Cousin Harvey

I was contacted by Jesse Taylor II, who asked if I’d share this post here on the blog. I thought it was worth passing along, so here it is in his own words.

--Guest post by Jesse Taylor II

My Daddy insisted this story was true. You'll have to make up your own mind about that.

My Cousin Harvey Taylor wasn't as tall as the rest of the family. He topped of at a very skinny 5-foot six. Daddy always said smoking and drinking had stunted his growth. Harv claimed to have smoked his first cigarette when he was only 5 years old. In a tobacco growing country, where "roll your owns" are common and kids will be kids, that may be true. But, one thing is true, by the time he reached 15 years of age he'd developed a healthy taste for alcohol. Boys grew up fast in the coal camps of old Kentucky. Times were hard and the poverty took its toll. When he was 16 years old, "Little Harv" lied about his age and joined the Army. Hard to believe, but it really happened. But, I digress. We're not really here to talk about Harv's younger days. Let's have a word about his hobby...and chief occupation. Namely, that of being a drunk.

Now, just because Harv was a drinker, that didn't mean he was lazy. A great many heavy drinkers are very hard workers. They know that if they quit working then the money for alcohol will disappear. Harv didn't have any trouble holding down a job. Things were very different from what they are, today.

Anyway, as it so happened, Harv's outfit had a three day weekend. This meant Harv had Thursday night, all day Friday and all day Saturday to practice his hobby. He set to the task with gusto, according to reports. When Sunday morning came, Harv woke up in the bar. Actually, he woke up on the countertop of the bar, proper. You might say he had been "over served". As bad as he felt, he knew it was Sunday. He also knew there wasn't any use in trying to call anyone to come pick him up. Them that weren't in church would be in no shape to drive, having spent their time involved in their own hobbies.

Harv claimed he had a ringing in his ears, blurred vision, stomach cramps and a headache. Also, he knew that, if he was going to get back home, he was going to have to walk. His thinking was clear enough to realize that he really didn't want to put up with the noise of passing traffic, should he take the "easy route" by walking along the highway. Unsteady as his legs were, he decided he'd be better off taking the more direct and private route, down along the river. If the birds weren't singing too loud, he thought he might be better able to stand it.

As Harv walked along the river, he heard a sound that, in his impaired condition, sounded for the world like someone shouting for help. Somebody might be drowning. This spurred Harv into action. He took off at a "lope". The route took him over a high embankment and he ran head-long into a big "baptising" service.

Now, Harv was no stranger in the community. Some of those folks recognized him and knew him well. They knew what he'd been up to and could see he wasn't "up to snuff", so to speak. Well, one of the fellows clamped Harv in a good, old fashioned, "hand shake". This involved a few hearty pats on the back and a round of "well-wishings". Its a common occurrence between friends in that part of the country. Also, its not an uncommon trait that good friends can sense a conspiracy when it comes up. The first man passed Harv off to the second man, who passed him off again, and so on and so forth. Next thing Harv knew, he was standing in the river, shaking hands with the preacher. The preacher, being no stranger himself, grabbed Harv and, promptly, dunked him under.

Harv came up spitting and slinging water. The reverend, still holding Harv by the shirt collar, shouted, "Have you found Jesus?"

Harv shouted, "No!!" So, the reverend dunked him under, again.

Harv came up blowing more water and waving his arms around. The reverend shouted, "Have you found Jesus!!?"

Harv shouted, "No!!!" Back under he went.

Harv came up spitting and clutching at the air and the reverend repeated the question, "Have you found Jesus, yet!!!?"

Harv reached out, grabbed the reverend by the shirt, drew him in close and asked, "Reverend...are you right sure this is where he went under!!?"

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

What Shall We Give? A Country Farm Message for Christmas

As Christmas draws near and the world sparkles with lights, gifts, and glitter, it’s easy to get swept up in the hustle. But in the quiet moments, somewhere between feeding the animals and losing the tape dispenser again, I find myself asking: What shall we give?

Not just to family, not to friends, not even to the Amazon delivery driver who’s now on a first-name basis with the dog, but what shall we give Him?

Let’s remember the real reason for the season. Christmas is about the birth of the Christ child, a gift given to us in love, humility, and grace. And the beautiful thing is, we can give back. Not with something wrapped in shiny paper and a bow, but by giving of ourselves.

Give kindness when it’s hard. Give forgiveness where it’s long overdue. Give time to someone who’s lonely, or help to someone who’s struggling, a warm meal, a heartfelt prayer, a handwritten card, a hug that lingers just a second longer than usual… those are the gifts that honor His birth.

And you know what? Even the animals get it. The chickens give us eggs every day, like clockwork—even on Christmas morning. The sheep offer wool for warmth. The dogs give loyalty and laughter (and the occasional “what is that in your mouth?!” moment). They don’t worry about shopping lists or Pinterest-worthy wrapping. They just give what they have. And maybe that’s the real lesson.

So, what shall we give? Let’s give what He gave—love and kindness.

Wishing you all a very merry and meaningful Christmas from our little farm to wherever you call home. May your hearts be full, your cocoa be hot, your barn chores be light, and your Wi-Fi be strong enough to stream the Christmas classics.

