It’s summer. The low hanging misty clouds greet us in the warm mornings and sun beams peak out to roast our afternoons. I seem to lose track of times and dates while I keep up on pastured-poultry watering regimes, hay season, and the never-ending list of things to repair, rebuild, and build anew for the farm. Sometimes I am lulled into a false sense of serenity as the sun warms my face, tiny hands pick wild berries and the critters pretend to behave themselves. While other times I find myself driving down the road to see one of my steers literally running down the double yellow line.

Nigel, last years’ bottle calf is a family favorite. He’s sweet, plays with guardian dog and will follow me anywhere when we move the herd. However, I wasn’t really confident in those attributes as I saw him trotting down the road towards an oncoming bicyclist. My head was reeling with questions, was he going to run down this nice stranger? Where was the rest of the herd? Mrs. B the pregnant cow is not known for her docility… How will I wrangle Nigel back to the farm? Where should I park the pickup with my children to do said wrangling?

But as I pulled into the farm drive way and leaped out ready to chase down my steer on foot, the bicycling stranger called out that he was going to circle around Nigel and try to get him to stop running. Bless that bicyclist it worked! Nigel paused long enough to hear me holler at him in the nicest yelling voice I’ve ever done, “Hey Nigel come on back!” as if it were any other time to move pastures or get produce treats. Unbelievably that bovine turned and trotted back to me like a happy pup, let me scratch his horns and as I waved to the already retreating bicycling savior I jogged Nigel down to the barn and discovered the rest of the herd! There were a few more really exciting minutes as I re-parked the kiddos and moved cattle into appropriate fields, but the afternoon definitely took a turn for the better.

What’s incredible and horrifying about farming are these types of adventures. Neighboring farmers have lost cattle to the huge trucks that frequent our country roads. That could have easily been our cattle if not for a lot of luck and the good fortune of meeting one of the kindest, bravest strangers that was willing to round up a running yearling steer on a bicycle.

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}