Spring Is Coming… Eventually

I got my first seed catalog for Spring 2009 in the mail today. Which is hilarious, frankly. Somewhere out there, in a magical land with robins and daffodils and people wearing shorts in March, someone thinks it's almost time to plant things.

Up here? We won’t even see dirt until late April—maybe May if winter decides to throw a tantrum on the way out. Right now the garden is under three feet of snow, two layers of ice, and one slightly bitter sense of humor. I've got shovels older than some of these seed catalog models, and right now they’re buried in the shed under three broken rakes, a suspicious pile of twine, and what I think might be a hibernating raccoon with squatters’ rights.

To help you visualize where "up here" is, there’s a sign just 15 minutes north of me that proudly proclaims the 45th parallel. That’s right—smack dab halfway between the equator and the North Pole. I live in the “don’t even bother with a groundhog” zone. We just assume six more weeks of winter and keep feeding the wood stove like it's a bottomless pit.

So, while the seed companies try to tempt me with glossy pictures of tomatoes, zucchinis, and flowers that have never even heard of snow, I’ll be over here ice-chipping my barn door open and trying to remember what grass feels like.

Still, I’ll hang on to the catalog. Because one day—one day—the snow will melt, the mud will rise, and I’ll remember why I bother with this whole “growing food” thing in the first place.

Of course, if winter drags on much longer, the catalog may end up in the wood stove after all. It’s got nice, glossy pages—burns hot and fast. So I guess I’ll either dream of spring or stay warm. One or the other. Can't have it both ways in the north country.

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©2008 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

How I Served a Turkey That Weighed More Than My Dog

A true tale of triumph, trauma, and temporary herniation.

So, there we were—Jim, me, and The Bird That Time Forgot. This wasn’t a turkey anymore. This was a monument. A protein-based landmark.

We’d already roasted the 20-pounder for Thanksgiving, and he was big enough to require a minor pulley system and a kitchen cleared of all breakables. But now it was time for the Christmas turkey. Time to face the beast. The 39-pounder.

Step one was figuring out how to defrost something that could double as a footstool. We put it in the fridge. It laughed at us. Three days later, it was still solid enough to stop a truck. I started to Google, “how to thaw a turkey without a blowtorch or divine intervention.”

Eventually, we just hauled it into the tub like we were giving Shamu a spa day. Five hours and fifteen gallons of water later, it was thawed—ish. Close enough. I wasn’t about to wait for spring.

Now for the oven.

After some deliberation and the threat of power tools, I realized that roasting this turkey whole was a dream best left to people with commercial kitchen-grade equipment or a live-in team of engineers. So, we spatchcocked it. (Yes, that’s a real word. No, I didn’t make it up—look it up. Yes, I laughed every time I said it.)

Jim got out the garden loppers—I wish I were kidding—and after a few heave-ho! moments that probably violated some sort of turkey Geneva Convention, we splayed it out flatter than a Sunday newspaper.

Roasting it still required rotating it halfway through with the teamwork and precision of a NASA launch. Basting involved a mop. And when it was done? Oh, baby. It was glorious. Golden. Juicy. Impossibly large. Like carving a mythical beast with a bad attitude.

We fed 14 people, sent leftovers home in gallon bags, and still had enough turkey left to start a soup kitchen. We had turkey sandwiches, turkey stew, turkey pot pie, turkey omelets, turkey quesadillas, turkey smoothies (okay, that one was an accident), and I still hear gobbling in my sleep.

So, the next time someone says, “Oh, a turkey that size must be such a blessing!” you can tell them this: Blessings don’t usually require power tools, back support belts, and a signed liability waiver.

Happy Holidays, friends. And remember—just because you can grow a turkey that big… doesn’t mean you should, unless you’re looking to combine dinner with a full-body workout and a minor existential crisis.

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©2008 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Letter to Santa: A Mother’s Christmas Wish List from the Laundry Room

I didn’t write this, but I could have. Every word rings true — especially the part about the laundry room. It’s a funny, sweet reminder of how motherhood somehow mixes exhaustion, love, and a dash of insanity into one beautiful mess. Grab a cup of cocoa, and maybe some chocolate to go along with it, and enjoy — you’ll feel seen. And if Santa really reads every letter, I hope he starts with this one. The rest of us moms could use a little backup.

Dear Santa,

I've been a good mom all year. I've fed, cleaned and cuddled my children on demand, visited their doctor's office more than my doctor, sold sixty-two cases of candy bars to raise money to plant a shade tree on the school playground. I was hoping you could spread my list out over several Christmases, since I had to write this letter with my son's red crayon, on the back of a receipt in the laundry room between cycles, and who knows when I'll find anymore free time in the next 18 years.