P.S. In case you’re wondering—yes, I did try to get one of the sheep to wear a Santa hat for a festive photo. No, it did not go well. The hat is somewhere out in the field, the sheep is still judging me, and I have a hoof print on my coat as a reminder that fashion is not for everyone.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

City Evangelist, Country Church

Every now and then someone sends me something that makes me laugh out loud. Jesse Taylor II contacted me about posting this piece, and I decided to share it here for you to read and ponder. He is truly an A+++ storyteller and I appreciate his contribution.

--Guest Post by Jesse Taylor II

Back in the Appalachian Mountains of old Kentucky, when I was a boy, the churches were one-room, white, simple little buildings. They weren't anything fancy. Not that the size or construction of the church matters to the Lord, but our churches were simple and small because the people led simple lives and, when it came right down to it, didn't have the money to support the building and maintenance of a large church.

In fact, the day to day maintenance of the church was so simple that one man could take care of it. All that really needed to be done was dusting the pews and window ledges, sweeping the floor, and in winter, building a fire in the little "pot-bellied" stove. The outhouse might need some attention or, if the day was unusually dark or if the service was after dark, the kerosene lamps might need filling and lighting. Usually, this task was taken up by Uncle Jim Gibbons.

Uncle Jim was a simple man who lived alone in the same two-room cabin he'd grown up in. He never married, so he considered his only obligations were to his fellow man and his Lord.

I recall one Sunday morning when the whole community was "all a-buzz" because we were expecting to have a big revival, led by a big city evangelist. As luck would have it, Uncle Jim had been busy with his old mule, that morning. Seems the poor old creature wasn't feeling the best and Uncle Jim had been tending to him to the point where he clean forgot about the time. When he finally realized his mistake, Uncle Jim took off for the church in such a hurry that he didn't have time to grab himself a bite for breakfast.

Uncle Jim didn't drive, so his only way of getting to the church was to walk. He was accomplishing this with great speed that morning. He was going along at such a clip that he almost stepped on a possum. Now, Uncle Jim considered a possum to be some mighty fine eating...as did most folks around the area. Since he hadn't had any breakfast, he knew he'd be mighty hungry by the time church let out. So, never one to pass up a good meal, Uncle Jim found a stick and collected what the Good Lord had provided.

He didn't have time to run it back home, so he took it along, stopping only long enough to "field dress" it when he reached a stream crossing. He rinsed off his pocket knife and his hands and continued along to the church, freshly cleaned possum by his side.

As was mentioned, the church was a one-room, simple building. There weren't any closets...no "nooks or crannies". There wasn't anyplace to put the possum out of sight. The only place Uncle Jim could find was a ledge, just over the door, on the inside of the church. The menfolk used to put their hats on it, but that practice had ceased since someone had donated a double row of fancy, brass coat-hooks, which had been installed along the back wall. Now, there was ample room for everyone to hang their coats and hats and nobody had to strain up to reach the shelf.

So, it was up there, out of sight, that Uncle Jim decided to hide his possum. It seemed like the perfect place. After all, everyone would be in a church pew and would be paying attention to the evangelist, who would be putting on a real show from a little "riser" that ran across the front of the church. Nobody would be facing the back of the church, except for the evangelist and he would be too busy with the sermon to notice a possum tucked back up on that shelf.

The church service got underway. The evangelist was introduced and the "stage" was turned over to him. The preaching soon reached a fevered pitch. This was the old "fire and brimstone" type of preaching. These preachers believed you had to put the fear of God into your congregation. There was much pacing and jumping and stomping and waving of hands, gnashing of teeth and wailing of voices. The evangelist was putting on quite a show. As he paced back and forth, stopping every so often to bounce up and down for effect, he was laying on the gospel thicker and heavier. His voice was rising and falling. He was pounding his fist into his hands as he preached, "Every day of our lives we've got to get down on our knees and thank the Good Lord for the blessings we've received. Every day of our lives we've got to get down on our knees and thank the Good Lord for the food He puts on our table and the clothes He puts on our backs. Every day of our lives we've got to reach out our hands up to heaven, raise our eyes towards the sky and say.....Good God! What a rat!!!"

After that, Uncle Jim was always fond of saying that, "You can't hide what the Good Lord wants revealed." Bless his heart.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

A Pigmas Carol

Every now and then, something comes along that’s just too good not to share—and this little gem, A Pigmas Carol, is one of those things. Written by Jean’s sister (clearly a woman after my own heart), it’s a barnyard parody worthy of Charles Dickens himself—if Dickens had owned pigs, that is.

The moment I read it, I could practically hear the chorus of snorts, grunts, and squeals coming from the pigpen. If you’ve ever been around pigs at feeding time, you know exactly how accurate this carol is. The excitement, the chaos, the sheer joy of impending slop—it’s like Black Friday at the trough. You could feed them at the exact same time every day, and somehow, they still act like it’s a complete surprise.

Let’s break it down. “Hark! The Herald Piggies squeal, here it comes, our next slop meal!”—that’s not poetry, that’s journalism. Pure, factual reporting. “We each try to get it first, rinds of bacon and liverwurst”—and if that line doesn’t make you laugh out loud, you haven’t met a pig. Nothing fazes them. They’d eat a shoe if it smelled like gravy.

Then there’s my favorite part: “Jostle the bucket, make it fall, so farmer, too, can wear it all.” Oh yes, that’s the true Pigmas spirit right there—generosity, teamwork, and just enough mischief to make sure everyone goes home wearing eau de slop.

I can picture the whole scene—mud flying, pigs jostling for position, and one lucky farmer standing there, drenched and defeated, muttering something festive under his breath.

So this holiday season, forget the angel choir and picture instead a pen full of happy hogs, squealing out their own joyful noise. Because really, nothing says Christmas quite like A Pigmas Carol. And if you listen closely on a cold December morning, you just might hear it being sung live—right from the trough.

Written by the sister of Jean. Sung to the tune of Hark! The Herald Angels Sing:

Hark! the Herald Piggies squeal, here it comes, our next slop meal!
We each try to get it first, rinds of bacon and liverwurst.
Sour milk and cracked up eggs, bits of veggies and chicken legs.
Jostle the bucket, make it fall, so farmer, too, can wear it all.
Hark! The Herald Piggies squeal, here it comes, our next slop meal!

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

A Funny and Heartwarming Children's Christmas Pageant

This story was forwarded to me by a friend. You know, one of those e-mails that makes its way around to everyone's inbox. But I enjoyed this one so much I wanted to share it with you. The author is unknown but if you know who wrote it please let me know and I will be glad to give credit where credit is due for such a delightful story. I hope everyone has a very Merry Christmas and feels the joy of this blessed season!

My husband and I had been happily married (most of the time) for five years but hadn't been blessed with a baby. I decided to do some serious praying and promised God that if he would give us a child, I would be a perfect mother, love it with all my heart and raise it with His word as my guide. I learned never to ask God for anything unless I meant it. As a minister once told me, "If you pray for rain, make sure you carry an umbrella."

God answered my prayers and blessed us with a son. The next year God blessed us with another son. The following year, He blessed us with yet another son. The year after that we were blessed with a daughter. My husband thought we'd been blessed right into poverty. We now had four children, and the oldest was only four years old.

I began reading a few verses of the Bible to the children each day as they lay in their cribs. I was off to a good start. God had entrusted me with four children and I didn't want to disappoint Him.

I tried to be patient the day the children smashed two dozen eggs on the kitchen floor searching for baby chicks. I tried to be understanding when they started a hotel for homeless frogs in the spare bedroom, although it took me nearly two hours to catch all twenty-three frogs. When my daughter poured ketchup all over herself and rolled up in a blanket to see how it felt to be a hot dog, I tried to see the humor rather than the mess. In spite of changing over twenty-five thousand diapers, never eating a hot meal and never sleeping for more than thirty minutes at a time, I still thank God daily for my children.

While I couldn't keep my promise to be a perfect mother (I didn't even come close) I did keep my promise to raise them in the Word of God. I knew I was missing the mark just a little when I told my daughter we were going to church to worship God, and she wanted to bring a bar of soap along to "wash up" Jesus, too. Something was lost in the translation when I explained that God gave us everlasting life, and my son thought it was generous of God to give us his "last wife."

My proudest moment came during the children's Christmas pageant. My daughter was playing Mary, two of my sons were shepherds and my youngest son was a wise man. This was their moment to shine.

My five-year-old shepherd had practiced his line, "We found the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes." But he was nervous and said, "The baby was wrapped in wrinkled clothes." My four-year-old "Mary" said, "That's not 'wrinkled clothes,' silly. That's dirty, rotten clothes." A wrestling match broke out between Mary and the shepherd and was stopped by an angel, who bent her halo and lost her left wing.

I slouched a little lower in my seat when Mary dropped the doll representing baby Jesus, and it bounced down the aisle crying, "Mama-mama." Mary grabbed the doll, wrapped it back up and held it tightly as the wise men arrived.

My other son stepped forward wearing a bathrobe and a paper crown, knelt at the manger and announced, "We are the three wise men, and we are bringing gifts of gold, common sense and fur." The congregation dissolved into laughter, and the pageant got a standing ovation.

"I've never enjoyed a Christmas program as much as this one," laughed the pastor, wiping tears from his eyes. "For the rest of my life, I'll never hear the Christmas story without thinking of gold, common sense and fur."

"My children are my pride and my joy and my greatest blessing," I said as I dug through my purse for an aspirin.

Jesus had no servants, yet they called Him Master. He had no degree, yet they called Him Teacher. Had no medicines, yet they called Him Healer. Had no army, yet kings feared Him. He won no military battles, yet He conquered the world. He committed no crime, yet they crucified Him. He was buried in a tomb, yet He lives today.

I feel honored to serve such a Leader who loves us.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

The Don’t-Sue-Me-Santa Clause

Back when I was a kid, Santa brought toys, not paperwork. Nowadays, I’m half surprised we don’t have to sign a waiver just to hang a stocking. This little piece called The Don’t-Sue-Me-Santa Clause gave me a good laugh — and maybe a sigh, too.

CHRISTMAS COOKIE TRANS FAT LIABILITY AND
INDEMNIFICATION AGREEMENT

Santa Claus, AKA Kris Kringle, AKA Jolly Old St. Nick (hereinafter referred to as “Santa”) acknowledges receipt of Christmas cookies from ______________________ (hereinafter referred to as “Baker”).

