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