Here are my Christmas wishes:

I'd like a pair of legs that don't ache (in any color, except purple, which I already have) and arms that don't hurt or flap in the breeze; but are strong enough to pull my screaming child out of the candy aisle in the grocery store. I'd also like a waist, since I lost mine somewhere in the seventh month of my last pregnancy. If you're hauling big ticket items this year I'd like fingerprint resistant windows and a radio that only plays adult music; a television that doesn't broadcast any programs containing talking animals; and a refrigerator with a secret compartment behind the crisper where I can hide to talk on the phone.

On the practical side, I could use a talking doll that says, "Yes, Mommy" to boost my parental confidence, along with two kids who don't fight and three pairs of jeans that will zip all the way up without the use of power tools. I could also use a recording of Tibetan monks chanting "Don't eat in the living room" and "Take your hands off your brother," because my voice seems to be just out of my children's hearing range and can only be heard by the dog.

If it's too late to find any of these products, I'd settle for enough time to brush my teeth and comb my hair in the same morning, or the luxury of eating food warmer than room temperature without it being served in a Styrofoam container.

If you don't mind, I could also use a few Christmas miracles to brighten the holiday season. Would it be too much trouble to declare ketchup a vegetable? It will clear my conscience immensely. It would be helpful if you could coerce my children to help around the house without demanding payment as if they were the bosses of an organized crime family.

Well, Santa, the buzzer on the dryer is ringing and my son saw my feet under the laundry room door. I think he wants his crayon back. Have a safe trip and remember to leave your wet boots by the door and come in and dry off so you don't catch cold. Help yourself to cookies on the table but don't eat too many or leave crumbs on the carpet.

Yours Always, MOM

P.S. One more thing...you can cancel all my requests if you can keep my children young enough to believe in Santa for many years to come.

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©2008 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

The Doghouse: A Holiday Gift Warning for Husbands Everywhere

Found this on another blog I follow, and it’s just way too funny not to share. The video’s called “Beware of the Doghouse”—and if you’ve never seen it, you absolutely have to watch it. It’s a clever (and painfully accurate) little story about what happens when men buy their wives the wrong kind of gifts. You know the type—blenders, vacuums, exercise bikes. The sort of “helpful” presents that make a woman wonder if her husband’s trying to romance her or telling her the house is dirty, or she needs to lose those thunder thighs.

In the video, every poor fella who flubs a gift winds up banished to The Doghouse, a hilarious underground lair filled with other husbands who’ve made the same mistake. They sit around swapping tales of disaster—“I bought her a scale!” “I got her a set of wrenches!”—like a support group for the romantically challenged. It’s pure comedy gold, especially if you’ve ever been married long enough to know that intent doesn’t always equal success.

Of course, I had to laugh thinking about my own husband, Jim. If gift-giving were graded, he’d either get an A+ or an F, depending on who’s judging. One Valentine’s Day, he got me a .357 Mag with a six-inch barrel. Another year, for our anniversary, he brought home a self-starting chainsaw. Now, some women might’ve been horrified—but me? I was thrilled. Those “gifts” fit my personality a whole lot better than earrings or gold necklaces ever would. I don’t need diamonds; I need something that cuts wood and scares off bears. That’s romance, farm-style.

So yes, make sure the man in your life watches Beware of the Doghouse before he goes holiday shopping. But if your idea of the perfect gift involves power tools or firearms, go easy on him. Sometimes love isn’t roses and jewelry—it’s a man who knows you’d rather have something that starts with a trigger pull than a sparkle.

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©2008 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Holy Turkey Batman! Raising a 39-Pound Bird Fit for a Superhero Feast

Back in the spring, I ordered a few turkeys from the feed store. You know, just your average holiday prep in April—because nothing says “long-term planning” like betting on birds you haven’t even seen yet. They didn’t arrive until the first week of June, and I was not pleased. I muttered something about poultry punctuality and fretted they’d still be the size of Cornish hens come Thanksgiving.

Well. Fast forward to August and I started giving them the side-eye every time I walked by the pen. By mid-October, it was less “holiday meal” and more “Jurassic Park reboot.” I swear one of them looked at me like he was planning to eat me.

My husband finally processed them last Saturday, and when we weighed the biggest one, I nearly had to sit down.

THIRTY-NINE POUNDS.