Santa acknowledges and understands that no warranty, either express or implied, is made by Baker as to the nutritional content of cookies. This document is offered to duly warn Santa that dangerous conditions, risks, and hazards may result from over consumption of cookies. Santa is hereby informed that cookies may contain trans fats as well as any or all of the following: calories, carbohydrates, sodium (salt), fat, saturated fat, polyunsaturated fat, monounsaturated fat, nuts, sugar, caffeine, chocolate “chips” and/or “chunks,” and good cheer. Santa acknowledges that eating way too many cookies may incur risks including, but not limited to, satiation, indigestion, heartburn, laziness, holiday spirit, “food coma,” and “that bloated feeling.”

As consideration for accepting Baker’s cookies, Santa indemnifies Baker from all liability for injury or other harm (including obesity) which may be caused, in whole or in part, by said “too many” cookies. Santa agrees that neither he, nor his agents or personal representatives, will sue Baker for any injury suffered, in whole or in part, as a consequence of ingesting cookies. Santa assumes full responsibility and will indemnify Baker for any damages in the event that he transfers cookies to any third party (including, but not limited to, potential claimants Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen, Rudolph, Mrs. Claus, and various elves).

This indemnification includes an agreement not to haul Baker into court on the basis of:
1. Failure to provide nutrition information and a list of ingredients (the "Grandma’s secret recipe" clause).
2. Failure to caution of the potential for overeating because cookies taste "yummy" and are provided at no cost.
3. Failure to advise that walking, biking, and jogging will shed pounds, but riding around on a reindeer-powered sleigh will not.
4. Failure to warn that Christmas lights, lawn ornaments (plastic reindeer, snowmen, etc.) and other holiday decorations may constitute manipulative marketing to lure Santa into over-consumption.
5. Failure to offer "healthier" cookie alternatives (e.g., tofu bars, carob blobs, or carrot sticks).
6. Failure to affix warning label acknowledging that milk, should it be provided, must not be consumed if Santa is, or could possible be, lactose intolerant.
7. Failure to notify that eating too many cookies may lead to even greater levels of obesity for St. Nick.

SANTA HAS READ THIS DOCUMENT AND UNDERSTANDS IT. SANTA IS SIGNING IT FREELY AND VOLUNTARILY, AND PROMISES NOT TO APPEAR AS A WITNESS IN SUPPORT OF ANY PERSONS WITH LAW DEGREES WHO CANNOT OTHERWISE FIND MEANINGFUL EMPLOYMENT, AT ANY TIME IN THE FUTURE.

Santa__________________________________________ Date__________________

Provided by: The Center for Consumer Freedom
For more information, visit ConsumerFreedom.com. To schedule an interview, contact Allison Miller at 212-463-7112.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Talon, the Gypsy Cob, is Finally Here, In a Blizzard!

After what can only be described as the Oregon Trail for horses—minus the dysentery, thank goodness—Talon is finally home! His journey involved a week in a transport trailer, delays thanks to a blizzard that traveled right along with them clear across the country, getting stuck in a 3-foot drift, then getting plowed in by a snowplow, then the trailer throwing in the towel on the very first big hill on our road. Honestly, if Talon could write a travel review, it’d just be one long snort.

When the trailer got stuck just four miles from our house, it turned into the winter version of a barn-raising. Half the town showed up—some to help, some just to see what kind of circus we were running this time. One local guy took charge like he was directing traffic in a blizzard (because, well, he was). He plowed a path into a nearby field so the transport could back in and turn around. Then he borrowed someone else’s two-horse trailer, because apparently trailers are like Tupperware around here, and drove Talon the rest of the way home himself. In the dark. In a snowstorm. And then stayed to help unload him. I’ve never been so grateful to live in a town where “helping out” includes blizzard horse extractions.

Getting Talon into the paddock was an adventure. It was after dark, snowing sideways, and windy enough to blow the freckles off your face. I showed him the hay and water in the shelter, took off his halter, and he turned around and marched right back into the storm like, “You know what? I’ll take my chances out here.” Can’t blame him. He’d just survived the horse version of a disaster movie and now found himself alone, surrounded by sheep and goats who looked at him like he’d landed from Mars. Meanwhile, the livestock guardian dogs two pens over were going absolutely bonkers because, apparently, they’d never seen a horse before. You’d think we’d just imported a rhinoceros.

But this morning? Whole new horse. “Oh hello, yes, I believe it’s breakfast time. I’ll take that right here, thank you very much.” He followed me around like a big fuzzy teddy bear, and even gave me kisses on the cheek. I had to call Nate out to take pictures because I couldn’t get far enough away from him to photograph anything other than an extreme close-up of his nostrils. Which, by the way, I think he tried to eat. The camera, not Nate. Although... give him time.

So this morning I’m thankful. For shelter in the storm, for a safe arrival, for neighbors who show up with snowplows and spare trailers like it’s no big deal, and for a husband who lets me chase my horse-crazy dreams, even when they come with snowdrifts, mystery barking, and a whole lot of hoofprints in the driveway.

