Denise Domning writes, makes jelly and watches the weeds overtake her garden on her 8 acre farm in Cornville while tending to her 100 turkeys, 3 cows, 20-some chickens, 2 dogs and 8 cats.
Once again, I've managed to work my way through another week of barn cleaning. OMG! Whole counters are bare. How awesome is that? Another few days and I'm going to call the "great clean out" done.
It's time to come clean. I admit it. I am not a spit-wife.
Well, it's happened again. Somehow an entire year--a full 365 days--has slipped past me at light speed. Where does my time go? Into writing books and farming, of course.
Nothing really funny has happened on the farm since the pigs became pork. This is very frustrating for me. I mean, the high point of my day has been walking out during my breaks and observing the hi-jinks that always seemed to occur while I'm outside. Sigh.
I caught him (or her) in the act! Friday morning I was preparing to take a load of household goods to Prescott for donation. I had just called my friend who runs the organization to which I donate, warning her I was leaving, and stepped outside onto my porch. From my porch I can see the full two acres of pasture that fills Tier Two and a good part of Tier One, the lowest portion of my five-tiered property.
I can hardly believe that the two little guys (who don't have official names for a reason) have been around for almost 3 months now. Not only that but in three months time they've gotten huge! They're almost as big as Peanut and Mari, their biological if not chronological siblings. Another three months and they'll be--gulp--rams!
The Mason Ditch (the stream/irrigation ditch that runs through the center of my property) was well on its way to being empty. Like "down to a trickle" empty.
Typing this post is going to be interesting. I've got tape on three fingers, two of the cuts are on my fingertips. I'm hoping writing this will break in the tape, as it were, so I can go back to work on the novel in progress.
It’s 3 PM on Sunday and I’ve had a glorious day. I’m still in my robe and jammies. This is the first time in more than five years that I have refused to dress for the day.
November. That is not a month most folks connect with tomatoes ripening on the vine. I sure wouldn't have, but there seems to be a lovely little miracle occurring in my new hugelkulture garden. If you recall, back in July I planted San Marzano tomatoes as a reward to myself. All those months ago I was fairly certain I wasn't going to get anything out of them, having planted so late.