As Peter and I are getting our homestead more established with plants and critters, our intent is to share the experience with others. This summer, we will host several "Farm Days" for friends and family who would like to join us and learn more about our crazy homesteading adventure!
Yes, we will put you to work if you are so inclined, with tasks like feeding worms, harvesting vermicompost, checking on the bees, weeding and planting garden beds, harvesting what's ready to eat, and all the tree work you could ever want to do. But also, you are welcome to come down, sit under the swaying cedar trees, read a book, swing on our swing (it's for grown-ups too), enjoy the sounds of country living, and experience the joy of no agenda! Bring work gloves or play clothes and a dish to share for a homestead potluck. Also, in the area surrounding our homestead, we have several Civil War battlefields, Lake Anna, interesting shops (including an incredible farm store where you can pick your own berries in season), and a pretty cool local music/food scene at the wineries/breweries. Come down for all or part of a day, enjoy a day of fellowship, sit around a campfire after the sun goes down, and revel in God's beautiful creation!
Message me to let me know if you would like to hang out with us on one of these Saturdays.
April 26
June 14
July 12
August 16
How did we get this idea? Well, read this excerpt from Peter's book, Dryland Lament (available on our website) to learn about our first "Farm Day" experience with friends in Missouri... and we promise there will be no scalpel-wielding when you visit our homestead this year!
CHAPTER TWELVE - YEARNING
Seek first the Kingdom of God.
—Matthew 6:33
“Today I’m going to show you how to milk a goat.” Grace’s lilting,
earnest eleven-year-old voice drew in the crowd of homeschool friends
invited to her inaugural Farm Day. This debut also featured lectures on
raising ducks and the wonders of their eggs, a tour through the garden,
a scientific exposition on barn owls, and home-churned goat’s milk ice
cream. Grace was the daughter of Clark and Nancy Engel, our dearest
friends during our years in western central Missouri (2006–2011).
“Obviously, the first thing we need to do is get the goat.” She smiled
and turned away to rustle the large female goat into the milking frame.
“We normally milk Bella in the mornings, so it’s way past her normal
time. She’s starting to swell up and probably wants some relief.” Grace’s
grin and steady, confident tone captured the crowd and the goat. “She
actually knows when it’s time to be milked, so when I come out in the
morning, she’s standing at the gate of her pen, waiting to be let out. She
knows she’s going to get a grain treat while I milk her.”
Watching an eleven-year-old sitting on a stool next to a nanny goat,
filling a bucket with a sweet milk that will be transformed at the end of the
afternoon into your frozen dessert, connects you with the sources of your
food in a way that defies easy explanation. The Engels were well-connected
to their land and larder. Their garden provided most of their vegetables for
the year. Their chicken coop provided all of their eggs and chicken meat.
Their pasture sustained the beef cows they raised for themselves and the
market. A mere ninety acres provided most of the food the family of three
needed, as well as barter and market goods. Nancy frequently paid my wife
for Grace’s piano lessons with just-laid eggs.
The milk pail filled and the goat released, Grace continued her
presentation. “Now I want to talk about the barn owl that’s been living
in our tractor shed for several years. My dad built a wooden box up there
in the corner, and every year there’s been an owl’s nest there. If you look
here on the table, I have several owl feathers I collected, but the best
part is their pellets. Perhaps she misused the word, but she emphasized
“pellets,” and with a wrinkle of her nose and a mischievous scan of the
children in her audience, she conveyed that what she meant was “poop.”
“So my mom and dad don’t use poison on our farm, so the only way
to get rid of the mice is with animals. I have four cats that live outside
that are always catching them, and then we have the birds, especially the
owl. I don’t know exactly how many mice our owl eats in a day, but from
the pellets, it seems like a lot.” Our boys and the other kids crowded up
around Grace as she exhibited the pellets in her outstretched palm. It
seems to never have occurred to Grace that she should be afraid of public
speaking. She continued her well-rehearsed lecture. “Owls hunt mice at
night. This barn owl has really good night eyesight and flies really quiet
so it can swoop down and catch the mouse before it even knows the owl
is there. Owls don’t chew, so the mouse goes down whole. It digests the
mouse but obviously the bones have to come out, so that’s how we get the
little pellets of fur and compacted mouse bones. I’ve collected a bunch,
forward a small bowl filled with her collection—her own miniscule
ossuary. She garnered many a “Cool!” and “Wow!” from the kids in the
audience, as well as more than one “Huh? First time I’ve ever seen that!”
from the parents.
Grace allowed a few more moments for the class to admire her
display, and then she interjected, “Well, it’s time for the next event!
Follow me to the duck pond.” She bounded off with a flock of youngsters
in tow, ready for the next farmyard wonder.
I distinctly recall that moment watching my boys trundle off in
pursuit of Grace, pondering the conversation and experience I’d had
with Clark earlier that morning. The Engels’ audience of twenty-five
or thirty homeschool students and parents had missed the Farm Day
preshow. Ella and the boys and I, however, received a special invitation.
I taken them apart, and here you see all the tiny little bones.” Grace held
It so happened that this day in June was also lamb castration day. We
were forewarned we were in for an extra special show. Upon our arrival
and the standard Farm Day pleasantries, Clark asked me, “Peter, you
want to give me a hand?” Clark could talk fast when he needed to, but
his Missouri drawl tended toward the leisurely.
“Absolutely, put me to work. We’ll all come out and see the process.”
In my childhood I had observed this event with young cattle, but this
would be the first time I’d seen or helped with sheep. While Ella and
the boys understood the medical fact of what was about to happen, they
really had no concept of what they were about to witness. Truthfully,
neither did I. “Here, if you don’t mind helping me snag each of the lambs,
then pass me the knife and iodine when I finish, this will go pretty
quick.” I knew I was fully committed when Clark captured the first
lamb. I will spare the reader too many gory details, but it is sufficient
to say a small incision exposed the necessary area. There followed a
firm tug, a shocked bleat, and a determined squirm from the patient.
Yet Clark held firm. The removed bits were tossed over the fence for
the raccoons and coyotes when the sun set. I handed the antiseptic to
Clark. Iodine duly applied, the deed was done, and the dazed little lamb
wandered back into the pasture to find his mother.
My wife and sons observed the first few procedures with some
dismay and their own share of squirming. The sight of Clark, bloody
scalpel between his teeth as he swabbed the lamb, was sufficient.
Strangely enough, Ella decided it was time for them to head back down
the little hill and help Nancy in the garden.
I stayed to help and asked Clark, “So, are you still welding full-time?”
“Well I usually work twenty-five or thirty hours a week. They want
me to do more, but I’m trying to balance that with keeping up the
farm.” As with so many other small farmers, Clark supported their
agricultural endeavors with outside work—in this case as a welder at a
farm implement factory. “We’re trying to make this place self-sufficient,
but we just can’t quite make enough to survive on it alone.” He looked at
me with a “yes I’m waxing philosophical” sort of gaze.
This pivotal moment in our conversation explains why Clark and
Nancy, our Missouri friends (i.e., not entirely High Plains) from the
2000s found their way into this story. During our years in this region
of western central Missouri, we also came to know several Amish and
Mennonite families from whom, along with the Engels, we bought fresh
foods, raw milk, chickens, beef, eggs, jam, fresh bread, and more. In
these families we witnessed a modern example of the yeoman—small
landholders beholden to no others, finding ways to support themselves
with “small” agriculture.
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