Welcome home, Talon. Next time let’s skip the epic saga and just show up quietly, okay?

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Meet Dexter — English Shepherd Pup, Destroyer of Everything Not Tied Down

Meet Dexter, a Christmas present for our grandson. And until Christmas he's staying with us.

Every family has that one holiday memory that lives in infamy—the year the tree fell, the pie burned, or the puppy discovered the wonders of modern interior design. This year we’ve got Dexter, the furry embodiment of both chaos and charm wrapped in one wagging tail.

English Shepherds are known for their intelligence and energy, which is a polite way of saying they can outthink you and outrun you, sometimes at the same time. We're basically living with a four-legged toddler hopped up on espresso—except this one has sharper teeth and an innate suspicion of household objects. The lamp never stood a chance.

What makes this story shine (pun intended) is how perfectly it captures the heart of puppyhood: that wild, hilarious blur between “Aww, look at that face” and “Good heavens, what have you done now?” You can practically see Dexter mid-leap, ears flying, eyes wide with purpose, convinced he’s saving the world from a treacherous light source. There’s no malice, of course—just a heroic misunderstanding.

As you sweep up the shattered remains of the lamp and wonder what’s next on Dexter’s list (the couch? the ornaments? Our sanity?), there’s a certain kind of Christmas magic in it all. This is the season of laughter, forgiveness, and new beginnings—even if those beginnings involve puppy teeth marks in the furniture.

So here’s to Dexter—the canine comet blazing through our holiday décor—and to us, brave temporary caretakers. May Santa indeed bring a reinforced lamp, a few extra rolls of paper towels, and perhaps a small miracle in the form of obedience training. Because when Austin unwraps that puppy on Christmas morning, he’s not just getting a best friend—he’s inheriting a legend in the making.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

What I AM Getting for Christmas - A Country Wish Come True

A few weeks ago, I posted about a gorgeous horse I saw and titled it “What I Want for Christmas.” Well… spoiler alert: I’m not getting him.

But here’s what I am getting instead—Talon, my very own living, breathing, breathtaking Gypsy Vanner, (also called a Gypsy Cob).

Even as I write that, it still feels a little unreal. Not long ago, I was firmly planted in the “No way can I afford a Gypsy” camp. I’d convinced myself it was a dream better suited for Pinterest boards and daydreams than real life. And yet here I am, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning, checking feed prices, revisiting training notes, and repeating his name out loud just because I love how it sounds. Talon. It fits him perfectly—strong, graceful, and just a little mysterious.

He’s everything I ever imagined when I thought of my “someday horse.” Long flowing mane, feathered legs that look like he’s trotting on clouds, a steady, kind personality, and that unmistakable Gypsy Vanner presence that makes you stop in your tracks just to watch.

A huge thank-you goes to Sharon Teague at Big Sky Gypsy Horses, who helped turn this crazy dream into reality. She’s been wonderful—patient, knowledgeable, and every bit as passionate about these amazing horses as I am. And, of course, I have to thank my husband. He’s not exactly a “horse person,” but he is a me person—and that makes all the difference. I love you, honey.

Though, between us, I think he secretly likes the horses more than he admits. Every time we’re around them, they gravitate straight to him. Can’t say I blame them—he gives Olympic-level scratches. Horses know a good thing when they find it.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

What I Want For Christmas — Dear Santa, I've Been a Good Country Farmer

Have you ever had that moment when you see something so beautiful, so perfect, that your heart skips a beat and your brain immediately starts whispering, “What if?” It doesn’t happen often—life keeps us too busy with practical things like bills, chores, and grocery lists—but every once in a while, something breaks through all that noise and grabs you right by the heart.

That’s exactly what happened when I came across a photo of the most breathtaking horse I’ve ever seen. He’s strong, elegant, and carries himself like he knows exactly how magnificent he is. His name, fittingly enough, is Romeo. And believe me, the name suits him. One look at that flowing mane, that proud stance, those intelligent eyes, and—well, I was smitten. Utterly, hopelessly smitten.

Now, don’t breathe a word of this to my husband. I’m not sure how he’d take the news that he’s been replaced, at least in my daydreams, by a four-legged heartthrob with feathers on his legs. But truly, Romeo looks like he stepped right out of a fairytale. The kind of horse that makes you imagine riding through misty meadows at sunrise or standing together under an old oak tree while violins play softly in the distance.

Of course, there’s one small hitch—he’s way out of my price range. (We’re talking “win the lottery first” territory.) So I’ll just admire him from afar, sigh dramatically now and then, and maybe make him my new computer wallpaper.

P.S. — All donations are accepted. Just kidding! Don’t you dare.
P.P.S.S. — I just found out he’s not even for sale anyway. Phew! I’m safe—temporarily at least. But still… a girl can dream, right?

Because sometimes love at first sight isn’t about practicality—it’s about beauty that reminds your soul to dream again.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Say Thank You to Our Service Men and Women and First Responders

Some gestures don’t need words — they just need heart. The video “The Gratitude Campaign” is a beautiful reminder of that. It shows a simple way to say “thank you” to the men and women who serve — in the military, in law enforcement, as firefighters, EMTs, and every kind of first responder — using a sign language gesture that anyone can learn. It’s a small movement, but it carries a message miles wide.

Jim never misses a chance to shake a hand or offer a thank-you when he sees someone in uniform. He’ll stop in parking lots, at gas stations, even in line at the feed store — it doesn’t matter where we are. But sometimes that’s not possible. You see them at a distance, or driving by, or working behind barricades where you can’t get close. That’s where this gesture comes in. You can send gratitude across a room, a field, or a highway. And you can be sure it’s received.

In a world that’s gotten too quick to complain and too slow to appreciate, this campaign brings back something we’ve lost — simple, visible gratitude. It doesn’t cost a thing, it doesn’t require a speech, and it reminds us that service deserves recognition, not just on holidays but every day.

The first time I saw the video, I thought, this is exactly what we need more of. Respect doesn’t go out of style, and neither does saying thank you — whether it’s with a handshake or a heartfelt gesture from afar. If you’ve ever wanted to say thanks but couldn’t quite reach them, now you can.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Thank You God! A Grandson's Miracle and a Grateful Heart

This is why parents (and grandparents) start every single day with a prayer for their kids’ safety.

Yesterday, my 16-year-old grandson Nate, who lives with us, was in a car accident. Not just a little fender bender either. The car ended up upside down in the middle of the road. Yes, upside down. Like a turtle. A very crumpled, steel turtle.

Nate was driving. Thank the good Lord for seatbelts because aside from some soreness in his chest from the belt doing its job, and some cuts and bruises on his hand from trying to punch out the window to get out—he’s okay. Shaken, yes. But whole.

His friend Mike, also 16, was the passenger. He ended up with a 4-inch laceration on his head that went down to the skull—just typing that gives me chills—but miraculously, there was no concussion. The doctors were amazed. So were we.

Later, the car was towed to our local garage. When we walked in the next morning, one of the guys looked up and asked, “Did anyone survive that?” That should tell you everything you need to know about the condition of the car. But God had His hand over those boys, no question.

Somewhere this morning, I imagine there’s a guardian angel nursing a migraine and asking for a quiet corner and maybe a cold compress. Because someone was definitely watching over them.

This could have gone a hundred different ways. But it didn’t. And for that, all I can say is:

Thank you, God.

(I know these pictures are hard to look at. But they tell a story of protection and mercy. Nate was driving, Mike was in the passenger seat. You can see where the roof was collapsed but leaving just enough room for their heads.)

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Think This Can't Happen In America? The Tony Martin Story

I came across this article and it kind of worried me to the point I felt I needed to share it. It used to be that you had every right to defend yourself and your family. That's not necessarily the law anymore. Our best defense is to be informed, and be involved in making sure there are laws that protect us when we have to use force:

You're sound asleep when you hear a thump outside your bedroom door. Half-awake, and nearly paralyzed with fear, you hear muffled whispers. At least two people have broken into your house and are moving your way. With your heart pumping, you reach down beside your bed and pick up your shotgun. You rack a shell into the chamber, then inch toward the door and open it. In the darkness, you make out two shadows.

One holds something that looks like a crowbar. When the intruder brandishes it as if to strike, you raise the shotgun and fire. The blast knocks both thugs to the floor. One writhes and screams while the second man crawls to the front door and lurches outside. As you pick up the telephone to call police, you know you're in trouble.

In your country, most guns were outlawed years before, and the few that are privately owned are so stringently regulated as to make them useless. Yours was never registered. Police arrive and inform you that the second burglar has died. They arrest you for First Degree Murder and Illegal Possession of a Firearm. When you talk to your attorney, he tells you not to worry: authorities will probably plea the case down to manslaughter.

"What kind of sentence will I get?" you ask.

"Only ten-to-twelve years," he replies, as if that's nothing. "Behave yourself, and you'll be out in seven."

The next day, the shooting is the lead story in the local newspaper. Somehow, you're portrayed as an eccentric vigilante while the two men you shot are represented as choirboys. Their friends and relatives can't find an unkind word to say about them. Buried deep down in the article, authorities acknowledge that both "victims" have been arrested numerous times. But the next day's headline says it all: "Lovable Rogue Son Didn't Deserve to Die." The thieves have been transformed from career criminals into Robin Hood-type pranksters. As the days wear on, the story takes wings. The national media picks it up, then the international media. The surviving burglar has become a folk hero.

Your attorney says the thief is preparing to sue you, and he'll probably win. The media publishes reports that your home has been burglarized several times in the past and that you've been critical of local police for their lack of effort in apprehending the suspects. After the last break-in, you told your neighbor that you would be prepared next time. The District Attorney uses this to allege that you were lying in wait for the burglars.

A few months later, you go to trial. The charges haven't been reduced, as your lawyer had so confidently predicted. When you take the stand, your anger at the injustice of it all works against you. Prosecutors paint a picture of you as a mean, vengeful man. It doesn't take long for the jury to convict you of all charges.

The judge sentences you to life in prison.

This case really happened.

On August 22, 1999, Tony Martin of Emneth, Norfolk, England, killed one burglar and wounded a second. In April, 2000, he was convicted of murder and sentenced to a life term.

All of Martin's neighbors had been robbed numerous times, and several elderly people were severely injured in beatings by young thugs who had no fear of the consequences. Martin himself, a collector of antiques, had seen most of his collection trashed or stolen by burglars.

An appeal was considered in October 2001 by three senior judges. Submissions by the defense that Martin had fired in self defense were rejected by the appeal court. However, on this occasion the defense submitted evidence that Martin suffered paranoid personality disorder specifically directed at anyone intruding into his home. This submission was accepted by the Court of Appeal and, on the grounds of diminished responsibility, Martin's murder conviction was replaced by manslaughter carrying a five year sentence, and his ten year sentence for wounding one of the burglars was reduced to three years. These sentences were to run concurrently.

Martin was imprisoned in Highpoint Prison, Suffolk. When he became eligible for parole and early release, the Parole Board rejected his application without stating a reason. The chairman of the parole board, in an interview with The Times, described Martin as "a very dangerous man" who may still believe his action had been right. Martin challenged the decision in the High Court, where the parole board's decision was upheld. Probation officers on Martin's case said there was an "unacceptable risk" that Martin might again react with excessive force if other would-be burglars intruded on his Norfolk farm.

On 28 July 2003, Martin was released after serving three years of his five-year sentence, the maximum period for which he could be held following good behavior.

Also during 2003, the wounded burglar received an estimated £5,000 of legal aid to sue Martin for loss of earnings due to the injury he sustained. However, the case was thrown into doubt when photographs were published in The Sun suggesting that his injuries were not as serious as had been claimed. He later dropped the case when Martin agreed to drop a counter-claim.

How did it become a crime to defend one's own life in the once great British Empire?

It started with the Pistols Act of 1903. This seemingly reasonable law forbade selling pistols to minors or felons and established that handgun sales were to be made only to those who had a license. The Firearms Act of 1920 expanded licensing to include not only handguns but all firearms except shotguns.

Later laws passed in 1953 and 1967 outlawed the carrying of any weapon by private citizens and mandated the registration of all shotguns.

Momentum for total handgun confiscation began in earnest after the Hungerford mass shooting in 1987. Michael Ryan, a mentally disturbed man with a Kalashnikov rifle, walked down the streets shooting everyone he saw. When the smoke cleared, 17 people were dead.

The British public, already desensitized by eighty years of "gun control", demanded even tougher restrictions. The seizure of all privately owned handguns was the objective even though Ryan used a rifle.

Nine years later, at Dunblane, Scotland, Thomas Hamilton used a semi-automatic weapon to murder 16 children and a teacher at a public school.

For many years, the media had portrayed all gun owners as mentally unstable, or worse, criminals. Now the press had a real kook with which to beat up law-abiding gun owners. Day after day, week after week, the media gave up all pretense of objectivity and demanded a total ban on all handguns. The Dunblane Inquiry, a few months later, sealed the fate of the few sidearms still owned by private citizens.

During the years in which the British government incrementally took away most gun rights, the notion that a citizen had the right to armed self-defense came to be seen as vigilantism. Authorities refused to grant gun licenses to people who were threatened, claiming that self-defense was no longer considered a reason to own a gun. Citizens who shot burglars or robbers or rapists were charged while the real criminals were released.

Indeed, after the Martin shooting, a police spokesman was quoted as saying, "We cannot have people take the law into their own hands."

When the Dunblane Inquiry ended, citizens who owned handguns were given three months to turn them over to local authorities. Being good British subjects, most people obeyed the law. The few who didn't were visited by police and threatened with ten-year prison sentences if they didn't comply. Police later bragged that they'd taken nearly 200,000 handguns from private citizens.

How did the authorities know who had handguns? The guns had been registered and licensed. Kinda like cars.

Sound familiar?

WAKE UP AMERICA, THIS IS WHY OUR FOUNDING FATHERS PUT THE SECOND AMENDMENT IN OUR CONSTITUTION.

"..it does not require a majority to prevail, but rather an irate, tireless minority keen to set brush fires in people's minds."--Samuel Adams

If you think this is important, please forward.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Here’s to the Heroes | Honoring Our Military and 9/11 First Responders

My husband amazes me. Every single time he sees someone in uniform, he goes out of his way to shake their hand and thank them for their service. Doesn’t matter where we are—grocery store, gas station, fairgrounds. It’s instinct for him, like breathing.

We were at the Lancaster Fair on Monday, and sure enough, we came to a full stop at the Army exhibit. Took us a while to move on. I said to him, “If you were younger, you’d probably be over there right now.”

He didn’t hesitate. “I definitely would.” And I didn’t hesitate either. “Well, I’m glad you’re not younger.”

But he’s right. The men and women who wear that uniform? They’re not superheroes from the movies. They’re ordinary folks, moms and dads, neighbors and friends. The same kind of people who ran into burning buildings on 9/11 instead of away from them. The same kind of people who stood up to terror on Flight 93 and said, “Not on our watch.” The same kind of people who sign up to serve in our military and put their lives on the line, day in and day out, to keep the rest of us safe.

These are the heroes. Every day. Quiet, steadfast, and humble.

Today marks the 8th anniversary of the 9/11 attacks. We lost so much that day, but we also saw the best of who we are. So let’s take a moment to remember, not just those we lost, but those who stood up in the face of evil and said, no more. And let’s not just remember on anniversaries, either.