That’s not a turkey. That’s a Thanksgiving-themed linebacker with drumsticks the size of Louisville Sluggers. The others weighed in like runners-up in a strongman competition: 35, 26, and 20 pounds. We’re roasting the 20-pounder tomorrow because that’s the only one that doesn’t require a forklift access to the oven.

The rest are in the freezer. Well, technically on top of the freezer, because I’m still trying to make space inside the freezer. I may have to evict some venison and a few dozen mystery Tupperwares labeled “stew.”

But now I’m faced with a genuine Thanksgiving dilemma:
How do you wrangle a 39-pound turkey into a standard oven without voiding the warranty?

Do I butterfly it with a chainsaw? Strap it to a rotisserie spit and call NASA? I’ve seen smaller roast pigs served at luaus—and they didn’t even need basting every 30 minutes. I’m considering building a turkey sauna out of cinderblocks and duct tape just to fit it in.

Anyway—Happy Thanksgiving from our kitchen to yours. May your stuffing stay inside the bird, may your relatives behave, and may you never, ever, raise poultry large enough to qualify for its own zip code.

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©2008 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

The Passing of Our Grandson: Remembering Zach’s Beautiful Spirit

On November 11, 2008, our oldest grandson, Zach, passed away at just 16 years old. He had Cerebral Palsy. Of all the things we could say about him—and about the courage and faith of our son and daughter-in-law—her own words from her blog say it best (shared with permission):

“The wheelchair races have ceased at our home. Our oldest son has gone home to be with His Maker. Although we are sad and left to grieve, we recognize the blessing that he is no doubt happier to be released from a life of special needs, tubes, braces, his wheelchair, and the like. He has finished his race and gone on before us. He was one of those 'special' spirits who didn’t come to this Earth to learn, but to teach. Even though he never said a word, he taught by his example—his endurance, stamina, and the way he faced adversity. Many lessons were learned along the way because we were blessed to care for him: lessons of acceptance, gratitude, love, patience, strength, family, faith, and hope. We found that even though life can be hard at times, there is still plenty of Joy in the Journey, and nothing matters more than Faith, Family, and Love. He was truly loved by those who were blessed to know him, and he could laugh with the best of them. His laughter and smiles will be dearly missed. We are better people because he shared our lives. Thank you for the lessons learned—farewell for now. God be with you till we meet again, little buddy.”

Goodbye for now, Zach. We miss you every day and look forward to the time when we’ll be together again.

With all our love,
Grandma Sandy and Grandpa Jim

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©2008 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Veteran’s Day Lamb Surprise: When Bruce the Ram Broke More Than Fences

We had ourselves a little Veteran’s Day surprise this year. Well... maybe not a complete surprise. More like a “Yep, saw that coming” kind of surprise.

Back in mid-June, Bruce—the ram—decided to go full Romeo and busted through a 4-foot livestock fence supported by metal posts. Not exactly a small feat, but then again, rams are nothing if not determined when romance is in the air.

Now, knowing Bruce as we do, we figured he wasn’t launching an escape mission just for the joy of it. Rams aren’t wanderers; they’re opportunists. And sure enough, the next morning we found him being... let’s say... very attentive to Sweetpea, a lovely, dark gray Columbia/Rambouillet cross who clearly caught his eye—and possibly his nose—from across the field.

Bruce was promptly returned to his own pasture, and we reinforced the fence with electric wire on his side to curb any future Casanova stunts. And for a while, all was calm. But as many a parent of a teenager can tell you: it only takes one night of passion to create a long-term commitment.

Fast-forward five months, and just as we’re settling into November and the last of the leaves are dropping, bam—a new lamb arrives. In freezing temperatures, of course. Because no one ever delivers conveniently on a 60-degree afternoon with sunshine and iced herbal tea.

Cue the emergency setup. Out came the 250-watt heat lamp, casting its glowing red spotlight on our new little oops. And just like that, we were back to our favorite springtime sport—watching the electric meter spin like it’s training for the Olympics.

Sweetpea is doing fine, baby is adorable, and Bruce… well, he’s been strutting around like he’s responsible for the Second Coming of Sheepdom.

Moral of the story? Love breaks fences, timing is everything, and sheep don’t care what month it is as long as the mood is right.

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©2008 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

And So It Begins... Again! When Winter Shows Up Early in the North Country

Well folks, it's that magical time of year when Old Man Winter shows up dressed as Frosty the Buzzkill. Right on cue, he’s thrown his annual Halloween snowstorm just to keep us humble. Because nothing says "festive fall fun" like shoveling your porch in a witch hat while trying not to slip on pumpkin guts.

