My sweet husband works incredibly hard.  Long hours, stressful situations, on call 24-7, all part of the territory when one is in management.  Yet, he continues to support my scheming and dreaming for our family farm: Melville Farms.
Hubby Dearest is a reluctant farmer to say the least, but luckily he volunteers for a “honey-do” list of sorts. 
As summer turns to fall, days become  shorter, rain falls harder and my toddler is less willing to cooperate, I have quite the list for him:
1)Drainage: we want use of our small field in the winter, even if it’s only for poultry.  I discussed renting equipment to ease the task, but of course Mr. Do-it-himself went out there and dug a drainage ditch BY HAND.  It is well done, but a failed culvert has turned his hardwork and our access road into a lake complete with miniature waterfall.

(Faithful dog Ted testing out his new swimming hole)

(Our new water feauture: Waterfall de Melville)

2)Help winterize the coop: for some reason I feel like it’s a bad parenting decision to work on electrical with your toddler helping.. so the Hubs will be hooking up a light timer to keep those ladies laying!
3) New chicken housing- our multiple chicken tractors have served us well, but the ladies need some new digs and we are trying to improve production here on the farm by raising meat birds through the monsoon months as well as the happy-go-lucky summer months

(The Hubbity-hubs helping move one of the tractors around)

4) Contain the madness- I do not want chicken juices on my front porch as I have been there, done that, over that.  So imagine my suprise when I brought home 14 new chickens and over half of the newbies REFUSE to be contained.  The cozy coop, spacious winter run, treats and fun roosting options were not good enough for them apparently and dag nab it they flew the coop to then roam the world, coming in and out of the fenced area with ease and roosting 20 feet into the trees around the chicken house only mocking my attempts to lure them back to the rest of the flock. 
My Little Miss Q is only so helpful while I do daily chores or chase animals as she often tries to sample miscellaneous livestock poop like they are rare delicacies, attempts to jump in the impromptu lake, or break into the chicken coop and dig in their food. She is being an adventurous  kiddo, but as it can cut into my productivity I’m glad Sir Hubby Dearest is willing to help out on the farm!!!

(Q helping with her wheel barrow)

Just a few short weeks ago the Pacific Northwest was on fire.  The temperate rainforest region was warned of EXTREME fire danger as smoke blew in from neighboring counties in grey swirls and particulates.  The evening sun was red as it attempted to shine through smoke and clouds before it settled into the hills.

Little Miss Q was bundled in her footie pajamas as we traversed the back roads of the Coast Range to keep our processing date for our meat chickens in the Willamette Valley.  The main through fare had been closed for nearly 3 days and I could not afford missing our appointment.  I put my mom – car to use by bringing the dozing babe and a trailer full of birds to a sleeping suburban community outside of Portland at 11:30pm so I could be sure to get that poultry plucked the next morning.
The next day all was going according to plan as I left for the processor with the rise of the morning sun.  The birds were clucking, the forest fires had not closed any new roads and the drive was smooth.  Nearly there my eye contact lens decided to rebel against my body. It felt like glass was in my eye and no amount of blinking, rubbing, cursing, or squinting was going to fix it. 
My eyesight is extremely poor and going without that contact not an option so I tried every trick I could think of to keep that lens on my darn eyeball. So a few minutes later when I arrived for my chicken appointment with tears and mascara running down half my face I really regretted my choice to wear makeup for once.  As I started to unload the birds I was met by a teenaged boy who looked terrified to talk to me. I went to wipe my face only to remember that my hands were covered in bird excrement just in time, but I tried to smile at him.  Pretty sure I looked like a mess and came across as a creep as my right eye kept winking in response to the evil contact lens slowly but surely killing me.
After the birds were unloaded I cleaned up and began tearing apart my car.  I looked in every cup holder, pocket, bag, and storage compartment searching for a new contact lens. Frustrated I opened the glove box for the 3rd time only to find: the entire order of contact lenses from my last eye doctor appointment  (that I had lost nearly 9 months ago)!!! I heard a chorus of angels singing that my stars had aligned and I was willing to risk getting conjunctivitis by putting a new lens into my aching eye with my less than sanitary hands.  The relief caused an impromptu dance party in my car which resulted in me spilling hot coffee everywhere, but I was too happy to care.
Returning for my now beautifully processed chickens I had coffee stains down my tshirt and capris, make up streaks down my face, and was wearing romeos without socks. Beyond caring I weighed my birds only to find that these full-figured ladies were huge. Ranging from 5 to 8 pounds these chickens were the size of small turkeys.  Hoping folks would be able to fit them in their crock pots I packed up and headed back to my toddler.
Only in the Pacific Northwest can you have raging wildfires one day and the first rains of the season with rolling fog the next.  When Little Miss Q and I returned home from the sweltering 90 degree heat of the valley, our beautiful farm was bathed in mist and clouds. With our last crop of birds in the freezer, sheep grazing, and Q in her favorite swing it felt so good to be back in Melville