Fly your flag. Shake a hand. Say thank you. Because freedom isn’t free, and somebody paid for ours.

God bless them all.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

GoD and DoG: Finding Divine Love Reflected in Man’s Best Friend

This video, “GoD and DoG,” was written and performed by Wendy Francisco, and I’ve always thought it’s one of the sweetest, most thought-provoking songs ever created about the love between people, dogs, and God. Wendy’s gentle voice and simple animation somehow capture something both joyful and deeply spiritual.

The first time I heard it, I was sitting at my computer with one of my dogs asleep at my feet. Halfway through, I had tears in my eyes and a big lump in my throat. It hit me that the qualities that make dogs so special — loyalty, forgiveness, unconditional love — are exactly the same traits that reflect God’s love for us.

I’ve always believed animals are here to teach us things we’d never learn otherwise. My Great Pyrenees, Remi and Gabe, might not quote scripture, but they live it better than most people do — patient, protective, and full of grace. When they greet me at the barn gate, it’s like being met by furry little ambassadors of heaven.

Wendy Francisco captured that perfectly in this song. “GoD” and “DoG” are mirror images of each other — and maybe that’s not a coincidence.

If you haven’t seen this before, take three minutes and let it soak in. Whether you’re a person of faith, an animal lover, or both, it’s a gentle reminder that love — pure, selfless love — is the closest thing to divine you’ll ever find on four legs.

And when you’re done, go hug your dog. They already understand every word.

V(Video courtesy of Wendy Francisco — shared with attribution to the original creator.)

Every time I watch this, I can’t help but think God must have made dogs as a living illustration of His kind of love—patient, joyful, and always ready to forgive. It’s a simple message, but sometimes the simple ones are the ones we need most.

Amen—and bow wow.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Jack: Our Newest English Shepherd Puppy

We have a new English Shepherd pup named Jack—and I’m pretty sure he’s made of fluff, mischief, and some kind of voodoo that makes you hand over your snacks without even realizing it. He’s impossibly cute, smells like puppy breath and sawdust, and has already climbed the ranks to become Grandkid's Favorite and Local Celebrity.

Nate, who’s almost 17 and suddenly aware that girls exist, took Jack to a local soccer game and returned glowing with success. Jack, it turns out, is better than cologne, a gym membership, and a pickup truck with a lift kit. He drew in the girls like moths to a porch light. Now half the teenage boys in the area want to rent Jack for their own social advancement. I may need to start charging a handling fee.

Fun fact: Jack is Roxie’s half-brother, which means they share DNA but not personal space. On the ride home, Roxie gave him the full “older sister” treatment—glared at him, huffed dramatically, and made it crystal clear that sitting on her tail would be considered an act of war. But after a long car ride and a post-arrival nap, she discovered he plays tug-o-war like a pro and decided maybe he could stick around as long as he remembers who’s boss. (Spoiler: it’s not me.)

Now I’m surrounded. Today I was minding my business, working on my computer, munching a peaceful bowl of popcorn, when two fuzzy heads slowly popped up on either side of my screen like a screen like a furry periscope. I swear they rehearsed it. I held out for about ten seconds before crumbling like a stale cookie.

So, Jack’s officially one of us. Roxie’s accepted him. The kids are obsessed. And I’ve learned that it’s impossible to say no to a tag-team of furry con artists with eyes like melted chocolate and a well-timed head tilt.

Welcome to the farm, Jack. Try not to chew through any electrical cords before breakfast.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Got Corn? Bears, Raccoons, and Country Roadside Humor

Not only does this farm sell fantastic corn—they’ve also got a sense of humor that’s worth the drive all by itself. You can tell before you even pull into the driveway that these folks know how to make people smile. Their series of roadside signs are straight out of the Burma-Shave era, and honestly, they might be my favorite part of the trip.

It starts innocently enough: Got Corn? A simple question, sure—but it’s followed by another sign that says 50,000 Raccoons Can’t Be Wrong. And just when you’re chuckling and thinking they’re done, up pops the next one: Shop Early—Beat the Bears. By the time you roll past the last sign, you’re already grinning and planning to pull in for a dozen ears of sweet corn, because clearly anyone with that kind of humor deserves your business.

I don’t know about you, but I miss the days when roadside signs made driving an adventure. Remember when every stretch of highway had a bit of personality? Nowadays it’s all billboards for insurance companies, lawyers claiming to get you a big settlement, and fast food chains. But this farm? They’ve brought back that old-fashioned charm—the kind that makes you slow down, laugh out loud, and remember there’s still creativity left in the world.

And their corn? Absolutely worth stopping for. Fresh, sweet, and so tender you could eat it right off the cob in the parking lot (not that I’d ever do such a thing… until next time anyway). The farm stand itself is a delight—self serve off a flatbed trailer, a rustic setup, and that unmistakable smell of sun-warmed produce that lets you know summer’s still hanging on.

So if you’re out for a country drive and see those signs, do yourself a favor and stop. Grab some corn, share a laugh, and appreciate the rare mix of good humor and good farming. Around here, it’s proof that laughter and sweet corn make the perfect combo meal.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm