something to trifle with, people. That stuff will mess you up.

The sad truth is that these suburban deer are eating everything in their path because they’re starving. The combination of urban sprawl and deer’s propensity to reproduce faster than post war Catholics is giving us deer that are too skinny and unhealthy. Those deer on the resort hilltop were like ghostly apparitions. Honestly, there are just too damned many deer for urban environments to sustain. Or West Virginia resorts, for that matter.

Out in the country around our farm, however, deer are deer. They are muscular and majestic because they are fit and living like wild animals, not pathetic circus sideshow acts. They are beautiful, really, just like The Great Prince of the Forest, Bambi’s father.  They are appropriately skittish and mostly keep away from humans because they have gotten the message that humans out there in the country are often packing heat and they and their deer friends just might end up on someone’s wall or dinner plate. But the result is that the deer population is under control, they are not overrunning the area and there is enough vegetation for them to live healthy, happy lives. Out there, I don’t hate deer.

My husband, The Deer Hunter, loves deer. In fact, he went so far as to plant apple trees on our farm so that they could treat themselves as they pass through our property. “Oh, that’s so sweet!” I exclaimed.  “What a nice thing to do for them.”

“Yeah,” he nodded.  “It’s going to make for a great deer hunting season.”

Wait. What? He is planning on getting them fat and happy only to shoot them some time in the future? It made me sad.

But then I thought of those ghostly deer on the hilltop or the Sharks and Jets deer gangs in our neighborhood back home.  I’m no hunter, have no interest personally in killing deer and am not fond of venison. But seeing firsthand the difference between healthy deer and sickly deer, I’ve come to the realization that hunting deer is a necessary part of keeping nature natural and the deer population as a whole healthy.  I know Bambi’s mother was taken out by a deer hunter (don’t all Disney mothers find tragic, untimely ends?), and that broke my little heart. But isn’t it also heartbreaking to see a once majestic beast reduced to eating boxed cereal or anything out of a human's hand?

Please stop the madness!

Postscript: THE HOUR I posted this blog, my dog was attacked by a deer on the back steps of our suburban home. They are not cute, people! 

City Dog, Country Dog

Last Halloween, my dog and I were greeting little goblins at the door as they trick-or-treated and I got a surprising little trick. A gaggle of young girls, bedecked in wings, glitter and ghostly apparel, pushed towards the door, reaching for treats while asking me, “Can we say hi to Taj?” Taj is my 80-pound Doberman pinscher, a visually intimidating specimen, but as anyone who knows him, a complete mush of a dog. Taj Mahal loves people, especially kids. Not recognizing these little girls as being from my block, I replied, “Oh, sure! How do you know Taj?” I thought they must be new kids at my corner bus stop and visited him as they walked by. But no. They replied, giggling, rubbing the dog’s nose, “Oh, he comes over our house all the time to visit and we feed him!”

Excuse me? My 80-pound Doberman is, without my knowledge and in spite of our Invisible Fence, roaming our suburban neighborhood freely and has apparently taken up with another family? “We love Taj!” they exclaimed.

As they drifted away into the darkness, I turned to my guilt-ridden dog. “You …” I hissed at him. He skulked away silently like Scar from The Lion King, as if to say, “I don’t know what they’re talking about, Mom. I’ve never seen those bitches before in my life.”

Hmmm. It got me thinking. I’m pretty sure our bifurcated farm/suburban lifestyle is creating a schizophrenic dog.

Taj came into our lives as a precious little 8-week-old pup in the fall of 2012. Shortly thereafter, The Farm of Our Dreams came into our lives and ever since, Taj has had to continually switch on and off between the rules of Suburban Dog vs. Country Dog. In the suburbs, (when he’s not stealing away to his Other Family around the corner) Taj lives a pretty typical life; he chases invading deer out of our back yard, intimidates political canvassers (a huge plus), gets many ear rubs and generally lays around a lot. Out in the country, however, Taj lives a dog’s life to be envied. As I throw a few things into the car, about to head out to the country, he eagerly jumps into the back seat, and assumes a kind of meditative sphinx pose for the hour-and-a-half drive. It’s like he’s getting into character for his country self. As soon as we arrive on the farm, he’s out the door like a shot, peeing on everything he sees. (“That’s mine. That’s mine. All this is mine.”) Then he’s off to explore The Great Outdoors, like a kid from the 70’s. “Come back when the streetlights go on!” I yell after him. Only there are no streetlights out there. He disappears over a hill, galloping like a little rocking horse.

Eventually Taj returns, all sweaty and dirty, smiling from ear to ear and slumps into a contented heap, plum tuckered out. Who knows what he has seen, chased, peed on or, frankly, eaten? There are wild turkeys, moles, voles, snakes, toads, huge Pileated Woodpeckers, ground hogs, fox and coyote, out there, not to mention horses that board at our farm. It’s a dog’s delight. I do know that he makes daily rounds through the barns, tormenting the cats there, scarfing down their cat food like it’s manna from heaven. He used to chase the chickens we had, too, until we learned – farm lesson #149 – chicken poop is toxic to horses, so they had to go. Before they were evicted, those chickens were an endless source of amusement for Taj. They’d be out minding their own business, pecking in the grass, when along comes this exuberant dog, darting through them and sending them squawking, flying in all directions like confetti.

Taj has learned the hard way that the fences penning in the horses are electric. The poor bugger got a rude awakening as a pup when he nosed up to a colt through the fence and got zapped by enough electricity to keep a 1,000-pound animal off the fence. He took off into the woods in a confused panic for about an hour. Maybe that’s why he’s unphased by a measly Invisible Fence zap … I mean, he’s been to the zapping mountaintop. It hasn’t dampened his interest in those horses though. I think he think they’re the biggest darned dogs he’s ever seen.

Back in the suburbs, we have rules: no going into the carpeting living room; no sleeping on the couch; no digging the rugs; no wandering the neighborhood (tsk, tsk). I’m sure it feels like a gulag to poor Taj. The constant switching of rules and locations has made him a nervous wreck – he’s become afraid of some of the floorboards, the icemaker, the broom, the rugs, and his dog bowl, for chrissake. And, I think he’s a bit indignant at having to hang like any other domesticated dog, when he knows he was “born free.” Seeing neighborhood dogs with cute little jackets or kerchiefs around their necks, I can almost hear him mutter to them under his breath, “You have no idea what you’re missing out there, you silly fool.”

For all I know, Taj has a secret farm family, too, that he visits when he disappears over the hills. Are they Amish? Do they call him Yoder? Do they feed him farm fresh eggs and churned butter? There’s no way he’s doing chores. I can’t even get him to retrieve a ball. I’m certain that when they start doling out jobs, he’s off like a salty teen. “Y’all, it’s been real, but I gotta bounce and get back to the 21st century,” he would say to them, galloping away.

Either way, Taj has it pretty good, living his best life in the country or the ‘burbs. Honestly, me too. 

Taj Mahal Sullivan

Paul Bunyan and Rogue Babies

One of my husband, The Land Baron’s, favorite activities on the farm is driving a four-wheeler around the property, breathing in the country air, master of his domain. Invariably, this includes a drive along the creek that separates our farm from our neighbor’s cattle farm. We “poser farmers” enjoy watching the cows as they munch their way across the landscape, occasionally mooing their disapproval as we whisk by. Recently, on one such tour, we came across our neighbor, the owner of said cattle farm, out stomping along the creek bed. This fellow is a massive man, burly and strong with a round, kind, face. He reminds me of Paul Bunyan because he’s as big as a, well, a big blue ox. He was poking along the fence line with a long stick, seemingly searching for something.

“Howdy!” the Land Baron called out. “You lose something?”

It seems one Paul Bunyan’s newborn calves had gone missing and Paul was set on finding him. It was a scorching hot day and the calf, born just the day before, could be in real danger in the heat. The mama cow mooed her concern as she followed Paul Bunyan along the fence line and he nonchalantly chatted with us, all the while poking in the grass along the creek bed. “Yeah, they do this sometimes,” he drawled. “Just get curious about the world and wander off.”

I had learned that to be true the previous summer when I was fascinated by one such wandering calf. This rogue calf, on a daily basis, insisted on sneaking under the hot wire electric fence on Paul Bunyan’s property to wander over onto our property to graze. There she was, every day, a few times a day, putzing around on our hillside, munching and enjoying the view. It made me giggle every time I saw her: defiant, independent, her own gal. Every day, a few times a day, Paul Bunyan would have to wrangle her back to the fold. What was a pain in the rear and a lot of work for him was pure entertainment for me (which is kind of a theme for my sometime-pseudo-farm life). Our little rogue gal eventually grew too big to sneak under the fence without getting zapped and her wandering stopped.

So here was Paul Bunyan, a year later, searching for yet-another rogue calf.  The Land Baron and Paul exchanged chatter about animal breeding and horse foals vs. cow calves and such. “Is it a male or a female?” I asked, trying lamely to contribute to a conversation about which I knew very little. “Oh, it’s a male” he said. “Males can be that way. The young males can be kind of big and stupid.”

“Just like human males,” I replied. "They can be big and stupid, too.” My gaze lifted to take in Paul Bunyan’s massive form. Gulp. Our eyes met for an instant and I realized I had just stepped in it.

Paul Bunyan let out a hearty laugh. “I guess I left myself open for that one!” he chortled as he walked on through the brush.

I let out a breath and laughed too. What a moron I am.

Paul Bunyan strolled on a bit and we rode alongside until he found his rogue calf. There was Little Guy, in the heat of the day, lolling in the creek bed, cool water trickling past his little form. “Oh my!” I gasped. “Is he ok?”

“Oh, he’s fine,” Paul said. “He’s just cooling off.” The water must have felt fantastic on Little Guy, because when Paul went to grab him, he didn’t even rustle. He just lay there like a nonviolent peace protestor (“Hell no, I won’t go!”). Paul scooped him up with one massive arm, like the calf was a bundle of twigs, not a one hundred pound animal, palming the calf under his soft, wet belly, and carrying him up the creek bed. When he tried to set him down, Little Guy’s legs were like puppet legs, lightly dangling on the ground under him. So, Paul tucked Little Guy gingerly under the hot wire fence and gently scooched him towards his mother. Mrs. Cow still watched the whole thing along the fence line, mooing her approval to Paul and, I would guess, chastising Little Guy for wandering so far and giving her such a fright.

Once on the other side of the fence, Little Guy, finally found his legs and scampered up the hill, Mrs. Cow nudging him from behind. We drove away, waving goodbye to Paul Bunyan as he lumbered up the hill. And there they were, Mrs. Cow and Little Guy, reunited. Little Guy was hungrily nursing. All was forgiven.

Years ago, I had a toddler that was forever going rogue, only it involved her streaking down the street naked after bath time, more times than I can count. I sympathized with that mommy cow’s exasperation, anger and then relief and comfort. Mrs. Cow and I met eyes and kind of nodded to each other. “Kids ….” I said out loud to her, shaking my head. We continued on as they nursed and nuzzled, enjoying their reunion.

Stay close, baby.

Ink in the Clink

Right about this time last summer, my husband, Captain Fun, had the idea for us to go visit a local music festival at The Ohio State Reformatory. I had just spent the weekend cooking and feeding a house full of people and was ready to be off duty. “Sure!” I thought. “I’d rather go to prison than cook or clean one more thing.” Perfect.

The Ohio State Reformatory, not too far from our farm, is where the film The Shawshank Redemption was shot some 23 years ago. I loved that movie and was interested to see the building, a gothic inspired kind of castle whose exterior beauty, I would find out, belies the sorrow within.

“A music festival out in the country …” I mused. “Hmm … what to wear?” Well, I wanted to fit in out here, so of course I donned my cowgirl hat. And it was a hot summer day, so my flouncy white skirt and a light pink shirt were just the thing. “I wonder if there will be square dancing?” 

Well, the “music festival” was titled Ink in the Clink. “Hmm … that’s funny,” I thought. “Ink? Like a writing festival?” Nope. It was a tattoo festival. “Oh, ok, cool,” I thought. Tattoos are so mainstream now. My daughter, Flora, has a darling one on her foot. My hairdresser, a beautiful young woman whom I adore, rocks them all over her body and she is precious. Tattoos are as ubiquitous as freckles these days. I’m not getting one, mind you, but I have no problem with them on others. "Let’s check it out."

At first, it felt like any other festival: corn dogs, elephant ears, fried cheese curds, freshly made lemonade … all the usual suspects. But things took a dark turn fast when I turned the corner to the vendors’ section and I knew I wasn’t in Kansas any more. First of all, I could not have felt more suburban, lily-white, middle aged, square and un-tatted. Everyone – and I mean everyone – was dressed in all black, Goth attire, most with dyed black hair and sleeveless t-shirts (why have an arm tattoo if you’re not going to show it, right?). Nary a cowboy hat in sight. My flouncy white peasant skirt was like a beacon in a sea of darkness. I felt like a prison spotlight was following me throughout the festival, screaming “Hey! I’m a big square, a poser and don’t belong here! I’m not even a real farmer!”  

I ventured in and swished over to check out the vendors. I noticed something swaying in the hot breeze ahead. “Oh, look! Is that some sort of wind chime?” Nope, that was an anatomically correct replica of an upside down human being, skinned and hanging from a pole, swaying back and forth. “Nope, I don’t need one of those, thanks.”

Onward. “Let’s check out this toy booth. Looks like they have some cute little teddy bears …. Oh no! Good God in heaven, what in the …?” There, before me, sat a disemboweled teddy bear. For sale. Apparently there is a market for devil faced teddy bears with their guts spilling out. They came in all sizes, too: large ones to put on grandma’s rocking chair, medium sized ones to give to the Munster kids, and tiny little ones to carry in one’s purse, I guess. I backed away, trying not to show my revulsion and swished over to check out the S&M whip and handcuff vendor next door.

“Babe, you want a beer?” Captain Fun asked. “Oh hell, yeah.” I’m not big on day drinking, but yes, I will have a very large can of beer, thank you. Must get the image of the tortured teddy out of my mind. “Let’s go listen to the band,” I said, guzzling my Natty Light.

Ah, music. It soothes the soul. I was expecting some good country music. Wrong again. The featured band, Saliva, was just starting. “Hmm. I’m not familiar with them,” I thought, wiping beer from my mouth. Now, I hate to sound as suburban, lily-white, middle aged, square and un-tatted as I am but, well, let’s just say that Saliva was not my cup of drool. I just don’t get screamo bands. I have no idea what the “singer” was saying, but I think he was very angry about something. Maybe he was scared of that devil teddy.

We downed the cold beers and went inside the Reformatory to check out the “ink” portion of the festival. The interior of the Ohio State Reformatory is rather interesting and historical but oppressively sad. One can just feel the misery. It permeates the walls. Oh, and it’s definitely haunted. (They have regular ghost hunting events and I am 100% sure they bump into plenty.) We perused the exhibits a bit then wandered into the old infirmary of the prison, where the inking was taking place. It was such a surreal scene: rows and rows of gurneys were lined up with customers laying down receiving their customized tattoos in the hushed, semi-light. It felt like that scene in Gone With the Wind when the camera pans out to the rows upon rows of soldiers being treated for gruesome injuries. But these people were quite cheerful, paying good money to be here and seemed completely at ease in this haunted prison. And the art being made was quite beautiful, really.

To complete the scene, for some reason there was a little display in the corner of the room with jars of potions as well as preserved newts, bats and God knows what else with a very serious sign in front of them: “No photographs please.” No photos needed, thanks. These images will haunt my dreams.

After a quick tour of the prison cells, stacked one on top of the other like sad shoeboxes, paint peeling, as if the wall themselves were weeping, it was time to go.

Ink in the Clink was definitely an experience. The visuals were something else. But the most surprising thing was that, to a person, every single individual I encountered was completely lovely, polite and welcoming. Even the tortured teddy vendor. Go figure. Maybe they just were coveting my pasty Irish flesh as a canvas for their art. Maybe they were high on eye of newt or something. Or maybe you just can’t judge a tattooed book by its cover. 

Why?

Postscript: Dear reader, you're in luck because Ink in the Clink is happening the weekend of this writing, July 14-16, 2017!

Nice Tomatoes!

So, while, gardening can bring all sorts of life lessons, it also brings more practical lessons. I’ve learned cold hard truths about some vegetables that I decided to confront head on.

To start, Pumpkin, you are a pain the ass. You take up all sorts of room, going rogue all over the place. I keep having to turn whatever paltry pumpkins pop up so they don’t get that weird flat side that ends up all mealy and nasty. Furthermore, let’s face it, no one is really that interested in you beyond a few weeks in the fall, and that’s basically for decoration. Even if I do raise one of you to maturity, Pumpkin, you are way too much trouble to cook. I’m done with you. You are officially replaced by fake pumpkins for decoration.

Green Pepper, what is it with you? I planted you and your hipster sister, Purple Pepper right next to each other and you both only coughed up a few tiny peppers with oddly thick skin. Cute, but hardly worth the effort. You are done. Conversely, Banana Pepper and Hot Hungarian Wax Pepper? Slow. Down. Pump the breaks already. I’m an Irish gal; I barely know what to do with you. Stop being so pushy, flooding my kitchen with product. And, by the way, how about making it clear which one of you is which? When you get thrown into a basket together, it’s like Russian roulette; it could be an yummy hot/sweet experience, or a blow your doors off, cartoon “ah-OOO-ga” moment. I mean, Banana and Hungarian Wax ... you’re in, but only one plant each.  I can’t deal with more than that. You’re too aggressive.

Broccoli and Cauliflower, you are like the Patti Dukes of the garden. Broccoli, you are Patti, all down home and basic. And then there’s you, Cauliflower, the darling of the gluten free set, all trendy and au currant. But …. Broccoli, I’ve always been a fan because you resemble little trees, you’re versatile as a side dish and in salads (especially delicious with bacon, but what isn’t). But to grow you in a garden is a huge bummer. I take my eye off you for a couple of weeks and you get all spindly and leggy … and why so bitter? You're out. Cauliflower, I’m happy for your recent popularity, I really am. You remind me of that awkward boy in grade school that no one really noticed until after he went through puberty and turned into a popular track star hotty. I mean, go you. But again, to grow you in a garden is a study in futility. You’re passive aggressive, you won't grow and don’t seem to want to be there. I don’t have time for you, Cauliflower. I’ll buy you already riced from the grocery store and enjoy you as a gluten free crust on my pizza, but you’re evicted from my garden.

Speaking of vegetable relatives, Zucchini and your cousin Summer Squash, we need to talk. Zucchini, I like you in moderation. If I grow too much of you, which I always do, I can either give you away or make zucchini bread out of you. A vegetable bread? That’s so great! Thank you for being adaptable. You're in, but stay in the slow lane. But Summer Squash? Listen … (sigh) … nobody likes you that much. I’m sorry, but it’s true. I always grow too much of you and I literally cannot give you away. You’re kind of boring, your texture is a little weird and sometimes … sorry … you get these gross knobs all over your skin that are just unappetizing. Ugh. Ok, ok … I’ll keep one plant each of the Zucchini and Summer Squash.. But don’t go all Banana Pepper on me and take over my kitchen. I mean, I can’t make Summer Squash bread.

Now, Eggplant … you are full of surprises. I grew up in an Irish household, so I really didn’t know much about you (or any fresh vegetables, to be honest). When I first planted you, you caught my attention: so pretty, so aubergine. But your spongy texture quite frankly grossed me out … until I discovered your secret. When I salt you and let you sit for a while, all that moisture comes out and you are ready to party. I’ve found so many fun summer recipes for you! I can brush you with herbed olive oil and grill you, or pan fry you or bake you. When I stack you with fresh tomatoes, basil and mozzarella … OMG. You are amazing! A tastegazme. Really, I’m a fan. Eggplant, you can stay.

Ok, Kale, I planted you with trepidation. I mean, you’re so trendy and, let’s face it, a little pretentious. It is early in the season, but already I can tell … Kale, I think I like you. You are a giver. I leave you alone and cut you as needed. Next time I turn around, you’re back whole hog. I cut you again, and there you are again. You’re like the Everlasting Gobstopper of vegetables. From what I hear you keep giving into late fall, so I’m exploring recipes. If all else fails I can freeze you and use you in smoothies. Anyway, you are a happy surprise. Kale, welcome to the garden.

Speaking of surprises … Garlic, you saucy minx. You are a bulb that we eat, which is so cool. You are so unselfish and giving, you play well with others, you make others better. Truly, you are great. But who knew you had another little gift … Scapes!? After my husband, Mr. Green Jeans, first planted you, I was puttering around in the garden in late spring and noticed that you had grown green, beautiful, curly tendrils, like a little Irish toddler. I thought to myself, “surely these must be edible.” A quick Google search revealed that those shoots are called “scapes,”are only briefly available in the spring and are much coveted. So, I lopped off those scapes, cooked them up and … wow! Garlicky, oniony, grassy. Really yummy and different. Garlic, you’re in.

Which brings us to Tomato. Oh, Tomato, I remember when I didn’t like you as a child, and that’s when you actually tasted like tomatoes. My mother would eat a tomato like an apple, salting each bite as she went. I could barely look at her, it made me so queasy. Now, I’m a grown ass adult and I like you, Tomato. And that was before trying you right out of the garden. Holy cow, it has been life changing, especially when I learned how to make tomato sauce with fresh tomatoes, garlic (love you!) and fresh basil. I don’t know if I’ve ever eaten anything so transformative. It’s like sunshine in your mouth. It’s like joy on a plate: so fresh and bright and healthy. This Irish gal is forever changed. Tomato, I’m all in. I’m planting you every year in many different varieties. I know that some of you will rot on the vine if I don’t get to you, but it’s ok, because you are fun to throw over the fence and I enjoy hearing you splat on the grass. In fact, I think I’ll save my rotten tomatoes to hurl at the next annoying politician.

I’m going to need more tomatoes.

My newfound friends.

Papa Was a Garden Gnome

We have a garden at our farm. Not like my suburban garden, full of hostas, spiderwort and hydrangea, but a “Garden garden.” The previous owners were real farmers and had a huge, lovely vegetable garden, overflowing with tomatoes, squash, beans, and a beautiful strawberry patch. While I’m a halfway decent suburban gardener, I’m a lousy farm gardener because – guess what? – you have to tend a farm garden. The first year we tried, we ended up with a weed garden that had a few spindly vegetables fighting for existence.

Whenever I am working in the garden, I think of my dad. A son of Irish immigrants, he had a deep love for the land: nurturing it, fiddling around with the soil and whatnot. It’s not like he was a farmer by any means. He as a lawyer, an estate planner, a numbers guy. But he loved a beautiful yard, a large expanse of freshly cut grass with beautiful flowers tucked in around it. 

When I was two years old, he moved our family of eleven into a house on an acre of land in Rocky River, which is a good-sized plot for a suburb. Our family spent the next 33 years working every square inch of that yard, weeding it, cutting it, planting it, trimming it. With 9 kids and an ever-growing army of grandchildren providing free labor, Big Jack would dream up all sorts of projects to direct us. Dad had 5 sons who were coming of age at the height of the mid-60’s. Any parent knows that a busy teen is a tired teen and a tired teen is much less likely to be a naughty teen. (My brothers proved that axiom wrong, but still it was a good thought.) So it was Jack’s mission to keep us all tired.

Every Saturday growing up, our yard was abuzz with activity. My older brothers were in charge of heavier manual labor – hauling grass clippings, cutting the grass (another never-ending chore). My job was to weed the front myrtle patch. And the grass. And the flower beds. It was a Sisyphean chore, never, ever done. I’m sure Jack sprinkled weed seeds around that garden at night, just to keep us all busy weeding the damned thing all summer long.

I was the only person I knew whose job it was to weed the “wild grass” from the front law. On scorching summer days, as friends would pedal by our house on their way to the pool or Dairy Queen, I would be bent over, like a crop worker picking cotton, a hot sunburn cooking at the base of my back where my t-shirt would ride up. Hard work for a gal who was up until 1 a.m. watching Johnny Carson with her mom (there are benefits to being the youngest of 9). Any friend who wanted to play got roped into weeding with me so as to free me from my chores sooner.  By the end of the summer, they too had the “Mark of Jack,” that same low back sunburn.

Nothing pleased Jack more than a yard full of child laborers whom he rewarded every Saturday with freshly grilled “skin on wieners.” To this day I have no idea what those are, but of course it always sounded dirty. They were delicious, but after slaving in a hot, humid yard all day, sunburnt, freckled and dehydrated, I would have eaten a boot.

One of my other jobs in the yard was planting little pockets of flower gardens around. Because I was the youngest and smallest, Jack thought it was cute that I could fit under the bushes, squeeze behind the grill, duck in just under a window. I would battle the midgies and mosquitos and then, like an urchin chimney sweep, I’d emerge all dirt covered and sweaty, but the task was done --- a lovely little pop of color just outside the dining room window. A little floral surprise just under the sweep of the pine tree limbs. A tiny begonia bonanza under the mushroom lights over on the swale. I have to admit, it did look pretty as I lay with an ice pack on my head, applying Noxzema to my sunburn in the air-conditioned living room.

God, I hated working in that yard. But of course now, I am thankful for it. I am thankful for the time together with my family, all of us pissing and moaning and cursing under our breath. Talk about bonding. I am thankful for the lesson of hard work, working together for a shared goal. I am thankful for the lessons of cherishing the land, walking gently upon the earth, reducing, reusing, recycling. (A man who was years ahead of his time, he had 3 large compost piles at the back of the property to recycle grass clippings, leaves and yard waste.) And above all, as my nieces so beautifully said at my dad’s funeral almost 20 years ago, I am thankful for a dad who was wise enough to know that all the manual labor wasn’t about the yard at all. It was about us. About keeping a large family busy, engaged, in touch, humble. And yes, tired.

This Father’s Day, with the help of real farmers who know what they’re doing, we’ve figured out the vegetable garden (raised beds and plastic covering!). As I plant my little pots, weed my garden and look out over the awesome beauty of the sun rising over the mist covered hills of our farm, I will think of Jack, smiling down on me, arms akimbo with that big Irish grin. He would never say, “told you so,” or anything like that, but rather an understated “God love you,” or “Keep the faith.”

Thanks, Dad. Happy Father’s Day. You would so love this farm.

Amish Guys Got Swagger

I begrudgingly agreed to my husband’s farm fantasy. I don’t know how it happened, really. We stopped in to look at a farm one day, and as luck would have it, it was one of those magical autumn days in Ohio. As we drove through the gates, rather than seeing steaming piles of God-knows-what, I saw rolling, grassy, well-manicured hills, horses frolicking about. The air was crisp and cool. The sun shimmered on the yellow and orange leaves of the trees. It was breathtaking. It really was.

“Ok,” I thought. “You’ve got my attention.”

A four wheeler tour of the property, a glass wine and an al fresco lunch of locally raised pork with salad greens right from the garden … some bids, and counter bids and … boom! We were farm owners. Well, weekend farm owners, really. Because we wanted to stay married and, like I've mentioned before, I'm not Amish, we kept our suburban house. This farm fantasy would only work because we invested in a self sufficient, well run business. We would visit the property on the weekends and such. Like posers, you know.

So, just as I was entering a crossroads in my life, ready to clean out junk drawers in my kitchen and maybe find my "Calling" in there, I found myself building a farm house. My husband, Farmer Brown and I are both from very large families. This adventure would only be fun if we had playmates, so we decided to make room for them by building a house that could hold a sizable group of folks for dinner. (And, ok, a lot of beds because our friends and family like wine and it’s kind of drive to get there.) We interviewed various builders of all stripes and in the end, we chose the Amish guy. Not because he was the cheapest, but quite frankly, because the guy had swagger. He didn’t have zippers or a belt, but he had swagger.

The Amish, guy was actually one of a dynamic duo of brothers. I’ll call them Levi and Uriah because all Amish men are named either Levi or Uriah*. I didn’t know much about the ins and outs of the Amish lifestyle before this, but I was expecting much more quaint, country bumpkin fellows. Not at all the case, as it turns out. Tall, lanky and bearded, Levi was the father of 9 boys. I’m one of 9, so we had some simpatico. Uriah, (“Uri”) was the office guy, very efficient at showing samples of beautiful wood, going over blueprints and roofing materials and closing the deal. Only his bowl haircut gave a hint that he was Amish. I was kind of like, “Are you putting me on? Are you really Amish or is there a Jag out back and scotch in your bottom drawer?” He was legit, though.

Levi was the day-to-day on site guy. He had his own driver, thank you very much, a fine “English” man who drove him anywhere he needed to go because the Amish don’t drive cars. When he would arrive for our weekly meetings he’d amble out of the truck like an underdressed rock star and saunter over to me, a toothpick in his mouth. He had a glint in his eye that said, “Yeah, I’m rocking these overalls and straw hat, lady.” And he did. A handsome devil, I have to say. Not exactly Harrison Ford in “Witness,” but kind of an Amish Michael Keaton, if that makes any sense.

So Levi doesn’t drive, but he and Uri do both use email and cell phones. When I discovered this, I got excited.

"Oh," I said, "Can I share my Pinterest account with you to give you an idea of what we're thinking about?" 

Silence. Farmer Brown looked at me askance, shaking his head.

"No? … Ok, I guess I just ... never mind." 

Hard to know the rules here. In fact, later on in the project when I visited the Amish cabinetmaker they referred me to in the remote back hills of Ohio (surely a cousin, because the Amish are like the Irish that way, keeping things in the family), the office was in a barn with a gaslight hanging from the ceiling, no air conditioning in 100-degree heat … and a desktop computer. What the? 

Anyway, I got comfortable with Levi after a few weeks. When things looked like they were slowing down, I’d playfully punch him in the shoulder … “We’re going to be in by Thanksgiving, right, Levi?”  

“Oh yeah, Miss Mary, we’ll be done by then” he would cockily reply.

I liked the guy so I hoped he wasn’t lying because Farmer Brown, an entrepreneur who doesn’t take BS from anyone, not even a handsome Amish building magnate, had a stopwatch going, and had pulled Levi aside at the beginning of the project, warning him, “I know that all contractors have larceny in their hearts.” Good one, right? “I want you to assure me that this house will be finished and we will be in by Thanksgiving.”  Game on, Levi. One bearded man against another. Farmer Brown was clearly not intimidated by that straw hat.

Uri and Levi were true to their word and, with a flurry of silent, hardworking, task-driven Amish craftsmen descending on the property, they had that darned house built in 8 month’s time.  We were sitting down to Thanksgiving dinner, right on schedule.

It was all set to be a picture perfect holiday in our new farmhouse … until I sent my daughters on a drug run from the dinner table. But that’s another story.

* I hope I’m not offending anyone here … but my Amish friends aren’t allowed on the Facebook and blogs are they? If you’re Amish and cheating  … tsk, tsk!

Photo by Anetlanda/iStock / Getty Images

Listen ... I'm not Amish

"I just want to stop and look at this farm while we're out" he said. "Oh for chrissakes," I thought. I had been down this road before.

Five years prior, my husband, brought me and my three daughters to a godforsaken, wouldn't-hit-a-dog-in-the-ass-with-it, muddy, lumpy farm in northern/mid-Ohio. At the time, he was wild for a goat farm...

"We should get ahead of this growing market. It's the fastest growing protein in the country. We could raise goats. Get a jump on the competition, corner the market, be the goat gods."

So, there we were, trudging through this desolate property, and the girls are going wild with the prospect of owning a farm. Here's the scene...

Daughter #1: "Dad, can I get puppy on the farm?!"

Him: "Sure!"

Daughter #2: "Can I get a pig, Dad?! I looove pigs. Omg, they're so cute! Like Babe...”

Him: "Sure, why not?!"

Daughter #3: "I want ducks ... ducklings! Ooooo. Ducklings, Dad!"

Him: "Ok, ok. Yeah."

Me: "Um .... wait. We are just looking everyone. No one is getting a pig ... or a duck, or a puppy. Or a goat, for that matter. Just slow down everyone. Slow. The heck down."

A farm? Really? A farm.

Later that night, after putting exuberant, ecstatic, delusional 4, 7 and 9 year old little girls to bed, visions of farm animals dancing in their heads, I sat down next to my husband, looked him straight in the eyes and spoke my truth:

"Sweetheart, I get it. It get it that you have long had farm dreams. I get that you want a connection to the land and that you want the girls to have that too." He nodded, his eyes dancing with excitement as he picked the dirt (or was that goat shit?) off his sneakers. Then I lowered the boom ... "But, when I look at that filthy, stinky farm, all that mud, that piece of crap house that feels like an Alice in Wonderland reject house ... when I think of, God help me, owning farm animals ... Pigs for chrissakes ... all I see is work for me. Me. Not you. "

I started to gather steam. "So, what's the plan? We are going to move from our suburban home to be ... what? Farmers? I don't know anything about farms or farming.  And frankly, neither do you. Maybe we should start with you pulling a weed or two here in the ‘burbs. You don't even cut the grass, for God's sake."

You see, my husband is an entrepreneur and he's an expert at delegating. He is the original Tom Sawyer. I could just see me slaving away, mucking stalls and wiping my brow like a Dust Bowl era heroine, while he would breeze in and out of "the farm" carefree and happy. Nope. That was definitely not happening.

"I get it," I continued. "I get it for you. But me? I am not that person, dude. Not me." He nodded, silent, the glimmer going out of his eyes. "Look, I get that YOU want this. If you’re going ahead with this, you and your Amish wife will be very happy together. Knock yourself out. You God bless you. I'm out."

Sorry, Babe, it is what it is. Dodged that bullet.

Fast forward ... 10 years later. We have a farm.