Tax Day Tea Party: Take Our Country Back

It’s still a couple of weeks away, but there’s a storm brewing — and for once, it’s not the weather. All across the country, folks are getting ready for the Tax Day Tea Party on April 15th. I haven’t seen this kind of buzz in years. People who’ve never held a sign in their life are printing flyers, calling friends, and planning to show up wherever there’s a courthouse lawn or a public square big enough to hold them.

The message is simple: enough is enough. The government’s spending like a teenager with a new credit card, and the people footing the bill are finally saying “no more.” We’re tired of being told to tighten our belts while Washington keeps adding new notches to theirs.

This isn’t about being Republican, Democrat, or anything in between. It’s about responsibility — something our leaders seem to have misplaced somewhere between the bailouts, bonuses, and budget bills. People are realizing that if we don’t speak up now, we’ll be paying for this mess for generations to come.

The Tax Day Tea Party isn’t about anger; it’s about accountability. It’s a way for everyday Americans — the ones who work hard, pay their taxes, and ask for little more than honesty from their government — to say, “We’re awake now, and we’re paying attention.”

I don’t know how big these gatherings will be, but I have a feeling they’ll be heard loud and clear. Sometimes it takes ordinary people doing something extraordinary to remind the powerful who they work for. And come April 15th, it sounds like that reminder’s on the schedule.

You also may have heard about the plan to mail tea bags to your senators, representatives, the president himself. I understand that an actual tea bag won't be delivered because of security precautions. But you can send, via snail mail, e-mail or fax, this picture of a tea bag, or even just the tag from a tea bag, along with a note of protest. The idea is to make ourselves, being the silent majority, heard loudly that we are unhappy about the current direction our country has taken. It seems that those who we elected to represent us have forgotten who they work for. Let's remind them! Here's a link so you can find out who your elected officials are and where to send it http://www.govtrack.us/

Come on America. Let's take our country back!!!!!!!

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Goat Breeding Stepladder: Engineering Romance on the Farm

Let me introduce you to Casanova—our young Boer buck. He’s 10 months old, full of enthusiasm, hormones, and confidence he absolutely hasn’t earned yet. True to his name, he’s eager to romance the ladies. There's just one small hitch... he’s also short.

And the does? Well, they’re not.

Now, he tries. Oh, he gives it everything he’s got—there’s huffing, there’s grunting, there’s awkward circling. But at the end of the day, his little hooves just don’t reach high enough to seal the deal.

So, like any practical farm gal with a bit of leftover plywood and a good sense of barnyard mechanics, I built him a platform.

Yes. A platform.

Picture a sturdy little structure with a cutout in just the right spot. Casanova climbs up, the doe backs in, and voila, everyone’s happy. Mission accomplished. Dreams achieved. Stars aligned. Baby goats pending.

Of course, I can’t just leave the doe in his pen and hope for the best. Left to her own devices, she stands there like, “What’s this nonsense?” and wanders off to eat something. Meanwhile, poor Casanova's up on his platform trying to romance air. It’s like watching a very confused dance recital with only one participant.

So instead, I schedule conjugal visits. I bring the doe in, back her into position like I’m parking a livestock trailer, and let nature do its thing—with a little human assistance and a lot of goat commentary.

Some may say it's a bit unconventional. I say it's ingenious. Around here, if there’s a problem, we build our way out of it.

Love might not conquer all, but a well-timed platform and a determined farm woman sure come close.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

King of the Mountain: Goat Edition

Goats. Masters of mischief, champions of balance, and undisputed experts in the fine art of getting exactly where they shouldn’t be. Case in point: the latest episode of “Farmyard Acrobatics,” starring two of my resident troublemakers playing King of the Mountain—on top of the chicken coop.

Now, before anyone panics, the coop roof is flat and sturdy, about five feet high—perfectly goat-approved for standing, prancing, and declaring dominance. There they were, side by side, striking poses like they were auditioning for a calendar titled Extreme Goating: Heights Edition.

“Hey,” says one (because yes, they absolutely talk to each other), “I’m higher than everyone else!”
To which the other one fires back, “No, you’re not. I’m up here too!”

The back-and-forth continued, as goats do, with much posturing, head-butting, and tail-flicking. Then came the real moment of inspiration. Goat #1 looks up toward the barn and says, “Wonder if I could jump up there? Then I’d be higher than you!”
Without missing a beat, Goat #2 replies, “But if you can jump up there, so can I. So then I’d be just as high as you. Na-na!”

And there you have it—the essence of goat logic: life’s not about safety or sense; it’s about bragging rights. The higher, the better. Never mind that gravity is real, or that the chickens underneath are squawking in protest.

Watching them up there, silhouetted against the sky, tails twitching and heads held high, I couldn’t help but laugh. Goats don’t need toys, they are the toys—constantly entertaining, endlessly inventive, and always keeping me on my toes.

So, for anyone who thinks farm life is peaceful and quiet, I invite you to spend a morning with my goats. It’s less “tranquil homestead” and more “Cirque du Goat-lay.” And judging by the looks on their smug little faces, I’m pretty sure the chicken coop roof has officially been claimed as their new throne.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Thank Goodness for Ear Tags: Life with Look-Alike Lambs

I’ll say it—they all look alike to me. I know, I know, that’s probably not very maternal of me, but come on… when you’ve got a dozen wooly little lambs all bouncing around like popcorn in a hot pan, it’s hard to tell who’s who. Fortunately, their moms are better at this job. They just sniff a backside and go, “Yep, that one’s mine.”

I, on the other hand, do not have that superpower. Nor do I have any interest in getting down in the dirt to conduct a rear-end roll call. That’s where ear tags come in. Bright, bold, numbered, and blessedly bum-free. Not at all weird.

Today was one of those rare, beautiful sunny days where the animals were actually calm for five whole minutes. Every lamb and goat kid in the place decided to crash out in the sunshine. They looked like a puddle of warm biscuits, soft and slightly lumpy. It was the perfect moment to sneak a photo—something sweet and peaceful to prove they’re not always hooligans.

But of course, the goats ruined it.

They saw me kneel down with the camera and immediately leapt to their hooves like, “Wait! Is she doing something without us?” Because heaven forbid I try to document a quiet moment without their fuzzy little mugs front and center. So they thundered over like a pack of short-legged paparazzi. Not to be outdone, one of the bottle lambs came galloping behind them like she was late for roll call.

By the time I lifted the camera, the nap pile had scattered, the moment was gone, and I had a close-up of a goat nose smudging my lens. Again. Just like my own kids when they were little—anytime you tried to capture a sweet, still memory, they immediately turned it into a circus act.

I was able to sneak back later and managed to catch a few of them once they finally settled down again—because apparently, patience is a farm skill you have to practice even through the chaos. At least I can tell who’s who this time… thanks to those little numbered tags and not having to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong.

Farm Rule #37: If it’s quiet, they’re either napping… or staging a coup.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

I'm SO Proud of Myself: Lambing Season Victories and Farmyard Firsts

Yes, I’m proud of myself.

“Why?” you ask. Well, I’m glad you asked that question. Pull up a hay bale and let me tell you about this year’s lambing season, now officially in the books.

We’re done lambing—done! As in, all our pregnant ewes are no longer pregnant, and I’m sleeping through the night again (well, mostly). We had six ewes lamb this spring, three of which gave us twins. That’s nine spring lambs, plus the one born last November—ten lambs total, ready to head to market in the fall. That’ll cover winter hay, grain, and maybe even a few chocolate bars to keep me going through next lambing season, if they last that long.

Everything went pretty smoothly overall—no breech births, no tangled-up twins trying to come out in a jumbled heap, and all the moms figured out which end of the lamb to lick. Well, almost all.

One first-time mom apparently got her wires crossed. She decided she liked the lamb in the next pen over better than the one she’d actually birthed. Classic case of “the lamb is always cuter on the other side of the fence.” So I put up a sheet of plywood between the pens to break the visual confusion and then gently encouraged her to nurse her own lamb by pinning her against a wall until the baby latched on. (Gentle encouragement on a farm often involves more arm strength than you’d use in a pilates class.)

This all went down at 2:00 a.m., and by that point, I was mentally preparing for a bottle baby. But come morning, the ewe had come to her senses and was mothering her own lamb like she’d planned it all along. Whether it was confusion, first-time jitters, or full-blown postpartum barnyard madness, we’ll never know. But she worked it out, and I call that a win.

Then there was the lamb who got scours at just a day old. For the uninitiated, “scours” is a polite farm word for explosive bacterial diarrhea. The smell alone could strip paint. I almost lost the poor little fella, but a round of antibiotics and some electrolytes had him bouncing around by the next day like nothing had happened. I kept up the meds for several more days, just to be safe—and also to spare myself the trauma of reliving that diaper disaster.

The final lamb born was a bit of a concern too. He was one of a set of twins, and while his brother hit the ground like he had a to-do list, this guy seemed. . . meh. Just not vigorous. And lambs already look like white, wrinkly old men when they’re born. He just looked extra shriveled. A few days in, he still wasn’t filling out his skin, which meant mama might not have been producing enough milk for both, or maybe the stronger twin was hogging the milk bar.

So, I stepped in with goat’s milk. And just like that, he perked up—started pushing his brother around and demanding extra helpings. I’m still giving him a little extra on the side just to keep him beefing up, and now he's living his best lamb life.

But now we get to the real reason I’m proud of myself (you knew we’d get here eventually, didn’t you?).

One of my ewes prolapsed after lambing. And for those of you with delicate constitutions, maybe just stop reading here and go hug a houseplant. For everyone else—a prolapse means that part of her insides decided they wanted to be on the outside. In this case, a vaginal prolapse. Think “barnyard horror movie” meets “do-it-yourself vet care.”

So what did I do? I put on a glove, washed her up, coated the uterus with sugar (yes, I know, but it reduces swelling so everything fits inside again), pushed everything back where it belonged (yes, everything), inserted a prolapse retainer (which basically looks like a plastic spoon designed by a medieval torturer), and gave her a shot of long-acting penicillin.

Three days later, I removed the retainer as per the instructions (yes, it came with instructions, and yes, I actually read them). Next morning? Prolapse again. Wash, rinse, repeat—literally. This time I added stitches to keep things tucked in, gave her another round of antibiotics, and so far, so good—she’s holding it together, literally and figuratively.

When I was a kid, I wanted to be a vet. I didn’t get to go to vet school, but I’ve apparently picked up enough to do what needs doing when no one else is around and things are falling apart—sometimes literally.

This lambing season gave me my first case of mom confusion, my first bottle supplement, my first case of scours, and my first prolapse. And yet. . . no casualties. No vet bills. Just me, my gloves, and a healthy amount of determination, not to mention a strong stomach.

So yeah—I’m proud of myself. And tonight, I’m going to bed early. After all, I just pulled off four barnyard firsts without losing a single animal. But if any more problems arise, I’m burying my head in the hay!

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

2nd Amendment Humor: Shopping in Texas

If you’ve ever wondered what “situational awareness” looks like — or doesn’t — this video answers the question perfectly. It opens with an ordinary day in a Texas shop. Folks are browsing, minding their own business, chatting quietly. Then one woman decides to open a bottle, pops the cork, and that crack echoes like the starting gun at the OK Corral.

Before the cork could even hit the floor, every person in that store has drawn a weapon. You can practically hear the spaghetti-western soundtrack kick in. Hats tilt. Eyes narrow. Fingers hover over triggers. Meanwhile, the poor woman who caused the ruckus is standing there, admiring her bottle, completely unaware that she’s just started a small-scale reenactment of the Alamo behind her.

It’s hilarious — and a little telling. Only in Texas could a cork set off a tactical response team. But to be fair, it also shows just how alert people can be when they take personal safety seriously. Maybe a little too seriously, but still — I wouldn’t try shoplifting in that store.

The beauty of the clip is in its timing. One second of noise, one instant of chaos, and the world’s calmest woman at the center of it all, blissfully clueless. It’s a perfect reminder that sometimes we overreact, sometimes we underreact, and sometimes life just hands us a moment so absurd you have to laugh.

If you needed proof that Texans are always prepared — and that a good sense of humor is essential in modern life — this video delivers both in under thirty seconds. Just remember: in Texas, before you pop the cork… make sure everyone’s holstered.

P.S. A few people have told me they can't play this video but most people can. So if you're one of those who have trouble here's the direct link - it's worth a "look see". Shopping in Texas

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Hot Pole Dancer in the Great North Woods!

Hey, just because I live up here in the mountains—far from what most folks would call “civilization”—doesn’t mean we don’t have our own brand of entertainment. Sure, I may have to drive an hour and a half just to reach the nearest Wal-Mart or traffic light, but who needs bright lights and city nightlife when nature puts on shows like this?

Take this video, for instance. Picture it: a big ol’ bear standing up on his hind legs, shimmying and twisting against a tree like he’s auditioning for Dancing with the Stars: Wilderness Edition. Forget the nightclub—this guy’s found his groove right there in the forest. And honestly, he’s got moves! I’m talking full-on shoulder rolls, hip action, and that blissful “ahhhh” face of pure satisfaction that only comes from hitting that perfect itchy spot you just can’t reach.

Now, technically, this video was filmed in Glacier National Park, and the star performer is a grizzly. But let’s not get hung up on details. Around here, it could happen. We’ve got plenty of black bears who’d love a good scratching post, and who’s to say one of them hasn’t been practicing a little pole routine of his own? The trees certainly seem polished enough from all the bear traffic.

There’s something oddly relatable about it, too. Haven’t we all had that moment when an itch strikes right in the middle of our back and we’d give anything for a handy tree trunk? I swear, if I didn’t have neighbors who might report me, I’d probably give it a try myself.

So while the city folks are paying for front-row seats at comedy clubs or concerts, we mountain dwellers just have to step outside. Mother Nature provides the best shows—and the cover charge is free.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to keep an eye on the tree line. You never know when the next performance might start.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Obituary - Androscoggin Rooster, 2006-2009 (Approximately)

We gather today—briefly, and with appropriate caution—to mourn the passing of Androscoggin Rooster, a strikingly handsome Partridge Rock with a flair for drama and a taste for human ankles. He died today at American Way Farm in northern New Hampshire, following a brief but ill-advised scuffle with his owner, Sandy.

In recent weeks, Androscoggin and Sandy had reached what could best be described as a tense truce. There had been. . . incidents. And discussions. And a few choice words. And, for a time, there was peace in the barnyard.

That illusion shattered yesterday.

Perched on a fence post like a feathered gargoyle, Androscoggin launched a surprise aerial assault while Sandy attempted the simple act of opening a gate. He was promptly confronted and retreated to the safety of the henhouse like the overconfident barnyard bully he was. Another “come-to-Jesus” conversation ensued, in which Sandy clearly laid out the terms: one more incident, and it would be his last.

Apparently, Androscoggin did not take her seriously.

This morning, as Sandy was lovingly tending to a newborn lamb—a pure, gentle moment of peace and maternal devotion—Androscoggin saw his chance for vengeance. Like a mustache-twirling villain in a bad Western, he charged. He flapped. He flogged. He bit off more than his spurs could handle.

Sandy, channeling the wrath of every woman who’s ever had one too many things go sideways before breakfast, left the lamb, fetched the .22, and ended the skirmish with a single shot. He was dispatched swiftly, and his body was tossed over the fence into the waiting jaws of the dog for natural processing. All that remains are a few loose feathers, some entrails, and the faint echo of a warning crow.

A brief memorial service will be held this evening from 8:00 to 8:01 p.m., or until the subject of dinner is introduced.

No charges are being filed, as authorities have ruled it a clear-cut case of barnyard self-defense.

Androscoggin is survived by 12 hens, none of whom appear particularly broken up about it. In fact, morale in the coop seems noticeably higher.

Condolences and expressions of sympathy (or victory dances on behalf of the hens) may be posted in the comments section. In lieu of flowers, the family asks that you simply respect personal space and refrain from underestimating farm women in possession of firearms.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm