Family Photo

I have come to believe that it is nearly impossible to take a perfect family photo at this stage. Someone is always sticking out their tongue, frowning, or showing off their best dance moves. Or crying, of course, we can't leave that one out.
And the kids don't always cooperate, either.
Just kidding.
So I wanted to share some family photos...

See how calm and innocent they appear to be? (bribed by Jelly Bellies)

Mostly, though, you have one adorable smile that can be cropped from the craziness. Because while I would like to believe that our family is mostly like this:

This may be a closer representation

So, instead, I catch sweet moments where I can.

And there is no shortage of those.

Dreaming of Spring

This has been the view from our front window for a number of months now. Needless to say, we are ready for spring. Really ready. So, the other night we decided to have a spring-themed family night.

David helped me mix up the dirt cake batter. We may or may not have tasted some.
Ryan had the honor of serving the dirt cake...note the lack of flowers. That's because this is a spring party, not a summer party...there is just bare dirt in spring. At least that is how I justify my lack of frilly-ness for this event. There were, however lots of worms. And I learned two things that night about eating gummy worm cake with boys.

First, if they are little boys, they need gummy-grubs. Worms are too easy to slurp up quickly and choke on. Cut those worms into fourths and call them grubs. Just as yummy and not so dangerous.

Second, if they are older boys, avoid letting them see you cut the worms into grubs. Because they may just start talking about how real worms bleed when you tear them in two. Your husband might join in when he sees you turn green, talking about how slimy and gooey they are. They may banter back and forth, father and son, tormenting you with gross boy talk. And then you may not want to finish any of your own dirt cake.

After we finished eating, we played a game of Memory. I printed out two matching pictures of different fruits and vegetables from Henry Field's online seed catalog, then cut and pasted them onto some colored paper. Then, I sandwiched the cards between clear contact paper to make them kid-friendly and a bit more durable.We had a blast with this! Even David got in on the fun. Games with kids this age can be a little tough- they are just learning how to take turns, be patient, not knock over the playing pieces, etc. Something this simple challenged both our boys while still being really enjoyable for mom and dad.

We were planning on more spring stuff that night...I had visions of actually pulling out the suntan lotion and a picnic blanket for dinner, maybe even playing some beach boys...but that morning we were surprised with our first two lambs of the season. So, we ended up having to do quite a bit of work in the machine shed for the little ones, making the time we had for our family night a bit shorter. Although, being boys...I am sure they had nearly as much fun playing in the machine shed: moving wood in their wheelbarrow, jumping on hay bales, and seeing new baby lambs as they would have at mom's fake picnic.

However, if this lingers much longer, I can't be held accountable for any sand I import from faraway lands to make castles in my living room.

Planting and Postcards

I can even see her face as I remember back to April.
“Let’s do it. Where are they?” She was determined this year. Undeterred by the chill of the air or the daunting nature of the task, she headed out to the garden with a purposeful stride. It was planting season and she was here again. Last year she was here too, with a spade, turning under sod by hand. This year, with that same spade, we easily turned over last year’s garden, thawed from winter and ready for another season.
“I want to come when you are planting your garden,” she had said by phone in early March. “When is that?” And I reassured her that we would be fine- that I could handle planting a garden by myself, and she again insisted “It makes the most sense. Besides, I like to work in the garden.”
Oh, that sister of mine. Through the years, when I was afraid to get my hands dirty, leery of the creepy-crawlies lurking behind this leaf or that, she dug and planted and harvested and found satisfaction there.
Years later, on an Iowan farm in the middle of nowhere, in the peace of an early-spring afternoon, she and I soaked in quiet while three small kids slept indoors.
She pushed each onion set gingerly into the earth, stringing underground pearls one by one. “Like this? Am I spacing them too closely together?”
“Oh, that’s hard to do,” I reassured her. And bit by bit we dug knees and muddy fingers into cool dirt and planted barren garden into hope of something more. And as we finished each row we measured with a stick to keep them straight. There was always much discussion on which stick in particular had been used to measure the last row (for the sake of consistency) and we both take it seriously\, as if the perfect planting of onion rows mattered beyond tomorrow. We hunched back down and planted, methodically, letting conversation steer us far from this piece of earth and into other times, other places.

And now, in the cool of a September morning, I go out and dig buried treasure; harvesting the bounty from what we started that day. The onions are plump and ready for drying and braiding and hanging out. The garden will once again be barren, the onions, eaten and enjoyed, and all that will remain is the wisp of time spent stitching those memories into hearts on that quiet afternoon in spring.

.
It always amazes me that people will come and get dirty right next to me- painting walls or planting gardens or feeding sheep-the mess of daily life is something we often work hard to avoid. And yet time and again they come. And time and again, shoulder to shoulder, we work. And while so much of contemporary life allows us to be disconnected and individual, the yoke of work such as this asks us to pull on each other, to yoke up and walk in the same direction, to keep pace.

And in the moment we think we are planting a garden or tearing off a roof or canning tomatoes. But that dust soon settles and I realize that the work itself was nothing more than the tool used to stitch something lasting out of the temporary, fleeting everyday.

We pull them out and dust them off like cherished postcards from long ago, those memories made during the ordinary tasks of daily life.

Indoors and Out

Typed down this past April. Wiping off the dust, thought I would share...
------------------------


Having been myself, a child, content to be indoors
(climate controlled and comfortable was my favorite way to explore)

I could sell lemonade in a stand, and make a nice picnic outside
But the dirt? That could stay far away.

The garden and flowers could be tended by another
I would stay inside, if I had my druthers.

So it seems to me odd, a strange thing, for sure
To find myself with boys who can’t stay indoors
Before they even climb out of PJ’s
They are asking and pleading if today is the day
Could today be the one? Please mom, let it be
Could this be the day we are to be free?
Outside to roam to search and to climb
To seek ordinary treasures, to delight in the find?

They pull on chore boots to combat the mud
And a snap of coat buttons and off they run.
And I watch with delight as they go, one after the other
Small one working hard to keep up with that brother
They head out to discover, to play and delight
To hunt for robin’s nests, to see them take flight

How did this happen? Boys who love mud and bugs?
Kids who would choose grass any day over rugs?

That great yawning outdoors now draws me, too
With it’s warm sun for my back, it’s cool morning dew
It is true, that bright, crisp, clear day calls my name,
And that indoor-only girl? I hardly remember her name.

And now I get my grandpa’s love of the dirt
How he could work out of doors until sweat drenched his shirt
Long days you could find him, content with the ground
The midday rustling of trees and his spade the only sounds
I know the delight in that cool lemonade
Taken after a hard day’s work, sitting down in the shade.

When winter decided to come up for air, and we were graced with a few days nearing 50 degrees, we could hardly contain ourselves. Fresh air and open windows and romps in the mud beckoned, and we answered with delight.

I found Ryan's first pair of "chorin' boots" and pulled them out for David. It was a good thing, too, because boys and mud are like glue and paper...birds and song...Oreo's and milk, and it was not long before he was tap-tap-tap-splish-sploshing through the nearest puddle.

Ryan, true to form, was off on an adventure. Of course, note that he has his stick in hand- never leave home without a trusty stick.

I hope when these days are long gone, one thing I remember is how much I loved hearing David call for Ryan. He 's doing that in the picture above- pausing to call with all his might...waiting for an answer, waiting to run in the right direction.

Ryan, (stick still in-hand) has found the half-melted snow-cave his dad carved out for him only days before.

And of course, we couldn't take a trip outside without seeing the "ladies". In a few months, we hope to be calling them "mom's." We can't wait! See that one on the right? That's Millie. And she still thinks she is more human than sheep.
We still have one cow (see those horns!?). He has grown a little, too.

It has turned back cold again this week- back down to the 20's and 30's- but oh, that breath of Spring was enough to get us dreaming...and planning...and hoping for brighter, warmer days!

The Making of Memories

This morning Phil stated looking back at some of our old posts here. Oh, the trips down memory lane! Though I have always used this blog as a way to connect with people back in Washington, the secondary reasons of chronicling our lives here has always been a side-benefit I could look forward to.
But what a journey to recall where we have been. We read this, which was my first post on this blog. And marvelled at this, our three year old back when he was only one. We remembered crock-pot eating for three months and total room transformations. Traveling down memory lane we laughed at Millie, our large, bossy two year old sheep when she was just a bottle lamb. All this and we were just scratching the surface.
This three year journey has been a wild one. And, truly, continues to be. What a gift to look back and reminisce. And, what encouragement to continue writing about this journey.

Wednesday Morning Thankfulness

Ann Voskamp has captivated me with her gratitude.
This morning, beyond all understanding, I want to dive in the deep end, wallow in longing and sadness. I stand here in the balance once again. Bah, too often.
This morning, though, I choose gratitude, for I know no other antidote. For it is only when I lose perspective- look past those sweet and abundant gifts- that I can be at all discontent. Who, upon opening their eyes to the true beauty around them, can be anything but thankful?

eyes searching, wonder reflected

A blur of energy, 15 months in constant movement

grass, green in November. A small bike waiting for adventure

I asked Ryan to "do what I do" and his tree, my tree side by side result. We dream of apples on green-leaved trees, swings and blue skies to dream under

Wood piled high to warm the house for the day, brought in by husband in the early hours before work

Warmth and glow, the hum and backdrop comforting our days

Gifts and connections- a table runner made lovingly by my mom, tiny perfect pumpkins and squash from a friend, a computer that spans miles, a red shaker to make music

Light of day spilling into our house

A rocking chair, made by great grandpa, enjoyed for (now) two generations

Compassion shown to a hurting friend, three huddle close and share comfort

Hair mussed from a warm, long sleep, eyes defying age- when did he grow so old?

Tiny hands grasping the same wood turned by great grandfather, generations linking

Dad and boys, teaching and learning, patience and love shine through

"... a happy day is not the genesis of thanksgiving,rather,
thanksgiving is the genesis of the happy day."

-Ann Voskamp

The ability to live full of joy is not so much our circumstance, but more about our orientation to it. Sometimes, I just need a moment or two to re-orient myself.

What are you grateful for today? Beauty abounds for us all, for the Giver is quite generous. I would love to hear of the beauty surrounding you today.

A First Snow Falls

I stand near the back door holding coffee, ready for my husband who is busy rebuilding the fire that was reduced to embers throughout the night. The smell of wood smoke mingling with the clean frosty air of snow is nearly intoxicating. Swept away with anticipation I am brought back to places of warmth in years past, where the formidable cold was held back steadily by a sturdy house and a crackling fire.

Near the end of summer and throughout fall, I start to feel splayed out- pulled in a hundred directions and always seeing more that needs to be done. I am taken from home, beckoned outside to do, do, do. Even inside, the call is to do- do cleaning, do canning, do winter proofing, do laundry. This first blanket of snow is a sign that the frenzied work of fall is nearing completion, and a worthy and welcome rest is on the horizon.
Winter calls us home again, and we hunker down inside, cozy and content, for there is no endless project calling our names. Food has been put up, the garden lain to rest. Warmth wraps its arms around us this time of year and pulls us in close.
David, upon seeing the earth blanketed with snow, bounces and squeals delight, and then pads his way in fleece footed pajamas to the front window. He spreads his arms wide and leans his forehead against the cold glass. Watching kids experience this world is a training ground for appreciation. We lose the magic of simple beauty as we cram every space with speed and grandeur. We grow taller and complain about scraping the snow from windshields, but those little eyes haven’t yet become immune to the beauty, and they delight in the simple, yet incredible, wonders around them. He studies the world outside and its new clothes, and contrary to my normal character, I slow down and watch with him. I notice a small bird, hunting for scraps to warm her own nest between the patches of snow. The earth seems quiet here, covered just for this morning in perfect white, its blue hue streaming through our windows so that whether or not you are looking outside you know the snow has fallen. The world, despite its many imperfections, is momentarily pure and clean. Our home, warm and inviting, comforts and renews this morning, and I am filled with thankfulness that we have this refuge. And I am equally thankful that winter is on its way with its call to rest weary bones once again.
Where we, with our lists and agendas, would have fall last endlessly so we could ever-more complete important tasks, God, with His wisdom, will soon say “It is finished,” providing promise of a coming rest we did not know we needed.

“He stilled the storm to a whisper; the waves of the sea were hushed. They were glad when it grew calm, and he guided them to their desired haven. Let them give thanks to the Lord for His unfailing love and his wonderful deeds for men.”
Psalm 107:29-31

The Pace of Peace

It all started with a mishap. I suppose that's how most of my stories start- as when things go along quite swimmingly, there is nothing too surprising to report. That old pipe under frozen ground, stretched between house and well, broke- burst-cracked, or in some way, shape, or form, ceased to work.
In America, we don't often have the pleasure of being so thankful for something as basic as running water. I have been given this gift many times here on the farm. And let me tell you, I am thankful, thankful, thankful for that warm (or cold) stream of water that so effortlessly pours from my faucets. But I digress...
This, ironically, was not the mishap. When the last of frost had melted away and the ground was crumbly instead of clumpy (as the farmers put it, well, I don't know if that's how farmers put it, but we'll pretend for the tale's sake), we rented a trenching machine. The behemoth came with its own trailer and should have come with it's own set of earmuffs. When properly positioned, it plowed into the rich earth; way down, 48 inches, to be exact. It clipped along at a steady pace, snaking across the yard to the well. I held my breath watching the machine chug chug chug along, knowing at any minute it could run into the old water line, the sewer main, any number of unknown buried objects (a farmstead has many stories to tell under that layer of soil).
We kept Ryan and David far from the large, loud and dangerous machine. They watched eagerly from the window, fascinated by it. When Phil came in half way through, he was weary, worn, and dirty. While he ate a sandwich, we ventured out to survey the progress. With a tape measure, we realized that while the machine's violent grabbing and throwing was creating a trench, (a feat in itself in such clay-like, heavy soil) it was also throwing a foot of earth back into the hole. That foot of soil was not to be trifled with- it would have to be removed somehow so the pipe could be pushed firmly down 4 feet below ground level. The frost-line can reach over three feet here some years, and we didn't want to chance being in this situation again.
It's funny the things that make us slow down, appreciate life a bit more. Because at this point, we didn't stop- we didn't figure out how to fix the refilling issue. Hurry hurry hurry get it done before the weekend's over, there is more trenching to do! "We'll just get that last foot out by hand or something", we reasoned with each other dismissively. (It made sense at the time)
And so was put in motion yet another opportunity to learn the meaning of focus, discipline and patience.
And then, the mishap. When the link snapped and our rented trenching machine stopped in its tracks, a rock sunk in my stomach- what would we owe? How would we finish our trench? And what about that extra foot of dirt at the bottom of the 8 inch wide hole? But at the end of a long day we were all tired, frustrated and weary, and we called it a night.
The next morning, boosted by a fresh batch of cinnamon rolls, we headed out to the back yard, and surveyed the landscape. With no other option, we borrowed some hand-tools from Neighbor Mike, and fashioned some of our own (nothing nearly as good as the old time tools hanging around in Mike's barn), and headed to work, painstakingly dipping and scooping the last foot of earth from the bottom of the hole, dreaming of water.
Sssshh, thud, ssshhh, thud. The steady rhythm of the "crumber" dragging along the bottom of the trench and the dull sound of dirt being dumped onto the grass outside the narrow hole is punctuated only by laughter and talking. Over post-hole diggers, crumbers, and sweat, we reconnect. Sometimes there is only silence, a faint chirping of birds, whispering trees, and ssshh, thud, ssshh, thud. The work is hard, our bodies ache for relief, and so we take turns- the tagged-out member sprawled on a picnic blanket with two wide-eyed boys (one of whom, by the way, was later quite useful in the "tamping down" stage of the process.)
It was so opposite, such amazing dichotomy, to sit and witness the difference between man and machine. Man tires, the machine does not. The machine can break, man only wearies for the day. Man takes longer than machine, so, so much longer. But beneath all of this, encircling the entire event, is something so much more important.
That machine, the fast, intentional, harsh, thrashing, incessant stream of activity allowed for nothing else- no small voices, no interruptions, no questions or laughter or conversation. It allowed only for the efficient plowing-through of the unpleasantries of life. But what is life but a series of activities? Must some be deemed unworthy of time, patience, and gratitude for its gift, while others are given elitist status because of their relaxing nature? Might not all moments be worthy of enjoyment? Must we rush through the life, only waiting and longing for a ceasing of activity? Man, in all of his inefficiencies and imperfections, can allow- must allow- for life to happen through it all. Kids can run and jump over a trench being made with a shovel; shovels can be lain aside to tackle said child into peals of laughter.
It was in that moment, that moment where the sun cast its rays low, lingering on the edge of the world, one boy picking quietly at blades of grass and the other watching intently the rhythm of tools from a way of life now collecting dust on a bookshelf, I understood this rare slice of peace- a gift in itself- one that does not come from inactivity nor is it attained by escaping the trials set before us. No, it lurks in those spots least noticed, in slowing down, working through, persevering. Right where I never expected it, and just where it was meant to be.

A new journey

Three Novembers ago, we boarded a plane headed for farm country.
I looked down. The world below was covered in a blanked of white. Tears stung my eyes, threatening to spill. I pulled my baby. now seven months old, a bit closer. The heart-split happening mid-air, above the great nation spread below- a world divided. It was a beginning. A terrifying, jolting, wondrous, faithful beginning. Just two days before we'd had a teary, sweet Thanksgiving, filled with the aromas and people that had accompanied the major holidays for my first 23 years. It felt right, real, and on this particular occasion, solemn.
Above that great land, in the hours which transported my life between the world that was and the world that was to come, my heart cried for a respite from the turmoil. This dichotomy, the pull between here and there, this life and that, ebbs and flows, pushes and pulls, and has since that first flight, grown fainter, but is an ever present reality for me.
I held that little boy, small, sleeping, precious and unrambunctious, knowing that tomorrow he would wake up to his mom. And then I would be with him all day. I would make him his food, care for him when he nosedived learning to crawl. It would be his mom that would reach down and rescue him, wide-eyed and arms outstretched, after a long nap. After seven months as manager/mom, spending so much of my best energy focused on building another's castle, I was ready to be a mom-only.
The rest of the world was in a frenzy, lapping up the best deals at their local retailers, hastily devouring ads and planning elaborate shopping days that started before the first light of day. This would have been my world, only from the inside-out. Holiday hours for retail managers were in the 60's, at least 6 days per week, late into the night (or early into the morning, depending on perspective) and that one day off would be a mid-week break. My job this holiday season would have been no different. So as I sat on this plane, holding that sweet baby of mine, I distinctly felt the gift that had been given to me- I was to experience life as a mom, Christmas as calming, the New Year as renewal.
I am not good at this job. There are days that I wonder who in the world hired me for such a role. And then I am hit with the realization that God knew what He was doing- motherhood is not for the weak. It is for those willing to persevere, be patient, and above all, it is for those who can love.
That moment, that distinct moment is etched quite clearly in my mind. His tiny hand wrapping around my finger, his eyes closed and his body warm with sleep much needed. My mind swirled with longing for home, and then, sporadically, there was a spirit of adventure, although not one that I was willing to admit to or indulge. But it was there, bubbling underneath the surface. This, I knew deep down, was an adventure of the highest sorts.
And, in my innocence, I was right. Right in the way someone who has never seen a tree, after hearing it described and pondering it in thought might say "that sounds large, leafy, and wonderful." Its magnitude, its precise, intricate, and grandiose wonder is impossible for one to comprehend until seen, touched, and felt.
And, true to His way, the way I saw our journey here, and the way He had it all planned out, were worlds apart. Being human, I much prefer a simple, straight line, A to B. But oh, how I would have missed out! The curves, friends, are what make the road interesting. An Iowan mile can be driven without thought. And there can be comfort in seeing the entire road, the entire way. But the curves of a Washington road are beautiful, dangerous, alive with trees and wildlife, take you past cliffs where you can see seemingly forever out to the deep ocean. With only one life, can I afford to miss the scenic route? More specifically, can I afford to miss the route set aside for me by God, only because I prefer the simple A to B, without hills and valleys, cliffs or towering rock formations? We love to drive past those magnificent pieces of earth, in awe of their beauty and depth, but so resist becoming such a creation.
Three winters later, Lord, let me stay the course, with renewed determination to do it Your way, hills, valleys, cliffs and all.

Man on a mission

Though it looked daunting a few weeks back, this has been an amazing start to a fall. What with 75 degree days, pure, crisp breeze in the morning and calm, whispering evenings filled with crickets, there has been much to be grateful for.

Tonight before dinner Phil took a walk down to the water (an old, overgrown bridge with a weensie stream flowing beneath) with Ryan. I caught them on their way back. I had carried David out there, hoping to just take a minute to snap a picture of the wonderful Fall evening (hence the stocking-feet). Alas, I should have known better. Now that the 1year- old can walk, that is all he wants to do. That and climb. But this walking, its a must. My once calm, boy, content to sit in a wagon and watch the world go by as the family gardened, has all at once realized that this world he has been observing? He can be a part of it! He can touch, taste, smell, throw, tug, build, explore and oh, my, does he have a fervor for it. Now, he is constantly trying to crane his neck this way and that, arch his body in just the right way, so "Mom will stop this whole "carrying" nonsense and let me free already!"

And, I realized that though I mentioned he learned to toddle around while mom was here, I have not shared any videos of the little guy. As we pass this new milestone...a vivid and vibrant one, I am once again struck with the amazing blessing these two kids are to me.

Notes on the video: Phil and Ryan caught a tiny snake on their way back to the house, and are discussing it behind me. When David isn't responding to me, he is watching his brother intently. That's pretty much the way it is around here. And...honestly...it feels quite comfortable, because I always made sure to keep my little sibling's full attention. Also, the road is the one directly in front of our house, headed to a grassy and impassable end. The opposite direction is three miles of twice-a-day-traveled road (we get mail). Don't worry, we don't let him run on normal streets. This one barely counts.

Home

"Do you miss grandma?"
"Yah."
"Me too. Thanks for staying here with me."
"Your welcome."
"I would have missed you."
"I would have missed you, too."

Without my intention and truly, without noticing along the way, this blog has become a story of God’s faithfulness to His people. Our red sea. Our manna. Our five loaves and two fish. This journey to Iowa has not been easy. There is beauty, surely. Serenity and peace in fields of whispering corn and rest for the weary soul in the sweet breeze across the land. And by contrast, there is hardship. Harsh winds, bitter cold.
And longing.
I miss my family. I miss my mom. She left today after staying a wonderful week with us. What a beautiful time we had- watching David learn to walk, watching Ryan cling to her and inform me that he was, in fact, going home with Grandma and in no way going to stay with me. (After one particular tickle-torture session I demanded of him “Say ‘I love you mom! I will stay!’” With a shriek of laughter he yelled back “I love you mom! Goodbye!”) Her encouragement, laughter, and her piece in our daily lives will sorely missed. But, she is needed at home. I haven’t asked, but I am sure dad would be unwilling to trade her for a steady supply of cinnamon rolls. Hmm…(*strums fingers together contemplatively*)
I know many of you wonder from time to time why we would stay here, surrounded by all of these trials and so far from people we hold so dear. If I could write you one sentence for that answer, believe me, I would. I suppose that’s why I avoid the difficult discussions here. It’s easy to show the trials, much more difficult to explain faithfulness as it relates to our lives. God is faithful to us. I can’t say it’s an easy journey. I can’t say I understand His purpose or even His will with all of this. But I cling to the knowledge that He knows when even a small sparrow falls. He watches over the lilies of the fields and clothes them in great splendor. How much more valuable are we than a weensie bird?
In all of our trials, all of our discouragements and ups and downs, He has walked so faithfully with us. No, nothing has been perfect. Laughably opposite, in fact. But I know my job is not to be comfortable, but only to be faithful back- with each step, with each breath- walking straight ahead whether I am terrified or at peace, onward, onward.
I sat across from mom at lunch, discouraged, sad. I missed her already and she wasn’t even gone. This, I have come to learn, is an emotion directly related to the distance between us. And then, I looked at each of my boys, one by one. David scrunched up his face, smiling with his entire being. He let out a shriek and then a giggle. And Ryan sat politely, eating ice cream and refusing the bite offered by Grandma, because “I have my own, right here. No thank you.” And all of the sudden this amazing feeling of love for those two boys ran through my veins. I wouldn’t miss this for anything.
Love can be so painful. When it’s far away. When it’s gone. When it’s wrapped up in someone who is making bad choices. But would you trade it? Could you? Is not the entire fabric of life weaved of love?
“When my spirit grows faint within me, it is You who know my way." Psalm 142:3

Fence, Fence, Wherefore art Thou Fence?

Last weekend, according to our non-systematic winter-prep plan, we worked on fencing. Yes, fencing. In our grand plans, fencing solves two major areas of frustration for us: Animal control and snow drift management.

--------LATE MAY---------

"Mom…the cows are out of the fence."

"Mmmhmm" I respond distractedly from the kitchen.

"Cows! Go BACK to your fence!" Ryan has pushed open the front door,
poked his head through and is demanding the stray bovines return to their
rightful location.

"COWS? Where???" The situation finally sinks in, and I run to my front
window. The two cows, normally corralled behind the fence in the pasture (and I
use the term fence loosely here) were now traipsing throughout my front
flowerbeds, munching and, well, doing another inappropriate things cows do.
Wherever they please. Because they don’t realize that cowpies don’t belong on
the driveway, or truly, in any other well-trodden area for that matter.

Drying my hands on the towel I had grabbed in my haste to the window, I
panic. WHAT am I going to do? These cows, though small and quite
docile, are still cows. They don’t exactly follow me like our bossy
pet sheep, and I cannot simply walk back to the pasture with them patiently
following. And husband? In route between Washington and Iowa, cell-phone-less and
quite unavailable for aid in this endeavor to corral said bovines. Don't forget
the two boys- not old enough to manage themselves alone.

Think think think. I watch as they head to another flower bed. Plop.
"Ahh! Stop that!" I lose composure momentarily.
I don't have time to think! Wait, what did Mike say? Cows like
apples- that's right- he collects dropped apples from a friend to give to his "girls". I rush to the fridge- one apple-check. Maybe they will also like other
things, like fresh asparagus- yes, possibly! Worth a shot, no? I reason these
things to myself while fastening on my boots, Ryan's boots, and coats for the
two boys. I hoist David to my hip, and hand Ryan the apple. I explain my plan to
Ryan, who heads out with determination.

"HERE! Cows! EAT THIS APPLE!!!" He charges toward the cows with determination and glee.

The cows, however, do not return this glee. Nor do they show the slightest
bit of interest beyond that of getting as far away from the small human as
possible. Unfortunately for me, their flee-ing did not take them toward their
pasture. Rather, they cared much less about what direction they headed, the only
criterion being that it was away from me- toting the smallest human, and the
skipping, loud larger one walking with us.

For half an hour we continue an awkward dance of sorts with our cows. Two
steps left, turn, gallop, turn, swoop. Plop. Plop. David, nearly 20 pounds, is
starting to get heavy. Ryan, as energetic as he is, is torn between
being exasperated with the cows and the thrill of the hunt. The
cows don't want fresh asparagus, apples, hand-held grass or any other sort of
thing we have to offer. I have tried luring, cajoling, sweet talking, demanding,
and at this point, I am simply tired.

When he returns, I tell myself, we will be fixing this
fence! But that was the thing- I couldn't even see where they got out. It
looked quite intact, and it sunk in that even if I were able to conjure up a way
to return the cows to their rightful location, they had a way to simply escape
that I couldn't see, let alone fix.

Failure, however, was not an option. The freshly sprouted cornfields
surrounding our house were prime munching ground, and if the cows wandered that
way and realized the goldmine they had at their hoof-tips, I would have a whole
new set of worries on my hands.

I both wished a person would happen by and dreaded it, longing for another set of able hands yet knowing how rediculously dressed I was, baby on hip, chasing cows with apples and asparagus spears.

It was late by this point, so I stuck my tongue out at the cows, stomped inside, and hurriedly lay the boys down to bed. David, worn out from the excitement, was quickly asleep and Ryan was not far behind him. With both hands free I returned outside with renewed determination. I grabbed a bucket and filled it with
oats- the only grain I had on hand. In my other hand I held a rope
with a slip knot I had seen Phil use when he moved them once.

I sauntered up to the skitterish animals, and they munched grass, eyeing me with curiosity.

"That's right guys...look at this YUMMY food..." I crooned. "Why don't you
come see how good it tastes? There's no harm in a taste, right?" The light brown
one brought up his head, and to my delight started walking toward me. "That's
right...here, have a taste" calmly, as sweetly as I could muster for two ornery
cows, I lowered the bucket so the first one could take a few mouthfulls of
grain. As soon as his head was lowered and he was in range, I slipped the noose
over his head, carefully, quietly. Then, I lifted the bucket. He walked a bit
after the grain, but decided he didn't like my direction. "ho ho! I have you
now, cow!" Clearly, I and my rope had gained the advantage. With exhaustion my
inhibitions fell to the wayside and I leaned toward the pasture with all of my
might. Maybe he realized that you just shouldn't mess with a mom who's tired, or
maybe he just wanted some more oats, but at this point he just gave in. He
walked dutifully behind me to the pasture gate. I swung it open and led him
inside.

Now, Mike always says you have to be smarter than the cows. As I have learned with both chickens and sheep, this is true with most animals. The wisdom and ways you may think are going to work will normally fail. You can rarely chase animals in the direction you want them to go. Herding works with some, bribing with others. Slowly but surely I have begun to "understand" the
different species in our petting zoo. These cows? They like to be together. If one gets out and the other is in, OH my, do we get an earful. Also? There is a leader, and the other one will almost always follow behind him (if you take the follower, the leader could care less, for some reason). Thankfully for me, the
one I had captured was the head honcho of the twosome, and the second cow, upon seeing that there was Food! To be had! That might be good! sauntered along behind him, right into the pasture.

Ahahahaha! VICTORY! I closed the gate and walked the fence line, still unable to detect how they had escaped in the first place. But, it was late, and I knew it would at least be morning until they would try another Houdini. I went inside and called one of my farmer friends- "I need help. Can you come check my fence tomorrow morning?"

"Sure, what's going on??"

Ahh, community.

---------------------------
Since then, we have pounded down poles, replaced gates, moved various animals to different areas, and put up for a number of months with "free range sheep", as Neighbor Mike warily calls them. With harvest coming, and winter not too far behind it, a solid fence will be quite necessary. We have mostly wire fencing, but noticed that wood fencing has a dual purpose in that it also works to capture and direct snow. So, in phase two of our fencing project, we will be extending our windbreak and directing the snow that comes in a new and specific way using wood fencing.
Last weekend we built a gate and four sections of fence, fixing the makeshift enclosure and turning it into a fence a normal farmer would even appreciate. I say we...but truly I was mostly food-lady, kid-manager, and conversationalist. The only actual work I got to do was remove nails from some of the recycled lumber we used. I think it turned out nicely. And, the thought of not having to chase animals around the property with a baby on my hip? Priceless.