Merry Christmas From Our Farm to Yours

I heard this song today and just had to share it. It’s Becky Kelley’s “Where’s the Line to See Jesus,” and it stopped me right in my tracks. The first time I heard it, I thought it was just another Christmas tune — pretty melody, sweet message. But then the lyrics hit, and suddenly I found myself blinking back tears.

We stand in line for everything this time of year — Santa, store sales, concerts, coffee, you name it. We rush from one place to another, checking lists and wrapping gifts, trying to make everything picture-perfect. But somewhere in all that hustle, the heart of Christmas gets buried under the tinsel. This song’s simple question — “Where’s the line to see Jesus?” — cuts right through the noise.

The story behind it is just as touching. It came from a little boy who, while standing in line to see Santa, asked his mom why there wasn’t a line to see Jesus. Out of the mouths of babes, right? Sometimes it takes a child to remind us of what we’ve managed to overlook.

The message is gentle but powerful. It doesn’t preach or scold; it just makes you stop and think. Christmas isn’t about the rush, the decorations, or the perfect presents. It’s about celebrating the birth of the One who gave us the greatest gift of all — grace.

So maybe during the Christmas season this year, we should take a moment to stand in that line — not the one at the mall, but the one in our hearts. To pause, reflect, and whisper, “Happy Birthday, Jesus.”

Thank you, Becky Kelley, for putting such a beautiful reminder into song — one that brings the true spirit of Christmas right back home where it belongs.

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©2011 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Happy Halloween: It's a Cold One on the Homestead

Well, so much for pumpkins on the porch and trick-or-treaters at the door. Here on the homestead, Halloween decided to show up wearing a coat of snow instead of a costume. While everyone else is carving pumpkins and sipping cider, I’m over here pulling on insulated boots and wondering if the candy bowl should include packets of hand warmers.

This photo pretty much sums it up—Mother Nature showing off her icy sense of humor. A thin blanket of snow covers the garden beds, the fences, and the stubborn kale that still thinks it’s summer. The trees, stripped of most of their leaves, stand frosted in white, and the mountains in the distance are blushing under the soft pink light of dawn. It’s beautiful, no question—but let’s just say it’s not exactly the kind of Halloween that calls for short sleeves or plastic vampire teeth.

The thermometer hovered just below freezing when I stepped outside to snap this picture. The air had that sharp, metallic bite that makes your nose run and your hot chocolate taste even better. The crunch of snow underfoot mixed with the distant call of a crow, the only creature out and about at that hour besides me. The barn roof shimmered in the early light, and the smoke from the chimney curled straight up into a pale blue sky—our unofficial flag of surrender to winter.

Every year around this time, I hope for one last warm spell, a final hurrah before the long freeze sets in. But this year, winter clearly got a head start. Even the pumpkins look surprised—frozen mid-smile, wearing a dusting of snow like a bad toupee.

So I’ll light the wood stove, pour another mug of cocoa, and settle in. Happy Halloween from the frozen north—where even the ghosts are wearing mittens and the scarecrows are demanding scarves.

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©2011 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

It's Raining: Great Pyrenees Don't Seem to Care

It's been raining for what feels like the last thirty-seven years. I’ve forgotten what dry socks feel like. The driveway has become a river, the barnyard’s a mud spa, and my boots now make squelching sounds that would make a frog blush. Welcome to storm season at American Way Farm, where the forecast is always “damp with a 90% chance of regret.”

And yet, despite the biblical weather, the Livestock Guardian Dogs (or LGDs, for those who’ve never had the pleasure of owning a 120-pound shed monster with a martyr complex) are still out there, bravely doing their job. Job description? Keep all four-legged predators away from the goats. Personal satisfaction? 10/10. Shelter provided? One sad tree.

This particular LGD (let’s call her “Soggy Sue”) has stationed herself beneath the only tree in the pasture, which, bless its barky little heart, is trying really hard to be a pine umbrella. It’s not. It's more of a decorative suggestion of shelter. Like those cocktail umbrellas—cute, but ultimately useless in a thunderstorm.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: “Surely the dog is just dozing out there in the drizzle, off the clock like the rest of us in weather like this.” Oh no. You see, even when she looks dead asleep, snoring and soggy, that dog is on full alert. Her ears may be flat against her head, but trust me—any sudden movement, suspicious scent, or twig snapped in an unapproved direction would launch her to her feet like a canine missile with an attitude problem. It’s like she’s got predator radar wired into her soul.

And what about the goats she’s protecting, you ask? Where are they during this courageous display of damp dedication?

Oh, they’re in the barn. Dry. Cozy. Possibly toasting marshmallows. I walked in earlier and I swear one of them had made a little blanket fort in the hay and was humming to herself. They're all nestled in there like royalty, looking out the barn door at their loyal guardian as if to say, “You missed a spot behind your ear, Your Majesty.”

Now listen, I have a suggestion. Just a friendly, totally-not-judging, whispered-through-a-cracked-window sort of suggestion: Go inside.

Seriously, girl. Go lay down with the goats. Snuggle up. Live your best fleece-lined life. You’ve earned it. I promise that bobcat isn’t going to brave the squelch-fest of a pasture just for a wet goat burrito. And if he does, we’ve got a door and opposable thumbs—we’ll hold the fort while you towel off.

But no. There she sits. Or lays. Half-submerged like a Roman statue of sacrifice. Occasionally blinking. Occasionally twitching. Always guarding.

You know, I have half a mind to go out there and drag her in myself, but last time I tried that, I ended up face-first in the mud while she just rolled over and sighed like I was interrupting her dramatic monologue. I’d like to believe she’s committed to her job, but I’m starting to think she’s just holding a grudge because I gave the last bit of leftover meatloaf to the chickens.

So we’ll just let her be.

Out there. In the rain. Watching. Waiting. Possibly composing poetry.

"Ewww, it's wet. We don't do wet."

Meanwhile, the goats will remain inside, dry and judgmental, with their superior barn privileges and their uncanny ability to act like they, not I, pay the mortgage.

Stay dry out there, friends. And if you see a large white blur lurking under a tree in a thunderstorm, don’t worry—it’s not a ghost. It’s just our LGD, doing her job with soggy pride and a damp sense of duty.

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©2011 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Autumn Splendor on the Farm

I took this photo one golden afternoon when the world looked like it had been dipped in sunlight. The air was crisp, the leaves were ablaze in every shade of gold, amber, and crimson, and there stood Talon — my full-blooded Gypsy Vanner — perfectly still, framed by the glowing trees as if he knew he was the centerpiece of the entire season.

If you’ve never seen a Gypsy Vanner in person, they’re something to behold. Strong, stocky, and elegant all at once, with feathered legs, a soft, flowing mane and tail, shiny coat, and an expression that somehow combines wisdom, mischief, and “I know I’m gorgeous.” Talon fits the description to a tee. His coat, jet black with bright white patches, gleamed like polished onyx in the late-day sun. The light caught the silvery strands in his mane, and for a moment, I swear he looked straight out of a fairytale — the kind where knights go missing because the horse steals the show.

What makes this photo special isn’t just the colors or the composition — it’s that calm moment that sums up everything I love about farm life. The world slows down for a second. You forget about chores and fences and feed buckets and just see it — the beauty of a horse at peace, surrounded by nature doing her best work.

Talon’s not posing for me; he’s simply being. Confident. Content. Magnificent. He doesn’t need a saddle, a rider, or a reason to be majestic. The trees, the light, and that proud Gypsy spirit did all the work for him.

Sometimes, the most breathtaking moments happen when you least expect them. This was one of those — a perfect horse on a perfect fall day, and me lucky enough to have my camera ready.

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©2011 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

New Pasture Mates: A Story of Homestead Friendships

We originally got Kirby—the mini donkey, aka Barack Kirby, aka BK, aka The Goat God—as a pasture mate for Talon, the horse. It was a good plan. Logical. Sensible. Which should’ve been my first red flag.

Because the goats took one look at Kirby and decided he was theirs. Their idol. Their four-legged messiah. Their fuzzy-eared prophet of grazing. Wherever he went, they followed. It was like watching a very hairy Beatles reunion tour, with Kirby as all four Beatles rolled into one, complete with groupies.

So then that plan had to change. The new plan was to try and make everyone—horse, donkey, goats—into one big happy, non-stomping, non-chasing family. Except Talon had opinions. Specifically, that goats did not belong in his pasture, and every time one wandered in, he’d make it his personal mission to chase them back to the barn like a cranky old man yelling at kids to get off his lawn.

Enter fate, stage left.

We went away for one night. One. Came back today to find Talon not in his pasture, but somehow on the goats’ side of the fence. Just standing there. Grazing. Surrounded by his former enemies like they were old poker buddies on a coffee break. Everyone was chill. No screaming, no trampling, no donkey-led cult worship rituals. Just… peace.

I have no idea how he got in there. The gate was latched. The fence was intact. Unless Talon suddenly discovered how to teleport—or dug a tunnel like a very motivated POW—we may never know.

Maybe I should’ve just left them alone to figure it out from the start. I was always afraid he’d run them over in a fit of “horse superiority,” but maybe I underestimated his emotional intelligence. Or maybe the goats just wore him down with their persistent adoration. (Goat worship is exhausting.)

Either way, cheers to new friendships, unexpected , and the magic that happens when I stop trying to micromanage barnyard politics.

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©2011 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Hotel Canoe: Leave It to Goats to Hang Out in the Strangest Places

Well, I’ve seen a lot of odd things on this farm, but this one takes the cake—or maybe the canoe. There she was, one of my goats, stretched out like royalty in the dry end of an old canoe that had collected a bit of rainwater. Out of all the cozy spots in the barnyard—fresh hay, dry bedding, even a nice shady corner under the lean-to—she picked a wet canoe for her afternoon nap.

Now, goats are nothing if not creative when it comes to finding places to rest. I’ve found them sleeping in wheelbarrows, on hay bales, and even balancing on feed bins like furry acrobats. But this? This was new. She was completely relaxed, legs tucked, chin resting just so, with that blissful expression that says, “Don’t judge me, human. I’ve found perfection.”

To be fair, the canoe did have one dry end, and goats have a remarkable sense for staying high and dry. She looked quite proud of herself, as if she’d discovered the farm’s first luxury spa—“Goat-a-Float.” Maybe she liked the cool breeze off the water, or maybe she just wanted to keep her hooves clean. Hard to say with goats. Their logic runs somewhere between “brilliant” and “questionable," occasionally at the same time.

I had to laugh as I stood there taking pictures. She looked too comfortable to disturb—like she was on vacation, waiting for someone to bring her a tiny umbrella drink. I would’ve thought there were more comfortable spots for a nap than a damp canoe, but goats clearly operate on a different comfort scale.

Just sayin’—next time I lose track of her, I’ll skip looking in the barn or pasture. I’ll head straight for the canoe. Apparently, it’s the new suite at the Goat Hilton.

"Do you mind? I'm trying to take a nap here."

"Huh? What? Who's clicking the camera?"

"What's that? There's water in the other end of this thing? Well, I'm sure it'll come in handy if I get thirsty."

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©2011 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

New "Government Math" Diet: A Funny Farm Story

You may recall how we got our “free” tractor using what I like to call Government Math—a magical financial system where saving money is the same thing as making money, and if you don’t spend what you could’ve, then obviously that leftover imaginary pile turns into profit. It’s flawless.

So naturally, I figured: if it works for multi-trillion-dollar budgets, why not for my hips?

This morning, I had two donuts for breakfast. Now, before the food police show up with their little calorie citation pads, let me just say—I could have had a bacon egg and cheese biscuit with a side of hash browns and regret. But I didn’t. So technically, I saved about 400 calories right there. That drops the donuts down to a negligible 100 calories. Barely worth mentioning, really.

Then, for lunch, I had a salad. Not one of those fun ones with fried chicken and ranch dressing masquerading as lettuce. I’m talking actual rabbit food. Lettuce, cucumbers, maybe a slice of tomato just to say I live dangerously. Easily saved another 400 calories by not going with a cheeseburger. At this point, I’m basically operating at a caloric surplus in the healthy direction.

Afternoon snack? Carrot sticks. Raw. No ranch. No hummus. Just cold, crunchy disappointment. That’s gotta be worth another 150 calories saved just for the trauma.

Dinner? Another salad. Because I’m committed to bad decisions and leafy greens. That’s another 450 calories banked like some kind of sadistic savings account.

So when dessert rolls around and I’m eyeing that banana split with hot fudge, whipped cream, and a cherry on top like it owes me money, guess what? That 800-calorie tower of dairy joy only counts as 200. Because I earned it.

Tally it up:

• Donuts? 100

• Banana split? 200

• Total for the day? 300 calories.

Which leaves me plenty of wiggle room (pun intended) for an evening chip buffet while watching reruns of Murder, She Wrote. And no guilt, because this is Government Math, baby. If the federal government can “balance” the budget by redefining words and moving numbers around like it’s a shell game at a carnival, I can definitely justify a second helping of Cool Ranch Doritos.

The scale won’t budge? Must be a data error. Probably Russian hackers. Or the batteries.

Hey, if this system is good enough for Congress, it’s should be good enough for my thighs.

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©2011 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Free Tractor (aka Government Economics)

Our old tractor was getting, well... old. Not the wise, dependable kind of old like Aunt Ethel who bakes pies and remembers the war, but the kind of old that groans every time you try to start it and leaves mysterious puddles on the barn floor. So last summer, we started looking at new tractors. Then we looked at our bank account. And promptly stopped looking.

But this year, I got smart. I figured out how to use the same economic principles the U.S. government uses to get a free tractor. That’s right. Free. Tractor. And before you start questioning my sanity or checking for fumes in the barn, let me break it down for you:

Let’s say you want a $60,000 tractor. But instead, you choose a $30,000 tractor. Boom. You’ve saved $30,000. Apply that savings directly to the cost, and you’ve now paid nothing. Zero. Nada. Tractor = free.

But wait! It gets better. The dealer gave us a $10,200 trade-in for the old one. (Bless their hearts, they must not have actually started it.) Now, we also got a backhoe attachment for about $10,000. Which means, according to my math—and I checked twice—we are now owed $200.

Naturally, we expected the finance company to send us a thank-you note and maybe a nice fruit basket for helping stimulate the economy with such brilliance. Instead, they’re demanding we make monthly payments. Can you believe it? I even tried explaining the government-style math to them, complete with hand gestures and everything, but they just weren’t getting with the program. I may have to draw them a pie chart. Maybe with actual pie.

Anyway, I’m now applying the same economic model to future projects. That new $12,000 roof I need? If I just don’t get the $24,000 slate one I was never going to buy anyway, I’ve saved $12,000. Meaning the roof is already paid for. Technically, I should have $12,000 leftover to fund the matching chicken coop expansion.

I don’t know why everyone isn’t doing this. It’s genius. It’s foolproof. It’s… exactly how the government does it.

Only difference is, they have a printing press.

---

Budget Breakdown (a.k.a. How to Retire Rich on Barnyard Math):

• Wanted Tractor: $60,000

• Bought Tractor: $30,000

• Instant savings: $30,000

• Trade-In Value: +$10,200

• Backhoe Attachment: -$10,000

• Total Owed to Us: $200

• Finance Company’s Opinion: Irrelevant. Clearly they don’t understand economics.

---

But wait, there’s more!

Order your Free Tractor Plan™ today and we’ll double your confusion at no extra cost! Operators are standing by to explain this exact system to your accountant, your spouse, and the poor kid at the bank who’s about to reconsider his life choices. But act now—because logic like this doesn’t come around often, and neither do interest-free financing options.

The Free Tractor Plan is not responsible for repossessions, financial audits, or hard stares from your spouse. Use with caution. Offer not valid anywhere sanity is still required.

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©2011 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

All Hail BK, the Goat God

Let me introduce you to BK—a shaggy redheaded mini donkey with oversized ears and a face like he just got caught chewing on something he shouldn’t. You might assume his name stands for something like “Barnyard King” or “Big Kicker.” But no—his full name is Barack Kirby, and yes, there’s a story behind it. Because of course there is.

Jim, in one of his finer moments of comedy, suggested we name our new miniature donkey Barack. As in “Yes-we-can” Barack. I suggested we not insult the donkey like that. The poor thing already had to share a pen with three baby goats, and if you’ve ever had baby goats, you know that’s a sentence in itself. My daughter, granddaughter, and I preferred Kirby—charming, harmless, emotionally stable. So we did what all mature families do: ignored Jim and called it a compromise. His official name? Barack Kirby. But around here, we just say BK, because frankly, I have standards.

BK is five months old, which puts him squarely in the “awkward middle school boy” phase of donkey life—all legs, zero grace, full of opinions. He’s small, stubborn, and currently convinced that electric fencing is just licorice with a kick.

The grand plan (oh, how we love our grand plans) was for BK to be a pasture companion for our horse, Talon. We imagined them galloping through dewy meadows like a Hallmark movie come to life. But as usual, the farm laughed in our faces and rewrote the script.

The goats took one look at BK and immediately decided he was their personal savior. Their messiah. Their four-legged prophet of hay and hope. Wherever he went, they followed. If he sniffed a fence post, they’d form a worship circle. If he lay down for a nap, they’d flop around him like loyal cultists attending a barnyard meditation retreat. “We’re doing downward goat now. Breathe in the hay. Exhale the bleats.”

He became their Donkey Deity—the Goat God. I was no longer their trusted chaperone. BK was. They went where he went. Ate what he ate. Tried to scale what he scaled. (Which, for the record, now includes a hay bale, a chicken roost, and my wheelbarrow.)

Naturally, Talon, my Gypsy Cob, wanted nothing to do with any of it. Anytime a goat tiptoed into his pasture, he’d go full grumpy-old-man mode and chase them back to the barn like they were trying to sell him extended warranty coverage. My hopes for a cross-species bromance were fading fast.

But then fate stepped in. We went away overnight—just one night—and came back to find Talon not where we left him. He was in the goat pasture. Grazing. Hanging out. No trampling. No screaming. No ritualistic donkey worship. Just quiet harmony, like they’d all gathered for brunch and decided to stay.

The gate was latched. The fence was fine. Unless Talon grew thumbs and figured out how to unlatch gates—or tunneled in like an equine version of Andy Dufresne—we may never know how he got there. But there he was, standing peacefully among his former enemies like they were discussing stock tips and debating whether alfalfa or orchard grass makes a better brunch.

So maybe I should’ve just trusted the process. Maybe goats and horses can get along. Maybe BK really is the bridge between species. Or maybe—and this feels more accurate—I should stop trying to micromanage barnyard politics and just let the animals do what animals do.

Because here’s what I’ve learned: On a farm, plans are fragile. Fences are suggestions. And sometimes peace looks like a horse, a donkey, and three baby goats standing together in the grass, proving once again that I am not in charge around here.

Also, you can never trust a redhead with hooves. Especially one named BK.

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©2011 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

He's Here! A Redheaded Donkey Joins the Farm Fun

That handsome redhead in the back? That’s BK. And yes, there’s a story behind the name—because when isn’t there?

See, DH thought it would be hilarious to name the donkey Barack. I, on the other hand, thought it would be a tragedy. A five-alarm insult to the intelligence of an innocent animal who has, thus far, done nothing to deserve such a burden. I mean, the poor thing already has to live with goats—why add insult to indignity?

Now, my daughter, granddaughter, and I? We’re a little more sentimental. We wanted to name him Kirby, after a favorite character from a movie who, incidentally, is charming, lovable, and not at all interested in running the country or carrying the weight of political debates on his fuzzy little back.

So we compromised—and by that I mean I ignored DH and declared my side the winner. He is officially Barack Kirby, or BK for short. I just call him BK. Because again, I have standards.

BK is a 5-month-old miniature donkey, which basically means he’s got all the stubbornness and attitude of a full-size donkey, packed into a pocket-sized frame. He’s currently in the “awkward middle school” phase of donkey-hood, complete with gangly legs, endless curiosity, and zero awareness of personal space.

Right now, he’s bunking with three goat kids who have already taught him how to scale furniture (donkeys are surprisingly agile when peer-pressured), and two Great Pyrenees livestock guardian dogs who’ve taken it upon themselves to teach him barn etiquette—namely: don’t eat the chickens’ snacks and don’t pee in the communal water bucket.

Eventually, he’ll graduate to pasture-mate status with the horse. That is, once he gets a little bigger, a little bolder, and stops trying to chew on the electric fence like it’s a Twizzler.

For now, he’s learning the ropes, making friends, and providing plenty of blog material—because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this:

You can never trust a redhead with hooves. Especially one with a name like BK.

Stay tuned.

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©2011 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Pin The Name On The Donkey

Well, it’s finally happened. DH has been yammering on for years about wanting a mini donkey, and I—being the kind-hearted, practical, and occasionally slightly off-my-rocker farm wife that I am—finally caved. Mostly because I found one that didn’t come with a price tag that required an organ donation or signing over the deed to the house.

Meet our newest addition (pictured in front), a baby mini donkey. And yes, he’s just as soft, fuzzy, and ridiculously adorable in person. Most of the mini donkeys I’ve come across were priced higher than a full-sized horse, which is insane when you realize you’re basically buying a furry, braying lawn ornament with an attitude.

But this little guy? This one was fate. Or Craigslist. Either way.

Now, as with any new addition to the farm, integration is key. He’s still a baby, so he’ll grow up alongside our LGDs and hopefully learn they’re part of the team, not intruders who need to be launched into the next time zone with a swift double-hoofed boot. Fingers crossed he extends the same courtesy to the goats, the chickens, and anything else that happens to wander too close. Including me.

Eventually, he’ll be pastured with Talon, who is either going to love having a buddy or throw a dramatic tantrum like a spoiled prom queen who has to share her limo. But hey, that’s farm life.

Now, here’s where you come in. We need a name.

Jim, in all his wisdom and subtlety, suggested Barack. And while I appreciate the clever political pun, I’d like to think this donkey has slightly higher cognitive functioning than your average bureaucrat. No offense to my liberal friends—okay, slight offense—but come on, this little guy deserves better. Or at least something that doesn’t start political arguments over the breakfast table.

So I’m opening the floor. What do we name him?

Here are a few early contenders, just to get the ball rolling:

• Eeyore – Obvious. Maybe too obvious.

• Burrito – Because he’s small, wrapped in fluff, and occasionally spicy.

• Festus – Because he already looks like he’s been living on the frontier for 40 years.

• Sir Hee-Haw-A-Lot – For when we want the neighbors to think we’ve gone completely off the rails.

• Deputy Dawdle – For his very slow, very deliberate stroll across the yard this morning.

• NotBarack – Because I’m petty like that.

Leave your name ideas in the comments or shoot me a message. If we pick your suggestion, you’ll win…well, absolutely nothing except bragging rights and my eternal gratitude. And maybe a shoutout in the next blog post.

Let the naming games begin!

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©2011 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Coming to a Farm Near You

Well, it looks like the folks in Washington are at it again — trying to “help” farmers right out of business. The Department of Transportation has decided it might be a fine idea to reclassify farm equipment as commercial vehicles.

That means if you drive a tractor, combine, or even a four-wheeler across your own field, you’d need a commercial driver’s license. Yep, the same kind the big-rig drivers have — complete with schooling, fees, insurance, and paperwork that could choke a horse.

Now maybe that makes sense in a conference room somewhere, but out here, it’s laughable. The kid who’s been running the baler since he was fourteen? Out of luck. Grandpa who still likes to rake hay on his own land? Technically illegal. The people writing these rules must think food grows in supermarkets.

The DOT says they’re holding “public hearings,” but that’s usually code for we’re going to do it anyway, we just want to look polite first. Their official statement about how agriculture is “the backbone of our economy” would be funny if it weren’t so insulting. If this is their way of helping farmers succeed, I’d hate to see what happens when they start trying to hurt us.

Make no mistake — this affects more than farmers. If these rules go through, costs will rise from the barn to the grocery aisle, and everyone will pay for it.

Maybe before making more regulations, they ought to trade the neckties for work gloves and spend a week in haying season. A few days in 90-degree heat on a tractor might give them a better appreciation for what real work looks like.

The U.S. Department of Transportation has proposed a rule to reclassify all farm equipment as commercial vehicles. This proposed change would mean that anyone operating any piece of motorized farm equipment would have to have a CDL (commercial driver's license), with all the resultant schooling, expensive licensing and insurance, and record keeping that those who drive 18 wheelers have. It would also mean that farm workers, from the farmer's 14 yr old kid who helps with baling hay, to the elderly farmer who no longer drives on public roads, could no longer operate farm equipment, even on their own property. Now just to be fair, the DOT is holding public hearings on this matter until today, August 1. But in my experience this really means they're going to do what they want but want to give the impression that they're listening to input from affected parties. However, just last week, a DOT opinion piece closed with this statement:

"Everyone in this Administration - from President Obama, Vice President Biden, and Secretary LaHood on down - is committed to the long-term success of America's agricultural industry. In many ways, agriculture is the backbone of our economy - feeding hundreds of millions of Americans and billions more around the world. As the largest user of freight transportation in the nation, the agricultural industry is also one of USDOT's most important constituents. We hope that this comment period is the start of a new and productive relationship. We may not ultimately agree on every issue, but we will always listen - and do our best to help America's farmers succeed."

If this is helping farmers to succeed I'd hate to see what damage they could do if they were actually TRYING to hurt us. It is up to not only every farmer, from those with backyard gardens to those who make it their livelihood, as well as everyone who eats, to oppose this. If you think this doesn't affect you because you don't own any farm equipment, wait till the increase in costs is reflected in the increase in prices at the grocery store. 

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©2011 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Missing Child in Northern New Hampshire

Law enforcement has asked that this photo be shared everywhere. Celina Cass, age 11, is missing from her home in West Stewartstown, New Hampshire. She was last seen on Monday, July 25, 2011, around 9:00 p.m. Celina is described as five feet, five inches tall, weighing about ninety-five pounds, with hazel eyes and waist-length brown hair. She was last seen wearing a pink shirt, a pink pullover, blue shorts, and shoes. If you have any information about her disappearance or whereabouts, please contact the New Hampshire State Police at 603-846-3333 immediately.

This kind of tragedy hits especially hard in small towns like ours, where everyone knows everyone, and neighbors still wave when they pass each other on the road. West Stewartstown isn’t a place where children just vanish—it’s quiet, close-knit, the sort of community where people still leave their doors unlocked and kids ride bikes down Main Street until the porch lights come on. That’s why Celina’s disappearance has shaken the entire North Country to its core.

Post Script: August 1, 2011 – After a massive search effort involving local law enforcement, state police from several states, Fish and Game officers, the FBI, Border Patrol, volunteers from across the region, and even the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, the news we all dreaded came this morning. Divers discovered Celina’s body in the Connecticut River, just half a mile from her home.

There are no words big enough for this kind of heartbreak. A child is gone, and a family—and a community—has been forever changed. Please pray for comfort and strength for everyone touched by this unimaginable loss. And pray, too, that those responsible for this terrible act are brought swiftly to justice.

Tonight, hug your children a little tighter. For Celina, and for every parent whose heart now carries an empty space where laughter used to be.

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©2011 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

My Birthday Bouquet

My birthday bouquet arrived today from my sweet hubby — and he even remembered that I love yellow flowers. There’s something about that color that feels like bottled sunshine: cheerful, hopeful, and impossible to look at without smiling. The mix of tulips, daisies, and roses is just perfect, and I may or may not have rearranged them three times already trying to decide which angle looks best on the kitchen table.

On the little note card, he wrote that he’s taking me to my favorite restaurant Saturday night. Yum! Just reading it made me grin. And before you wonder why he wrote it instead of telling me in person — it’s because he’s away for work, as usual. He’s gone Monday through Friday, out there keeping the wheels turning while I hold down the fort (and the goats, and the chickens). But knowing him, he probably stopped to pick out those flowers after a long day (or just made a phone call to the florist). That’s love right there — the quiet kind that shows up in details.

He retires at the end of this year, and I can’t wait. After all these years of phone calls, emails, and “goodnight” texts, we’ll finally be in the same place all week long. Of course, I’m realistic enough to know how that goes. We might end up one of those couples who text each other from opposite ends of the couch. But that’s fine with me — it’s still together.

For now, I’m just enjoying my beautiful bouquet and thinking how lucky I am to have someone who still remembers my favorite color after all these years. Love doesn’t always shout. Sometimes it just shows up on your doorstep — in a vase full of yellow flowers.

 

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©2011 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Flat Out Of Luck: Farm Life Doesn't Always Go According to Plans

Some days don’t just go sideways—they veer into a ditch, set up camp, and start roasting marshmallows.

It started like the perfect morning. Sunlight pouring through the windows. Birds doing their little Disney chorus thing. I actually thought to myself, “Well, isn’t this lovely? Today’s going to be a good day.”

Cue the record scratch.

I stepped outside and there it was—a tire that had clearly given up on life somewhere around 3 a.m. Not a slow leak. Not a subtle sag. This thing was flatter than roadkill on I-93. Aggressively horizontal. A crime scene in rubber.

It sat there like an air mattress the morning after camping—wrinkled, useless, and impossible to revive. No warning, no farewell hiss, not even a dramatic pop for flair. Just slumped over like, “I’ve been holding your sorry self together for too many years, lady, and I’m DONE. Figure it out.”

So, instead of my tidy little to-do list and that smug, get-stuff-done satisfaction, I got a pop quiz in “tire triage.” Which, for the record, involves kneeling in gravel while the wind tries to sandblast your face, balancing a jack that sounds like it’s been crying for help since 1998, and muttering words you wouldn’t say in front of your grandmother.

I haven’t crouched that long since I was elbow-deep in a goat birthing situation. And let me tell you—both experiences involve heavy breathing, regret, and the faint hope that someone will arrive to save you.

The jack was, of course, hiding. I finally found it buried under the back seat, keeping company with a fossilized French fry and what I’m 80% sure was once a map of Ohio. We’ve never been to Ohio, which means either the car’s been sneaking off without me or I’ve been storing roadside garbage for sport.

Anyway, I got the spare on. I survived. The tire. . . not so much.

The soundtrack to my morning? Picture muffled grumbling, the groan of a rusty jack, and the faint sound of my will to live rolling down the driveway.

But hey—I got the tire changed. I still made it through the day. Because sometimes life goes flat. . . and you fix it with grit, sarcasm, and just enough air to keep going.

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©2011 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Skunked: Livestock Guardian and Farm Dogs OK, But the Yard? Not So Much

In the grand scheme of things, the two things I'm thankful for this morning may seem trivial to the general populace. But you fellow homesteaders, as well as dog owners, will totally relate, I'm sure. 

The first thing I'm thankful for is dogs who convinced the skunk that was heading toward the meat chickens, to change direction. They further convinced the skunk that a late night chicken dinner wasn't in its best interest. This is not an open-all-night KFC drive-thru, or in this case, walk-thru. After all, that's why we have dogs - 2 Great Pyrenees livestock guardians, and 2 English Shepherds who provide backup as needed.

I can picture the whole episode - poor skunk is out for a late night stroll, meandering across the lower pasture, and smells chickens. Oh, yummy chickens. Live chickens. Juicy chickens. Young, tender, 4 week old chickens. And in it's vast experience it realizes that these chickens are concentrated in one area - a chicken pen! What luck. To have all those live, juicy, tender, young chickens in a cage, on the ground no less, just waiting for a beautiful skunk, such as itself, to pop open a corner of the chicken wire, slip inside, and have a captive audience so to speak. Then, out of nowhere these huge white beasts come crashing up to the fence, barking and snarling, bent on eating said skunk for their late night snack. And what's even worse, there are 2 rust colored beasts right behind them, obviously with the same vicious intentions. Now really, what's a poor defenseless skunk to do? These snarling, viscous beasts can, without a doubt, run faster than the skunk, are much larger, and definitely have bigger teeth. The poor skunk has no choice, turn and spray in the direction of said beasts. 

Which brings me to the second thing on my thankful list. A fence that kept the dogs away from the skunk while it was making that very wise decision to seek dinner elsewhere. The dogs obviously intercepted the skunk while it was still a suitable distance from the fence and weren't close enough to get sprayed. While my yard was very potent for a while, it was definitely preferable to having to bathe 4 dogs in tomato juice. You might say that the skunk got skunked!

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Farewell, Old Friend: A Heart-Dog's Passing

They say a “heart dog” is the one that changes everything — the one who fits so completely into your life that you can’t imagine it without them. For us, that was Indy.

Our old Weimaraner wasn’t just smart — he was brilliant. He knew at least two dozen commands and carried them out with military precision. He could open and close doors, put dishes in the sink, and even clean up his own toys. If I dropped something — keys, a glove, a pen — I’d just shine a laser light on it, and Indy would trot over, pick it up, and deliver it proudly. That trick alone saved me the day I dropped my keys under the porch. He was a dog who made himself useful — and he knew it.

But even the smartest dogs have their moments. Being a hunting breed, Indy was very interested in my chickens, who were safely fenced off — at least until one particularly reckless hen decided to fly over into the dog yard. Indy, seeing an opportunity to demonstrate his retrieving skills, gently (well… mostly gently) grabbed her, carried her through the dog door, and marched straight into Jim’s mom’s room to present his “gift.”

The only problem? His mouth wasn’t exactly soft. By the time he deposited her on the bed, the chicken had expired — much to his satisfaction and my mother-in-law’s horror. Indy stood there beaming with pride while she half laughed, half cried. He couldn’t understand why his fine hunting performance wasn’t being properly appreciated with honors.

That was Indy — loyal, brilliant, endlessly devoted, and unintentionally hilarious. The house feels emptier without him, but the memories — oh, they still fill every room.

Farewell, old friend. You left us better than you found us.

"Every time I lose a dog they take a piece of my heart with them. And every new dog who comes into my life, gifts me with a piece of their heart. If I live long enough, all the components of my heart will be dog, and I will become as generous and loving as they are." ~~Author Unknown~~

I've had a very busy life. Every since I was a pup I've had lots of work to do.

I've learned lots of lots of things to take care of my family.

There were children to keep warm.....

The whole yard to patrol.....

Friends to make......

Dinner to catch.....

Dinner to eat.....

Smiles to capture.....

Children to keep clean.

Under my watchful care children flourished, a family was kept safe, and a home was filled with my love.

Indy - (Gunmettle's Independence Day) 5/4/98-7/13/11.

You will be loved and remembered forever. Well done, faithful friend.

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©2011 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm