The freezer is full!

Yesterday was the big day for chicken processing. My friend and colleague Patrick Kurz came over to help, and we took care of the twelve biggest of our fourteen broilers. Although it was Pat's first time, he worked like a pro. And I paid him in chicken, of course!

The broilers were veritable monsters--the smallest dressing out at 6.6 lb. and the largest at 9.0 lb. Thanks to everybody who reserved a chicken. Currently we're "sold out," but please email me at franzsimonklein at gmail dot com if you're interested in chicken in the future. We'll likely order another batch in a few weeks, and they'll be ready toward the end of October.

Rosemary is also making chicken stock, which will be available in a day or two in frozen quart jars. We'll advertise the stock--Rosemary's recipe is excellent, by the way--in a separate post once we see how many jars we have and decide on a price. But do feel free to email if you're interested and would like to reserve a jar (or more).

Gelding and Guineas, inter alia

Summer's end is quickly drawing nigh, with faculty orientation occurring next week, and so it's time to shift into high gear farm-wise. Today's big project was Tarcy's gelding. Though gelding might seem cruel, it will make Tarcy's life much easier. Stallions are generally temperamental and hard to deal with; that, added to the fact that he's related to Rosemary's filly mare, Stella, meant it had to happen--and soon.  We split the vet's travel charge with the neighbor who had given us the horses, and he had his own horses taken care of at the same time. When the vet finished at his place, she came over to ours.

It was actually a relatively simple process. I led Tarcy out into the front pasture and held the lead rope while the vet gave him two injections. The first calmed him down so that she could lasso him with a rope, and the second put him to sleep. We helped him to fall gently to the ground using the lasso, and then the vet got to work.

Tarcy laid out in the pasture. His leg was tied back just in case he kicked.

It was a messy process, but in the vet's expert hands it went went quickly. I was surprised that there was no need to suture the incision.

The vet said the "crunch" is a sound men don't like!

After the vet finished, we waited for him to awake. Some horses stay under for a half hour or more, but Tarcy was up within ten minutes. He scrambled to his feet right away, looking rather dazed and confused. That said, he followed me into the small enclosure willingly. We will keep him separated from Stella and the goats until tomorrow morning and watch for abnormal dripping or swelling.

I think the swish of the tail means, "Don't mess with my nether-regions anymore!"

In other news, I purchased four two-month old guinea keats the other day. Since they're very vocal, like peachickens, I figure this makes our farm a little more O'Connor-esque. (I'm writing my dissertation on Flannery O'Connor, who had an affinity for peachickens, of which she had a large, noisy flock.) More seriously, guineas are known for their love of ticks and other nasty small bugs. Eventually they will free-range to their hearts' content. Maybe we'll add peachickens too!

The plan for the guineas, since they're the same age as the chickens, was to integrate them immediately. Since chickens are tamer, this would have had the benefit of domesticating the guineas a little more. Oftentimes guineas will fly off to be heard of no more, so it's important to make them feel like they belong. Unfortunately integration didn't go very well. It rained the night we got them, and I found the keats huddled against the outside wall in a crack. Though they were fine when I left for an overnight cross country camp the next day, Rosemary later found a few of the meaner chickens terrorizing them. Three of the four actually flew out of the chicken coop through a small crack. As Rosemary tried to catch them, one intrepid keat darted into the pig pen, where a squealing pig chased it, and then into the meat chicken's pen, where a meat chicken picked it up with its beak before Rosemary managed to rescue it. In any case, they were fine, albeit a little traumatized. Rosemary separated them, putting them in a pet carrier, and when I got home on Saturday, I built them a small tractor of their own. Tomorrow, though, after a friend and I process our meat chickens, we'll put them in the second chicken coop to get a little more comfortable with their surroundings before we attempt to let them free-range.

And finally, the boys are exceedingly happy to have a nice layer of sand in the box under their fort. An internet source suggested soaking the perimeter with vinegar to keep the cats away. We'll see if it works.

The little man of the house!

Sheriff Cletus, not sure what side of the law he is on...

So we have posted about both Cyprian and Clement. I decided that Cletus should have a post too. He may be the youngest (out of utero), but he is definitely the loudest. With his curly red hair, plump dimpled cheeks, and sparkly hazel eyes he can be a little charmer or tyrant.

Last and only time I brought him for a wellness checkup he didn't even show up on the height chart, it was simply the 0 percentile. Apparently he has some hobbit or something in him. In fact with the way his appetite has been lately, I do believe he is related to hobbit's.

As a babe he dealt with a pretty severe allergy to dairy. I had to go dairy free for months which was not easy I tell you. If I ever cheated the poor little guy would be miserable after nursing. Thankfully he doesn't seem to have any bad allergies now. Though we still have not tried giving him cow's milk. Cletus drinks our goat's milk and loves it.

Most days Cletus is busy watching what others are doing and then trying to do what he saw by himself. He also has a propensity to get really dirty several times a day. He can be discovered digging into numerous things, not always dirt either. He has an absolute joy of animals. He squeals in delight and tries to usually grab the poor animals enticing tail. Eating which as I stated earlier is a favorite pastime lately, can be very messy. Cletus does not like having help so he ends up using his utensil as a weapon to keep you at bay and eating with his hands medieval style.

Cletus and Cyprian seem to understand each other. Seriously they share a secret bond. Though Clement always tells me what Cletus is saying even if it is not in English. All three boys are unique, each giving our family there individualized blessing.

Busy riding and talking!

Cletus loves precarious perches. I think he would love to fly...

The World According to Cyprian, #18

Yesterday, when Cyprian asked me to start framing his artwork for him, I pointed to our picture of Jesus walking on the water with St. Peter sinking for lack of faith and told Cyprian that I'd start framing his output when he made pictures like that. Though I was referring to quality, Cyprian took me differently, and here's his version of that picture:

The question is: Do I, true to my word, have to frame it???

The World According to Cyprian, #16

Cyprian explains, "This is Jesus pointing to His Sacred Heart. And I made it Mary's heart too [think Mary's heart pierced by a sword] because I ran out of space."

Clement's First Catch

The boys have been begging me for days--weeks, actually--to take them fishing. Finally, today, after I had scouted out local public access fishing holes, Clement, Cyprian, and I headed out for an hour. Honestly, I haven't done much fishing at all since I was a teen-ager. This is something I very much want to do with the boys. I have fond memories of Sundays spent riding my bike to a secret spot along the Wisconsin River and putting in lines for catfish.

Today we kept it simple: We dug for angle-worms, baited the hooks, and threw them in. Cyprian, true to his nature, kept asking if a fish was biting on his line. I told him to watch his bobber. That kid has no patience whatsoever. Clement, on the other hand, has the quality of stoic patience. He watched his bobber without fail, and told me, calmly and sincerely, that he had an alligator biting on his hook. Thank goodness, it turned out to be something more akin to a garden-variety sunfish:

We took it home and cleaned it, which proved to be a hit. That is, apart from when I had held the fish up to kiss Cletus. Too bad Rosemary was too busy comforting him to take a picture!

Clement helped me to bread it and fry it up:

And then it proved to be absolutely succulent!

Some Thoughts on Natural Family Planning

I plan to include a few more engaging posts from time to time, and this is the first. Scrolling through Facebook the other day, I saw a link to a piece on Natural Family Planning written by a friend and former fellow parishioner of mine in Texas, on Prolife365.com, a pro-life initiative of his. I haven't read much of what he has written. That said, I know him to be a man of integrity and apostolic zeal, and I congratulate him for raising some important points about NFP.

What interested me about his posts was the emphasis on what he called "providentialism," the modus vivendi, in his words, of "someone who does not practice any form of birth control—not even Natural Family Planning (NFP). This person simply trusts God to give him and his wife as many children as God wants for them—no more, and no less." As you might imagine, this definition led to indignation--at least in the Facebook comments that I read--from some Catholics practicing NFP. Though he probably didn't intend it, his definition implies that NFP practitioners 1) practice a form of birth control and 2) don't trust in God as much as non-NFP users. Again, while a full reading of the post shows that he probably doesn't endorse these two implications, nonetheless he has waded into--and has made his way to the far shore--of what I've gradually come to perceive as a nasty rift within the faithful Catholic subculture between those who promote and practice NFP on the one hand and, on the other, those who hold that NFP is very often misused and is no more than, to use his words, a "last resort." One of the Facebook commenters cited the priest who led her marriage preparation as saying that if ever she and her future husband had to use NFP, doing so should make them "sad."

Since my readership isn't necessarily Catholic, let me explain that the Catholic Church holds that the marital act is both unitive and procreative and that these two ends cannot be separated. "A child does not come from outside as something added on to the mutual love of the spouses," the Catechism of the Catholic Church states, "but springs from the very heart of that mutual giving, as its fruit and fulfillment" (2366). Since artificial contraception separates the unitive and procreative ends of marriage, Pope Paul VI definitively prohibited its use in his 1968 encyclical Humanae Vitae but left the door open to natural means of limiting or spacing children. The Catechism elaborates that couples may regulate procreation for "just causes." "It is their [the parents'] duty," the Catechism states, "to make certain that their desire is not motivated by selfishness but is in conformity with the generosity appropriate to responsible parenthood." Though most Catholics totally--and sadly--ignore the whole debate and blithely follow the wider culture in using artificial contraception, NFP has blossomed from the "Rhythm" method of Paul VI's day into a reputable science. Excellent organizations like the Couple to Couple League are eager to teach the Sympto-Thermal Method, which, by making couples aware of a woman's natural cycle--even an irregular one--can help couples to avoid pregnancy with success that surpasses most forms of artificial contraception. NaProTechnology has achieved far more in recent years, and far more naturally than standard fertility treatments, in terms of helping couples get pregnant.

But the success of natural means of regulating children is precisely the issue for some Catholics, who hold that the Church's focus, especially in marriage preparation, has focused so much on how reliable NFP is vis-à-vis artificial contraception and how easy it is to use that due consideration for matters like God's providence and the discernment of "just causes" has fallen by the wayside. Are NFP practitioners merely naturally contracepting? Is NFP so easy to use that couples are forgetting to rely on God's providence?

For the record, though Rosemary and I are very familiar with NFP, and though I've written numerous articles in its favor while working for the Catholic press, we've never personally felt called to use it. Cyprian was born so quickly that apparently we were an object of gossip for old ladies in our former country parish in Wisconsin. Clement and Cletus both naturally came along after healthy, nearly two-year intervals, and our baby-on-way is right on schedule in that regard. Thus far we've been blessed with excellent health. And even during my graduate student years, it always seemed that God would give me that extra side job right when I needed it. We never felt that we couldn't provide for our children. But here is the crux of the issue for me, for "providentialism" is attractive to me in confirming for me, in a self-congratulatory way, that I've been relying on God's providence, as if others, who use NFP, haven't been doing the same. I'm reminded of one of the negative Fb comments on my friend's post, which correctly labeled such an attitude as "holier-than-thou."

Again, while I don't think my friend intends to foster this sort of Pharisaical attitude, the very label "providentialism" accomplishes just that for many people. What does it mean, after all, to rely on God's providence? Is total reliance on God to provide exactly as many children as He wants something to be defined separately from the faithfully discerned practice of NFP? 

In order to answer these questions, the first issue to address is whether NFP is a natural form of birth control. The problem with the term "birth control" is that using the term implies that the goal is to control birth, whether artificially or naturally. I think that's why the Catechism speaks of "regulation" instead of "control" in speaking favorably of NFP. When we seek to "control" something, we co-opt it and try our best to master and subdue it. When we regulate something, on the other hand, we recognize its capabilities and attempt to channel them appropriately--in accord with reason and prudence. We experience the difference between "control" and "regulation" in small scale, subsistence farming. Rather than subduing the land, pumping it full of nitrogen, and making it yield what we want, we learn about the land's capabilities and adjust the yield accordingly, cooperating with nature rather than co-opting it. The Catechism speaks of NFP in similar terms: "These methods respect the bodies of the spouses, encourage tenderness between them, and favor the education of an authentic freedom" (2370).

Indeed, a few paragraph earlier the Catechism states that spouses "share in the creative power and fatherhood of God" (2367). Surely there's more to sharing in the creative power of God than engaging in the marital act. Just as the artist moves his brush across the canvass and creates an impression upon it, making use of his own reason and his own artistic sensibilities, so, too, spouses, always open to and cooperating with the gift of life, prayerfully discern God's will in their lives and order their lives accordingly. There's a reason, I think, that the Catechism states that it is "their [the spouses'] duty" to ensure that their periodic continence is not motivated by selfishness. Who knows better than the couples themselves what they facing? Loss of job or income, serious medical problems--these will look different for different couples, and there is little doubt that couples in the mix of life's problems and turmoils might be too cautious. But then again, so-called "providentialism" is prone, in a similar way, to overconfidence. I suggest that we not use reliance on providence as an excuse not to exercise our God-given reason and prudence.

To conclude, I found myself reflecting at length not only on the idea that NFP is a last resort--I've argued that it's not; it's more of a balancing act between the extremes of excessive caution and excessive confidence--but especially on the aforementioned priest's notion that having to use it should make a couple "sad." St. Thomas Aquinas (ST I-II, 36, art. 1) distinguishes between sorrow, which he says is the result of the presence of evil, and pain, which is the result of the loss of temporal goods. Even if NFP is truly the result of prayerful discernment, it might nonetheless cause us pain because we can imagine the children we might have had. Of course, that pain can make us bitter, or it can be redirected towards loving the children we have even more or towards devoting ourselves to His service in other ways. I think, however, that having to use NFP shouldn't make us sorrowful--at least not if it's prayerfully discerned and practiced--since it would be the means by which we would take hold of the brush and, with full knowledge of our gifts and limitations, paint the picture of God's providence in our married lives.

Really just one more addition...

Today Franz, the boys, baby in my belly and I went and saw three little bucklings. It was a bit of a drive almost an hour. After checking out all the little bucks it was unanimous decision well at least with Cyprian and me. We picked the same buckling. Franz said, "yeah it looks like a goat." Clement and Cletus were asleep but loved the little buck upon waking.

After purchasing the little buckling we headed into Raleigh and stopped at the Farmers Market. Franz sat in the van with the boys and goat. I ran about and got some good deals on fruit and veggies. Next we hit Costco. Franz ran in while I stayed in the van. The boys were getting a bit annoyed with being in the van Clement and Cyprian were climbing all over the seats and Cletus would wail and complain then yawn and be quiet for a few seconds. All the while the buckling was resting in his basket just watching quietly. Finally we headed home.

While in the van we discussed names. His name is Rocky, or so we hope. We are going to register him and want his registered name to be Rocky Balboa. If the name is already taken then we have to have an alternate. The boys were shouting Tommy, so we came up with Tommy Meister. Rocky, as we call him right now, is a cute fella. He is sorta a fawn color, with some dark underneath and white spots. He was born July 9th and has a twin brother. Our hope is that he will be a good herd sire. Rocky has decent bloodlines which we hope will come through in his offspring. So there you have it one more addition to Kleinshire

Seriously, Franz and I keep saying we are done. But now I hear Franz talking about getting guinea keats...

Chicken available

Rosemary and I have a few free-range broilers (Cornish Rocks)--Kleinshire's first offering--coming available in a few weeks on a first come, first served basis. We'll be charging $3.25/lb. this time, significantly below the farmer's market price because we went with conventional feed. The chickens will come processed and frozen (unless you want a chicken fresh), with their giblets inside, wrapped in freezer paper. My guess is that their dressed weight will be 4-5 lbs.

So, please email me if you're interested with the number of chickens you want. Note, however, that only have a four available at this time. I'll offer one each to the first four people to order, and fill orders for more than one if fewer than four people express interest.

Longterm, we are also planning to order another batch of chicks, who will reach processing weight sometime in the fall, and likely we'll continue to do so indefinitely. If you email, please also indicate whether you're interested in purchasing chicken regularly and, if we offer chicken every three months or so, how many you might want. There is no obligation at this point; we're just trying to discern how large the potential customer base might be.

Also, if you're interested in purchasing chicken regularly, please indicate a preference as to feed. If enough people are interested in chicken produced with locally sourced or even organic feed, and are willing to pay a premium (probably $4.50/lb for chicken produced entirely with organic feed), we'd love to make the switch.

Feel free to email me at franzsimonklein at gmail.com

What, you're planning to eat me?!?!?

Making hay while the sun shines

Have you ever heard from old folks that life used to be harder? Well, it's probably true. As I looked at my overgrown fields earlier this summer, I had the romantic notion that I would use a scythe to mow them. Since we acquired horses, there is far less mowing to do than I had expected. Nonetheless, when I was in Wisconsin a few weeks ago, I asked my Grandpa if he would give me the scythe I remembered watching him use when I was younger. He balked at first since he uses it once a year or so just to prove that he still can, even though he is in his mid-eighties. But eventually, after giving me a few lessons and making me mow part of the back field, he decided to send it back to North Carolina with me after all.

I finally put the scythe to use yesterday, mowing the right of way between the front pasture and the road. The picture immediately below shows bad technique, as I'm raising the scythe far too high and expending far too much energy. Oh well.

In addition to remembrances of my Grandpa mowing with a scythe, another primary inspiration was Leo Tolstoy's Anna Karenina, probably my favorite Russian novel. The character of Levin, an idealistic land-owner, is a breath of fresh air in a novel better known for its darker title character. He's a bit of an odd duck, even out in the country where he lives, and one memorable scene depicts how he works out his problems by working alongside the peasants in the fields mowing hay. I'm in good company, since Levin also had bad form:

Levin took the scythe, and began trying it. As they finished their rows, the mowers, hot and good-humored, came out into the road one after another, and, laughing a little, greeted the master. They all stared at him, but no one made any remark, till a tall old man, with a wrinkled, beardless face, wearing a short sheepskin jacket, came out into the road and accosted him.
"Look'ee now, master, once take hold of the rope there's no letting it go!" he said, and Levin heard smothered laughter among the mowers.
"I'll try not to let it go," he said, taking his stand behind Tit, and waiting for the time to begin.
"Mind'ee," repeated the old man.
Tit made room, and Levin started behind him. The grass was short close to the road, and Levin, who had not done any mowing for a long while, and was disconcerted by the eyes fastened upon him, cut badly for the first moments, though he swung his scythe vigorously. Behind him he heard voices:
"It's not set right; handle's too high; see how he has to stoop to it," said one.
"Press more on the heel," said another.
"Never mind, he'll get on all right," the old man resumed.
"He's made a start.... You swing it too wide, you'll tire yourself out.... The master, sure, does his best for himself! But see the grass missed out! For such work us fellows would catch it!"

Sir George Clausen, The Mowers (1885)

My mowing probably attracted as much attention as Levin's. A few people slowed down as they passed by on Cheves Rd. in their cars. One of the neighbors, whom I hadn't yet met, also drove by slowly in a pick up truck, and then stopped and turned around to ask if I'd like to use her brush hog. She looked at me skeptically when I told her I was having fun. I explained further that I wanted to see what it was like to use a scythe, and that it had belonged to my Grandpa. Though still clearly skeptical, she said it made a little sense but made me promise to ask if I needed anything. North Carolinians tend to be very nice people!

My experience pretty much matched Levin's, so back to the novel:

[Levin] felt as he swung his scythe that he was at the very end of his strength, and was making up his mind to ask Tit to stop. But at that very moment Tit stopped of his own accord, and stooping down picked up some grass, rubbed his scythe, and began whetting it. Levin straightened himself, and drawing a deep breath looked round. Behind him came a peasant, and he too was evidently tired, for he stopped at once without waiting to mow up to Levin, and began whetting his scythe. Tit sharpened his scythe and Levin's, and they went on. The next time it was just the same. Tit moved on with sweep after sweep of his scythe, not stopping or showing signs of weariness. Levin followed him, trying not to get left behind, and he found it harder and harder: the moment came when he felt he had no strength left, but at that very moment Tit stopped and whetted the scythes.
So they mowed the first row. And this long row seemed particularly hard work to Levin; but when the end was reached and Tit, shouldering his scythe, began with deliberate stride returning on the tracks left by his heels in the cut grass, and Levin walked back in the same way over the space he had cut, in spite of the sweat that ran in streams over his face and fell in drops down his nose, and drenched his back as though he had been soaked in water, he felt very happy. What delighted him particularly was that now he knew he would be able to hold out.
His pleasure was only disturbed by his row not being well cut. "I will swing less with my arm and more with my whole body," he thought, comparing Tit's row, which looked as if it had been cut with a line, with his own unevenly and irregularly lying grass.
The first row, as Levin noticed, Tit had mowed specially quickly, probably wishing to put his master to the test, and the row happened to be a long one. The next rows were easier, but still Levin had to strain every nerve not to drop behind the peasants.
He thought of nothing, wished for nothing, but not to be left behind the peasants, and to do his work as well as possible. He heard nothing but the swish of scythes, and saw before him Tit's upright figure mowing away, the crescent-shaped curve of the cut grass, the grass and flower heads slowly and rhythmically falling before the blade of his scythe, and ahead of him the end of the row, where would come the rest.

I found myself resting more and more as I got closer to the end, using whetting the scythe as an excuse to rest. At least I didn't have anybody to keep pace with! Eventually, soaked with sweat and tired to the core, having cut probably the length of the first of Levin's many rows, I did finish. The result was definitely uneven and high, but I did get a little hay out of it:

Here's a portion of my hay.

Here's all of it stacked up in the feedroom in the barn. It's at least a few bales worth. Given the labor involved and how cheap a bale of hay is, I don't think I saved any money!

For me, this was the end. I had mowed enough, and I'm sore and tired even today. I'm thinking I'll mow part of the back pasture later on and let it grow fresh before we transfer the horses and the goats thre in a week or two. They're eating down the front pasture rather rapidly. But for Levin, there was more mowing after lunch, and with it came exhilaration and blissful pleasure that perhaps I'll feel next time:

Levin kept between them. In the very heat of the day the mowing did not seem such hard work to him. The perspiration with which he was drenched cooled him, while the sun, that burned his back, his head, and his arms, bare to the elbow, gave a vigor and dogged energy to his labor; and more and more often now came those moments of unconsciousness, when it was possible not to think what one was doing. The scythe cut of itself. These were happy moments. Still more delightful were the moments when they reached the stream where the rows ended, and the old man rubbed his scythe with the wet, thick grass, rinsed its blade in the fresh water of the stream, ladled out a little in a tin dipper, and offered Levin a drink.
"What do you say to my home-brew, eh? Good, eh?" said he, winking.
And truly Levin had never drunk any liquor so good as this warm water with green bits floating in it, and a taste of rust from the tin dipper. And immediately after this came the delicious, slow saunter, with his hand on the scythe, during which he could wipe away the streaming sweat, take deep breaths of air, and look about at the long string of mowers and at what was happening around in the forest and the country.
The longer Levin mowed, the oftener he felt the moments of unconsciousness in which it seemed not his hands that swung the scythe, but the scythe mowing of itself, a body full of life and consciousness of its own, and as though by magic, without thinking of it, the work turned out regular and well-finished of itself. These were the most blissful moments.

My Grandpa's scythe.

And a quick little addendum: Our friends, the Taylors, who came out for Sunday dinner today, made us a beautiful little "Kleinshire" sign that is now hanging on our front porch. Thank you!

Lesson #208

Lesson #208 is not to throw stones in the air and then stand under where they will fall. No, Cyprian is not a Rastafarian; there is a cloth and an icepack under that hat.

And farewell to our Virginia friends, the Gormans, who stopped by the Shire on their way home from a Texas road trip. Cyprian and Clement camped with me in the backyard last night in one tent, and Ryan with his two oldest in another tent. Then, this morning we walked the mile-and-a-half to Vollmer Farm to pick blackberries and eat homemade ice cream.

Apart from the ever-present danger of rocks falling from the sky, I think the visit was a success. Safe travels, Gormans!

The World according to Cyprian, #15

On Tuesday and Thursday evenings, I have the boys to myself while Rosemary heads off to Tae Kwon Do. We try to maintain the regular schedule--bathroom, teeth brushing, a few stories, and the rosary. Sometimes Cletus is distraught that Rosemary is gone, but sometimes he's quiet, and the boys take advantage by asking questions, especially during the rosary.

Since today is Thursday, we prayed the Luminous Mysteries of Jesus's active ministry--the Baptism in the Jordan, the Wedding Feast at Cana, the Proclamation of the Kingdom, the Transfiguration, and the Institution of the Holy Eucharist. Cyprian and Clement were paying rapt attention, following along using some cord rosaries that their Aunt Becky had sent.

What follows is a faithful transcript of a conversation with Cyprian, at least as faithful as La Repubblica's Eugenio Scalfari's recollections of his recent conversations with Pope Francis (which isn't saying too much):

Cyprian: "Daddy, what is the Proclamation of the Kingdom?"

Me: "It's the period of Jesus's life when he went around telling people about the Kingdom of God and inviting them to believe in Him and come to Heaven to live with Him forever."

Cyprian: "But what is the story of the Proclamation of the Kingdom?"

Me: "Well, it really begins with the Baptism in the Jordan, where St. John baptizes Jesus, and then it continues with the initiation of his public ministry at the Wedding Feast at Cana. And then..."

Cyprian: "That's not a story. Let me tell you the story of the Proclamation of the Kingdom. First Jesus was born in a stable. Then they tried to kill Him, so He fled to His Kingdom."

Me: "To Egypt? That wasn't His kingdom, though. He did flee to Egypt with Mary and Joseph, but I think you're conflating a few different stories."

Cyprian: "No, that was His kingdom. And then they nailed Him to the cross, but He was still alive. They even nailed His feet to the cross, but He was still alive. And now we can be in His kingdom with Him forever if we love Him and if we're saints."

So, I enjoyed the conversation. It might be a little theologically and historically confused, but it's almost scary how much he's paying attention and learning in leaps and bounds. It's amazing how things coalesce in the mind of a five-year-old!

This is a pretty old picture of Cyprian, but it's definitely a favorite.

Yes, even snake tastes like chicken

It's old news by now for viewers of our fb pictures, but since I'm currently stuck in an airport, maybe I can take my dissertation-writing procrastination to new heights and write a blog post about our tasty snake dinner a few months back. That's right: The first animal processed at the Shire, though it was a happy inhabitant of the barn, was not a chicken, or a pig, or any other domestic barn animal, but rather a creature long and slithery.

The story goes something like this: We bought our small flock of goats even before closing on our house simply because of how good a deal Rosemary had been offered. They boarded for the first week with the family of one of my students, who have goats of their own, while Rosemary learned to milk them. Thus, we had animals in the barn from the very beginning. The barn, like the house, had been vacant for a year or more. I did my best to clean out a few of the stalls, but it seems that I failed to evict certain inhabitants.

Rosemary was the first to catch a glimpse of one as it slithered between two of the overlapping sheets of tin that comprise the roof. The lengthy beast was nonchalant enough, in fact, that when I came out in response to Rosemary's insistent cries at that first sighting, it was still resting with part of its tail hanging out, and I managed to catch the tip with the blade of a hoe before he escaped.

My wife feels pretty much the same about snakes as she does about spiders, so you can imagine how the snake became the talk of the house. We saw enough of it to learn that it was a Rat Snake, which, being non-venomous, would have been relatively harmless if we weren't planning to have chickens. In addition to rats, of course, a Rat Snake might also enjoy the occasional chick for an appetizer or a few eggs for dessert. So the snake had to go, period, even if Cyprian and I suffer from less severe forms of ophidiophobia than certain other residents of the Shire.

My opportunity finally came one day when we were about to leave for somewhere and Rosemary happened to spy the snake slithering through the grass. I grabbed the hoe, performing my manly duty as protector of the household, and then I nailed it to the side of the barn as I had once seen done to a giant snake in Bolivia. I believe the snake ended up measuring 5 feet, 3 or 4 inches.

Cyprian, helping me measure our captured prey. The Rat Snake measured 5'3" or 5'4"

As I gazed upon my catch, it occurred to me that there was quite a bit of meat on it. A little search on the Internet convinced me that a Rat Snake was perfectly safe to eat so long as it hadn't been poisoned and it lived in an area free from industrial chemicals. Rosemary was less than impressed by my idea and left me, Cyprian, and Clement to our own devices. It turned out to be the easiest animal I had ever cleaned. It's simply a matter of slitting the skin down the length of the belly and pulling it off, working from the head to the tail.

Snakes, I found, are comparatively easy to clean.

With my helpers!

I hung the skin up to dry, and though I still have it, it's unfortunately a little stiff since I didn't work enough oil into it. I later read that some people actually soak the skin in a solution of a few different things to make it far more supple than this skin ended up being.

My snakeskin.

Back to the day-of: I hacked the snake up into sections, breaded it with cornmeal, and fried it in coconut oil.

The next time I process a snake, I'll probably cut it in longer sections. I found that while most of the meat is on top along the spine, there is also some in the ribs, which is easiest to eat by bending the spine just a little to create space between the ribs. That's probably more information than most of you want, but I'll tell you what: Even Rosemary said it tasted good--just like chicken!

Of course, I had mentioned inhabitants, not inhabitant. The next snake Rosemary spied was a Rough Green Snake, who, it seems, inhabits a tree in the backyard. These long, slender, beautiful snakes are entirely harmless and, in fact, do a great deal of good in keeping down insect populations.

Our backyard Rough Green Snake. A colleague who knows the woods here in N.C. like the back of his hand told me that this is a remarkable specimen, both for its size and actually for being this far east. It's certainly larger than the (live) Rough Green Snake at Raleigh's Museum of Natural Science.

But there was one more inhabitant of the barn--another Rat Snake and likely the mate of the former, may he (or she?) rest in peace. It didn't help Rosemary's ophidiophobia do find this snake by stepping on him as she cleaned out old pallets in the horse stall that became part of the pig pen. I guess we had eaten enough snake by this point, however, because I chose to dump the second of my victims rather unceremoniously over the back fence. There's more meat that tastes like chicken, after all, on the broilers!

Okay, it might be a little morbid, but, like the heads of traitors displayed on London Bridge, the head of that first snake is still nailed to the barn to warn future snakes to stay away. 

Alaska!

A short hop to Atlanta, a longer hop to Salt Lake City, another long hop to Anchorage, and I'm in Alaska just briefly this weekend to be the godfather of my newest niece. Shame on me for leaving my pregnant wife with all the kids and all the farm chores, but... she did "okay" the trip in a generous moment. Thank you, Sweetie!

Here's the view from my in-laws' back yard:

They have a nice shire of their own, with raised beds full of veggies and even a few chickens:

I got a great trail run in this morning. The weather was perfect for running, and, thank God, I didn't encounter any moose or bears. 

But, safely behind an electric fence, we did watch bears enjoy their salmon supper later in the day at the nature preserve. I forgot to take pictures of the bears, but here's one of a majestic elk:

Siena and Una our kitties and their friend Ella the goat

Our kitties are a funny pair. They are sisters. We got them when they were six and a half weeks old in early May. I am very glad we got the two of them so that they would not be lonely. At first they were afraid and a bit stand offish. Very quickly with the help of the boys constantly petting and picking them up they became very friendly. We did have to teach Clement and Cletus to be gentle, which they are pretty good about now, most of the time.

Some of my favorite things about the kitties are how different they are. Not just in personalities but also in build. Siena is long and slinky, like a wild cat. She is an orange tiger stripe. Her tail is an inch longer than Una's. She is so playful and active. Even on hot days when she is panting from the heat if she spots a bug, she will jump and flip in the air to try and get it. Una on the other hand is more dainty. She is smaller in build and more quiet. Her face and paws are white and she is an orange caramel with pretty swirls on her coat. She also likes to play but can be very calm too.

Back when Ella was smaller and still getting a bottle. The kitties and Ella were very entertaining to watch play together in the backyard. There is a tree in the backyard that is short and low to the ground. The tree is a favorite with all. Siena and Una will race up the branches and launch themselves at each other and Ella. Ella can climb on the lower limbs and run and jump off the trunk. When they are all tuckered out the babies take a nap together on the deck.

When Ella gets out now I chase her back into the pasture. Apparently Siena finds this a great game of lets catch the goat and ride her. I really wish I got a video of the other day when I was trying to get Ella back in the pasture. I saw Ella eating my blueberry bush and rushed out of the house to chase her away. Siena seeing me run and Ella bolting, decided to run after Ella. Jumping at Ella Siena managed to grab a hold of her neck swing up and take a short ride. It was quite comical:')

Poor Una the other day got locked in the van for hours. Thankfully she is okay. Note: always check where the kids have been playing. Usually something is amiss.

And lastly, Siena has inadvertently discovered the electric fence. Last night I was out working with Stella
when suddenly there was a yowl and siena flying in the air in ball of fur. Una was on a fence post also puffed out, I am not sure if she got shocked or not. After I finished with Stella I went and found Siena in the barn. She was all puffy and purry, so hopefully it was a lesson learned.

Siena loves to bug Una

Yes, she's definitely pregnant

Some people invest in expensive pregnancy tests, or even go to the doctor to confirm pregnancy, but I think this is all the proof we need in Rosemary's case.

The World According to Cyprian, #14

Cyprian, with great interest, was watching the news this evening about the immigration crisis and President Obama's refusal to visit the border.

Cyprian: "Daddy, is the president a good guy or a bad guy?"

Me: "Well, it's complicated. I think he tries to be a good guy, but he has a tough job, and sometimes it's hard to know what the right thing to do is when you're in charge.."

Cyprian: "But doesn't he have anybody to teach him how to be good?"

Me: "Hmmm.... Let's just watch the news."

Phew, another project completed!

It took a few days and involved one slight mishap--a collapsed roof--but the meat chickens finally have a pen of their own. They're now twice the size of the heritage breeds and really needed to be separated in order to "finish" them with a diet different from that of the future laying flock. The new run occupies the space between the main run and the pig pen. I built a small house with a roost in it, and constructed the outside run in the same way as the main run--one-inch wire at ground level and two-inch wire the rest of the way up and over the top. This should keep potential predators at bay.

A few more weeks, and it'll be time to fill up the freezer!

The meat chickens' new run. The tarp is to provide a little extra shade. I'm thinking of planting a tree or two in the space between the runs and the back pasture.

Happily doing what meat chickens do (eat and drink).

Wait one second, you mean you're going to EAT me?!?!?

The clean-up crew, paid in rice krispy treats.