Usually, these early flurries don’t stick around long. The sun will put in a few extra appearances, trying to convince us we’ve still got a bit of fall left. It’s a noble effort—futile, but noble. I like to think of it as Autumn’s version of, “Wait, I wasn’t done yet!” But even the maples are starting to look nervous.

Last year, though? Oh, we got played. Snow moved in mid-October like an unwanted houseguest and didn’t pack its bags until late May. That’s seven months of winter. Seven. That’s over half a year of the landscape looking like a powdered sugar doughnut. I started measuring time in shovelfuls and lost all feeling in my upper arms somewhere around March.

So now I’m side-eyeing this snowfall with deep mistrust. Is it a harmless little prank? Or the first icy warning shot of a winter that plans to overstay its welcome again? Up here in the north country, you don’t assume anything—you just mutter under your breath, check your firewood pile, and question all your life choices.

Either way, it's time to make the annual pilgrimage to get those snow tires put on. Preferably before every other procrastinator in town remembers at the same exact moment and the waiting list starts looking like the DMV line on a Monday morning. Waiting until the first real storm hits is a bold strategy, and by bold, I mean foolish bordering on tragic.

So here’s to hoping this snow is just a flurry with commitment issues. But just in case? Better dig out the snow shovels and the livestock water heaters, and start buttering up the plow guy. We might be in for another long one because Mother Nature certainly doesn’t care what the calendar says. If she wants Christmas in October and mud season in June, well, buckle up buttercup.

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©2008 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Sportsmen (and Sportswomen) for McCain/Palin– Hank Williams Jr. Endorsement

Leave it to Hank Williams Jr. to say what a lot of Americans were thinking. In his “Sportsmen and Sportswomen for McCain/Palin” PSA, he doesn’t dress it up or hide behind clever slogans. He talks straight — about faith, freedom, hunting, and the values that built this country.

The video feels less like a campaign ad and more like a campfire conversation between people who understand that freedom isn’t something handed down by politicians — it’s something earned and defended. Hank speaks the language of rural America: hard work, family, and the right to live life without government sitting in the front seat telling you how to drive.

What stands out is how personal it feels. He’s not talking to Hollywood or Washington — he’s talking to the folks who get up early, put in a day’s work, and spend their weekends in the woods or on the water. It’s a call to remember that those same freedoms — the right to hunt, to speak your mind, to make your own choices — are only safe if we stay awake and involved.

In 2008, politics gets loud and mean, but this message cuts through the noise. It isn’t about party labels as much as principle: standing up for the Constitution, for faith, and for a way of life that’s becoming rarer by the year.

Watching it reminds us that it’s more than just nostalgia — it’s a reminder of what matters. Hank’s words ring true: freedom is personal, and once it’s gone, you don’t get it back.

It’s not fancy. It’s not polished. It’s honest — and that’s why it hits home.

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©2008 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Dog Dance – A Heartwarming Bond Between Human and Dog

If this doesn’t make you smile, you might want to check your pulse. I stumbled across this video of Tina Humphrey and her dog dancing together in a competition, and let me tell you—it’s one of those rare things that warms your heart, lifts your spirits, and makes you forget for a moment that the world can be a pretty noisy place.

I don’t know what competition it was, but it doesn’t really matter. The performance speaks for itself. There’s Tina, graceful and confident, and beside her—well, not just beside her, with her—is her four-legged partner, moving in perfect sync. Every spin, every step, every bow—it’s not just well-rehearsed; it’s a duet of pure joy. The bond between them practically glows through the screen. You can see it in the dog’s eyes and that nonstop, rhythm-perfect tail wag. That’s not obedience—that’s happiness in motion.

There’s something almost magical about watching a person and their dog move together like that. You can’t choreograph love, but you can sure see it when it’s there. The trust, the connection, the fun—it all shines through every beat of the music. And honestly, that dog’s timing could rival most human dancers I’ve seen. Never once did he miss a cue or step out of line. I’ve had dance partners less coordinated than that!

If my own dogs ever master half those moves, I’m signing us up for Farmyard’s Got Talent. I can already picture Roxie and Jack trying to moonwalk across the living room while the sheep look on, unimpressed. But watching Tina and her dancing dog makes me think maybe—just maybe—it’s possible.

It’s easy to get caught up in the training, the work, the routines. But this performance is a reminder of what it’s really all about: joy, trust, and that special kind of love only a dog can give. Truly, this duo turned a simple competition into something unforgettable—a celebration of heart, humor, and one incredibly wagging tail.