(Ted trying to look like he was guarding the laying flock)

Leaves fell as gusts of wind blew through the valley and carried away the lingering heat. Coastal dew dampened the grass before dawn as the first hint of Autumn awoke with the morning. The clouds hung low and the coyotes yipped their confidence in the shadows of dense tree cover.
Our idiot sheep showed no signs of fear as they pranced around in the cool marine breeze that smelled of fresh rain and salt. The laying flock even more brazen as they crossed property boundaries to investigate new pasture.  I served a breakfast of baked apples and eggs that were both collected the day before and poured Sweet Little Miss Q a cup of milk whilst dreaming about the pros and cons of owning a dairy animal.
This beautiful morning I glared outside at our meat birds that were eating us out of house and home.  Earlier this summer our first round of market chickens were processed by a licensed facility in the Willamette Valley.  It was the first time we have ever hired out the processing and were uncertain of the total costs when we originally quoted price per pound to our customers. The finished product was absolutely beautiful- vacuum packed, perfectly plucked, stunning whole chickens that we could legally sell to private consumers, restaurants or stores. Only problem: the finished product resulted in zero profit.

       {Good looking processed bird}

We had lost money and Hubby Dearest was less than thrilled. Indignant at the high costs of certified non-GMO whole grain feed, the processing fees for that perfectly plucked poultry, and my insistence that this was a good idea, he demanded a return of our investment. I have promised that next round of pastured poultry will be better, with the baseline goal of not losing money. Easier said than done.
Just the other day I made a trip over the Coast Range to the whole grain mill where we buy our GMO – free feed. About 200 miles later I was home with a mom – car full of feed bags, excited to eat lunch before I unloaded. However, a few minutes for lunch turned into a few days of procrastination and as Hubby Dearest opened the back of the car to open a bag he saw the feed tag that I hadn’t bothered to check: senior horse.  Going through each bag we saw a number of senior horse and other labels, none of which were the poultry grower that we needed and were for animals we don’t even have.  For some reason the hubs was was less than thrilled as he re-loaded 50 lb bags of senior horse pellets. His temper grew and I saw our potential “profit” margin dwindling as I planned to return the bags and get the chicken feed I required. I stuck my foot in my mouth when I mentioned that throwing those bags around was at least a great work out…and for some reason Hubby Dearest didn’t quite see it that way.
So as summer draws to an end and our second round of meat birds mature into the full rounded figures of succulent chickens, I hope we have a few buyers! In the meantime I will harvest the abundant fruits and veggies in the family garden, sell off the remaining  shares of our larger livestock and hope that Hubby Dearest sees the intrinsic value of raising quality meats and eggs for our family and community.

            {Waiting for breakfast}

When the sun sets in Melville, there is nothing more beautiful.  As I drove home after a long day of diligent keyboard clacking for my day-job, I was in awe of the warm orange hues of evening sun.  Sunbursts streaked through growing shadows hinting at twilight, giving warmth to the farmers continuing to collect round baled hay from their pastures.  I rolled the windows down, felt the cool breeze whip through the car, and was able to breathe in the evening air. It felt like the first real breath I’d had all day.
I arrived home to giggles echoing down our hallway from Hubby Dearest and Sweet Baby Q going through the bed time routine.  There were dirt crusted baby sized clothes piled in the kitchen, toys scattered in every room of the house and dishes up to my eyeballs. Perils of Daddy – daughter bonding. 
As I threw some food in the general direction of my face I checked on my essay contest submission- my chance to win some cold hard cash and allow Melville Farms to grow into its potential as a business. Not that I have had a lot of time to spare writing essays, but starting Melville Farms has meant the world to me and I want to see it flourish.   Melville Farms isn’t only the family business it is the way of life for our family.  So as I fell asleep to the twittering birds and the soft clucking of roosting hens I hoped the Wells Fargo submission review team caught a glimpse of beautiful Melville through my essay.

Want to help support Melville Farms? Please vote for us by following the link:  https://wellsfargoworks.com/project?x=us-en_viewentriesandvote_16987_21

A few weeks ago Melville Farms welcomed two hair sheep into the meat- growing- melee for 2015.  I brought the twin lambs home pleased as punch with my purchase and settled them into their temporary pen. We named them Batman and Robin and sweet baby Q and faithful dog Ted were over the moon with the new animals.

Unfortunately, within the first 24 hours Hubby Dearest and I made the worst rookie mistake – we separated them.
Sweet Baby Q was in her front pack as Hubby Dearest and I set up the two strand hotwire fencing , shelter, feeding area and mineral block for Batman and Robin, the spunky twins waiting to be turned out onto pasture.  They were by no means tame, but Hubby had no problem grabbing Robin first  and carrying him over to the fenceline. After putting down a seemingly happy sheep Hubby turned around to walk back up to get sheep number two and wouldn’t you know it, Robin got anxious and ran back up to where I stood with Batman. This is where we should have recognized that if we led the contained sheep to the pasture and waited for the other to come over they’d be happy. Did we realise that? Nope.
Hubby tried to chase Robin back into the pen which spooked Batman who attempted to ram into me (and baby Q) so I jumped out of the way to save the babe and successfully let both sheep out of the pen.  Not overly fond of the way events were unfolding Hubby Dearest got a little testy.  He attempted to herd those mischievous ruminants as they tried to become best friends with our pigs, tore our hotwire down, and  spooked the pigs.
I was ready to help when Hubby told me to back up. Easier said than done.  I became tangled in some blackberries so when I turned for a split second to step around them, that was the moment Batman and Robin made a break for it off the property and down the county road.  Oh the things that came out of my sweet husband’s mouth as he sprinted down the double yellow line.
Luckily Toby, the majestic neighbor horse, distracted the sheep and they tried to break into his pasture instead of continuing down the road.  From that point on the situation seemed to unravel at an alarming rate.  Many of our neighbors came out to help catch our sheep as we chased them all over Melville. 
Batman and Robin ran up and down the county road, neighboring pastures, logging roads, landscaped back yards, horse barns, apple orchards, cow fields, timber land, and faced off with a pack of aggressive dogs.  At one point when we lost them into a young stand of Douglas-fir, all the neighbors looked at us with pity.  It was cougar country and there was nothing but 8 ft tall trees and brush as far as the eye could see. Through sheer luck and perseverance Hubby Dearest not only found the sheep but herded them back towards our crew of neighbors and friends.  As he came back through the brush the ‘Friends’ theme song began playing in my head. We were two idiot young farmers and a baby, at dusk, chasing sheep through everyone’s property, and here were our neighbors happily helping us. 
“It’s like you’re always stuck in second gear when it hasn’t been your day or week or month or even your year...”
As the sun began to set we were able to herd the twins into a corral, rope them, and get them back home.  We were all tired, frustrated, but bonded in a way only friends and neighbors can be after a 3 hour sheep – chasing ordeal.
“I’ll be there for you…. cause you’re there for me to..”- the Remembrandts.