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©2008 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Hank Williams Jr. sings McCain-Palin Tradition — A Campaign Athem

Well, Hank Williams Jr. has done it again. His song “McCain–Palin Tradition” is exactly what this country needed to hear right now — straight talk with a steel guitar. It’s catchy, it’s bold, and it says out loud what a whole lot of Americans have been feeling.

You can’t listen to it without tapping your foot and nodding along. It’s not just about politics — it’s about pride. Pride in hard work, small towns, and doing things the right way instead of the easy way. Hank’s never been afraid to say what he thinks, and this song proves it. He stands up for the kind of values that built this country: faith, family, and freedom — the kind of freedom that doesn’t come from Washington but from the people who roll up their sleeves every day and make this country run.

When he sings about McCain and Palin, you can hear the respect in his voice. It’s not about celebrity or empty promises — it’s about character. Whether you’re a fan of either candidate or not, you have to admit the man knows how to rally a crowd.

The best part is that it feels real. It’s not a studio-crafted anthem made for headlines; it’s a song from the heart of America. It reminds us that we still have folks out there who believe in honesty, accountability, and the simple idea that this country belongs to all of us — not the bureaucrats, not the lobbyists, and not the media.

Love him or hate him, Hank’s message is clear: there’s still a lot of us out here who believe in the old-fashioned American way — and we’re not ready to give it up.

No matter your politics, you’ve got to hand it to Hank — he sings what he believes, loud and clear.

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©2008 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Playin' With the Big Dogs! – Lessons in Joy and Gentle Strength from the Pack

It never fails to make me smile—watching the dogs wrestle and tumble around like a pack of furry toddlers hopped up on sugar. There's something so pure and uncomplicated about the way they play. No agendas, no grudges, no need to keep score. Just tails wagging, paws flailing, and that unmistakable sparkle in their eyes that says, "This is the best moment of my life!"

What really gets me, though, is the way the big dogs handle their smaller playmates—especially Roxy. Now, Roxy may be small in stature, but she’s got the heart (and bark) of a lion. She dives into the fray like she’s got backup from an entire SWAT team. And the big dogs? They play right along, all gentle mouths and careful paws, even though one misplaced chomp could flatten her like a pancake.

These dogs know they’re strong. They know they could win. But they don’t need to. They let Roxy be the queen of the yard, the tiny terror of the tug toy, the undisputed featherweight champion of the tail-chase circuit. And they do it with nothing but good humor and wagging tails.

We humans could learn a thing or two from that. Not everything has to be a competition. Sometimes, it's okay to let someone else win, just because it brings them joy. Sometimes, the best thing you can do is take a break from the grind, roll around in the grass (figuratively, or literally—I’m not judging), and just enjoy the play.

Because if the big dogs can put their egos aside and romp around with a spunky little underdog like Roxy… well, maybe we can too.

Play nice, don’t crush the little guy, and remember—sometimes letting someone else win just means you’re secure enough to know you already run the yard. 

 

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©2008 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Before and After: Goats, Chainsaws, and the Great Snow-Pile Clearing Project

This is the clearing project on the north side of the driveway—a job that started as “just a little cleanup” and somehow turned into a full-scale land reclamation effort. Since we’ve now got a permanent fence running along the south side, the north side became the only logical spot left for snow storage. After last winter’s twelve feet of the white stuff (not all at once, thankfully—we’d still be tunneling our way to the barn), having a designated snow dump zone isn’t just practical—it’s survival.

Step one of the operation was bringing in my favorite landscaping crew: the goats. They don’t wear uniforms, but they work cheap and take their pay in twigs, bark, and the occasional stolen glove. I let them loose for a few days, and by the time they were done, you could actually see daylight through what had once been an impenetrable jungle. Goats may have attitude, but they’re nature’s finest brush cutters—like four-legged chainsaws with opinions.

Once they’d cleared enough for me to see the ground (and my footing), I fired up the real chainsaw and brought in the chipper. That’s when things got serious. Between the roar of the motor and the satisfying thunk of branches turning into mulch, I felt like I was starring in my own backwoods episode of Extreme Makeover: Farm Edition. The before-and-after photos are almost unrecognizable. What was once a tangle of scrub and tree limbs now actually looks like part of a driveway again.

All that’s left now is to drag a few of the bigger logs over to the landfill area, toss down some grass seed, and let nature—and the sheep—take it from there. Give it a season or two, and you’ll never know it was once a mess. The sheep will keep it cropped short, like a living lawn crew.

And really, that’s how this whole farm operation began: edible land management. Goats, sheep, pigs, chickens, turkeys—they’re all part of the system. It’s not glamorous, but it’s effective. Around here, if something eats grass, brush, or bugs, it’s got a job—and that’s what keeps this farm running.

Before:


After:

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©2008 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Crunch Time on the Farm: Racing Winter with Wood, Fences, and a Crockpot Savior

I haven’t had much time to post lately—because, well… it’s Crunch Time. With winter breathing down our necks like a relative who shows up early and stays too long, we’ve got a farm-sized to-do list that won’t quit. The clock is ticking, the leaves are falling, and it’s that golden window where the days are crisp, the sun is still warm on your back, and you feel just motivated enough to believe that yes, maybe we can get it all done before snow boots become a daily necessity.

Here’s a sample of what we’re staring down in the next few weeks:

• Finish the next 12'x36' section of the barn

• Split and stack six cords of firewood (and probably argue about the “right” way to stack it)

• Clear brush and trees on the left side of the driveway—because the right side is now fenced and, surprise, snow needs somewhere to go

• Clean the chimney and wood stove (the dirtiest clean job there is)

• Button up the house—weatherstripping windows, touching up paint, pretending we’re organized homeowners

• General clean-up and reorganizing of the farmyard chaos

And of course, let’s not forget the animals:

• Crutching the sheep (yes, that’s exactly what it sounds like—shaving the nether regions to avoid manure mats. Miss it one year and you’ll pay for it come shearing time.)

• Trim feet on all the sheep and goats

• Update all vaccinations

• Run electric hot wire along the top of winter pastures (because snow turns fences into launch pads)

• Send the remaining ducks to freezer camp

• Process the turkeys closer to Thanksgiving (they’ve had a good run... literally)

...and the list goes on. And on.

Hopefully, autumn takes its sweet time this year. Last fall, Old Man Winter barged in on October 19th and didn't pack his bags until the third week of May. That’s not a season, that’s a reign. We were caught scrambling then, and we learned the hard way—when it comes to winter prep, there’s no such thing as "too early."

But whether he shows up with a whisper or a wallop, the chores still need doing. It’s just so much nicer to tackle them now, while the sun warms your shoulders and the smell of leaves and earth still lingers in the air.

These are the days when it pays to throw a stew or soup in the crockpot first thing in the morning. Let it bubble away quietly while you haul wood, chase sheep, and curse at whatever tool you left at the other end of the property. And when the sun dips low and your body is ready to do the same, it’s pure comfort to walk inside and smell that rich, savory promise that dinner is just a ladle away.

Bless Mr. Crockpot. He never complains, never forgets, and always has your back at the end of a long, dirty, muscle-burning day. Here’s to sunny days, productive afternoons, and a hot meal waiting when the work boots come off.

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©2008 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Iraq Veteran’s Message to Barack Obama: A Personal and Powerful Statement

I just watched the video “Dear Mr. Obama,” and it’s no surprise the BBC named it the #1 political ad of 2008. There’s nothing fancy about it — no flashing graphics, no booming background music. Just a soldier, standing quietly in a wooded clearing, speaking from the heart to a man who wanted to be his next Commander-in-Chief.

What makes it powerful is exactly what it doesn’t do. He doesn’t rant, doesn’t wave his arms, and doesn’t attack. He simply talks, calmly and clearly, about what he’s seen and what he believes. You can hear the conviction in his voice — the kind that comes from experience, not opinion. When he says, “I earned the right to disagree,” that line lands like a hammer. It’s not political grandstanding. It’s a statement born out of service and sacrifice.

The trees behind him make it feel like he could be standing in any backyard in America. It reminds you that our soldiers aren’t strangers — they’re our sons, brothers, and neighbors. They’re the ones who’ve carried the weight of war while the rest of us carried on with daily life.

This video cuts through the noise of campaign season. It’s not about red states or blue states. It’s about respect — respect for those who’ve been on the front lines, and for the freedom they protect.

In a year full of polished speeches and empty slogans, “Dear Mr. Obama” feels refreshingly real. It’s one man, one message, and a world of truth: freedom isn’t theoretical. It’s paid for, one uniform at a time.

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©2008 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Tough Love vs. Spanking– An Alternative Parenting Technique

This is one of the funniest things I’ve ever received in my email. I honestly laughed so hard I nearly choked on my herb tea. I wish I could let you read the letter before seeing the picture—it makes the punchline twice as good. Although none of us would ever actually do this (and I feel obligated to make that crystal clear for the humor-impaired), it sure brings a smile to your heart just thinking about it.

The letter starts off sounding completely serious. It’s titled “Dear Friends,” and it’s written in that calm, matter-of-fact tone of a parent who’s clearly been through the wars. The writer talks about how most people these days think it’s improper to spank children, so they’ve been trying other “methods” to manage misbehavior. Sounds reasonable so far, right?

Then comes the part about the car ride technique. The writer explains that whenever the kids are acting up, they just take them for a drive. Some say it’s the vibration of the car that calms them down, others say it’s the quiet time away from distractions—no TV, no video games, no cell phones. Supposedly, the kids come home calm, well-behaved, and reflective. Eye contact, the letter assures us, is key.

And then—then—you scroll down and see the photo. A kid plastered to the outside of the car’s windshield, hair flying, mouth wide open in mid-scream, while the car is apparently barreling down the road. The caption might as well read, “See? Works every time!”

Now again, before anyone faints, it’s obviously a joke. But you have to admit, it’s the perfect setup. Every parent (and grandparent) who’s ever survived a tantrum has probably fantasized about a creative “discipline strategy.” This one just happens to involve a little more horsepower!

So yes, it’s completely outrageous—but also completely hilarious. Sometimes laughter really is the best survival tool.

Dear Friends,

Most of the American population thinks it improper to spank children, so I have tried other methods to control my kids when they have one of those moments.

One that I found effective is for me to just take the child for a car ride and talk. Some say it's the vibration from the car, others say it's the time away from any distractions such as TV, Video Games, Computer, IPod, etc. Either way, my kids usually calm down and stop misbehaving after our car ride together. Eye to eye contact helps a lot too.

I've included a photo below of one of my sessions with my son, in case you would like to use the technique. This works with grandchildren, nieces, and nephews as well.

Sincerely,
Your Friend

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©2008 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Kids Will Be Kids – Whipped Cream, Oreos, and Teenage Experiments

Ah, the teenage years—where the line between genius and goofball is blurred by a can of whipped cream. Yesterday my almost-16-year-old grandson decided to see just how high he could stack a mountain of the stuff on top of an Oreo cookie. Now, any sensible person would stop once gravity started to wobble the tower—but not this boy. Oh no, curiosity and sugar cravings took over.

Once the whipped-cream skyscraper reached maximum altitude, he dove in face-first to see if he could still find the cookie buried somewhere underneath. By the time the experiment was over, both cookie and grandson were unrecognizable. But apparently that wasn’t enough scientific exploration for one day. The next phase involved seeing just how much whipped cream he could pile directly on his face. Because when you’re sixteen, why not turn dessert into a spa treatment?

I stood there watching, half laughing, half wondering how much longer the can would last—and how much of it would end up in his nose. The dog was thrilled with the fallout, the kitchen smelled like a dairy explosion, and I couldn’t help thinking: teenage boys are basically toddlers with driver’s permits.

It’s funny how it doesn’t take much to keep them entertained—no video games, no Wi-Fi, no expensive gadgets. Just a can of whipped cream, a cookie, and a bright idea that’ll probably end with someone wiping down the counters. I suppose it’s one of those simple, silly moments that make you smile later—when he’s grown and telling his kids, “You know what Grandma let me do once?”

And honestly, that’s the beauty of it. A few laughs, a sticky mess, and a reminder that sometimes the best memories come from the most ridiculous experiments.

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©2008 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Development of the Turgoatkey: An Origin Story No One Asked For

So, this morning started like most mornings: hot chocolate in hand, animals where they belong, peace and tranquility... Ha! Just kidding. The goat was in the turkey pen again.

Yep. Our young Boer buck—who I now suspect might be part mountain goat, part parkour athlete, and possibly part raccoon—was inside the turkey tractor. Just standing there casually, like he belonged, looking smug, trying to blend in.

Now, before you call Animal Control or the Men in Black, let me explain.

We don’t entirely know how he got in there, but I’ve come to understand this little guy is a four-legged Houdini with horns and a food obsession. Then again, we didn’t know how he kept ending up in the doe pasture either—until one day, we caught him climbing the fence like a jailhouse escapee, wedging his head between the feeder crib and the fence post to gain leverage. He basically used physics and stubbornness to launch himself over. We added an electric fence. Problem solved. At least that one.

Fast forward to yesterday: I’m doing my headcount and—surprise! No goat in the buck pasture. I do a little searching and there he is, inside the turkey tractor.

Now, let me paint you a picture. The turkey tractor is an 8' x 12' pen with an A-frame tarp roof. It moves daily so the turkeys always have fresh ground to destroy with their unapologetic digestive systems. No cleaning—just drag the whole thing 12 feet and let the cycle of poop and pecking continue.

And somehow, this goat figured out how to breach Fort Turkey.

Obviously, he was after the grain. Because nothing motivates a goat like a snack that doesn’t belong to him.

Getting him out, however, was like extracting a cat from under a couch using salad tongs. The bottom sides of the pen are covered in chicken wire, the tarp is stapled on tighter than Aunt Marge’s wig in a windstorm, and the A-frame roof is made from floppy PVC pipe. It took two grown adults, several questionable decisions, and some mild cussing to hoist him over the wire and out a gap we made by peeling back the tarp like we were unwrapping a very confused birthday present.

Which brings me to my next brilliant idea:
The Turgoatkey.

Yes, you heard me. A new, genetically engineered species—half turkey, half goat, all attitude. A trailblazing, bipartisan barnyard diplomat who’s equally at home in the goat pen and the turkey tractor. Think of the collaboration! The synergy! The weird noises it would make!

I’m not saying it would revolutionize farming, but I am saying it might be the answer to problems we haven’t invented yet.

Now, I haven’t worked out the details like… say… how to create it… but I’ve got enthusiasm, a Sharpie, and a doodle of what it might look like. That’s basically science.

So if you'd like to be on the official waiting list to be notified when the first Turgoatkey hatches (or is born… or maybe just wanders in from another dimension), let me know. No promises, but you'll be the first to get a T-shirt.

In the meantime, keep your goats locked up and your turkeys supervised. Because once they start working together, we’re all in trouble.

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©2008 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Sheep Poop! – A Glamorous Day in the Life of a Farmer

Now, I know what you're thinking—“Wow, what a glamorous life she must lead.” And you'd be absolutely right. Because what says glamour more than spending a breezy afternoon examining sheep poop like it’s fine wine?

Jim and I recently attended a FAMACHA workshop. For the uninitiated (i.e., anyone with a normal life), FAMACHA is a method used to determine internal parasite levels in sheep and goats—so you only deworm the animals that need it. That way, the worms don’t build up resistance and start demanding union wages and PTO. (If there is a parasite overload, the inner eyelids, which should be bright pink, will be pale pink to white, indicating anemia.)

It all started innocently enough. We sat through a slide presentation where someone, somewhere, decided a three-foot close-up of an sheep's inner eyelid was a good idea before lunch. Then it was time for hands-on practice. We filed outside to check actual sheep eyeballs, flipping lids like we were working at a fast-food joint for livestock: “Would you like anemia with that?”

After the eyelids came the poop. Glorious, glorious poop. Now, ideally, you’d just stand around, clipboard in hand, while your sheep politely deposits their samples in front of you like the cooperative little angels they are in the storybook version of farming. In reality, we spent an uncomfortable amount of time crouched behind woolly butts, waiting, praying, and occasionally fishing for it ourselves like gold mine prospectors.

Let me tell you, there’s nothing quite like elbowing your way into a sheep’s personal space while whispering, “Please poop. Please. Just. . . poop.” Honestly, the only thing missing was a candlelight dinner and a playlist of Barry White.

One gal in our group was the Beyoncé of sheep wrangling. She had this move—some kind of judo sheep snatch—that would’ve made a professional wrestler weep. She caught a sheep mid-sprint with the grace of a panther. Meanwhile, the rest of us were performing interpretive dance routines with halters and embarrassment.

Back at the barn, things really got weird. We measured the poop, mashed it into a scientific smoothie, strained it like fine soup stock, and slapped it on a microscope slide. I half expected Gordon Ramsay to walk in and scream, “It’s RAW!” Then we broke out calculators and math formulas that made me long for the simple days of long division and pencil sharpeners.

And let me tell you, the weather? Absolutely divine. Sunny, cool, a slight breeze—just a whisper of autumn in the air. Perfect poop-collecting weather. While the rest of the world was out hiking or sipping overpriced lattes on some lakeside dock, we were harvesting fecal samples and living our best life. That, my friends, is dedication—or insanity.

In fact, I think we’re onto something here. I see a whole new frontier opening up—competitive poop collection. Maybe even a league. I’m talking official jackets, theme music, commemorative mugs. We’ll call it Poop Gatherers of New England—PGNE. Jim says that acronym sounds like a gas company, so he’s pitching Poop Gatherers of America instead. PGA. Has a nice ring, right? Finally, a reason to watch golf.

So, if anyone needs me next weekend, I’ll be training. Sheep poop waits for no one.

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©2008 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm