Where are the Ruby Slippers for Farm Homes?

Or maybe they're green slippers!

All I know for sure is that we haven't found our farm home yet. Our yellow brick road has been lined with flying monkey farms.

And its been painful. Our hopes, plans, and even some of our dreams have been plucked out of our hearts like the straw from inside a scarecrow, leaving us to realize a few things. We've survived and what we have left - more patience and growing peace - are things no one can take away from us.

Over the past nearly six months we've made offers on five farms. Five attempts that failed for various reasons. After all that failure it's hard to be optimistic and its normal to feel just a little depressed. Especially after we DID make an offer on the farm I was sure we could get (the 'perfect' farm I mentioned in my last blog entry).

That offer was accepted and at a good price, too. But, the house miserably failed the home inspection. In fact, there were so many problems (despite its impeccable appearance) that the owners - who were stunned to hear about them - were too overwhelmed to even consider selling. They refused to agree to the repairs and took the farm off the market.

Thank goodness I only wrote the room dimensions down on plain paper and not in my new farm house decorating planner.

Then the farm across the street from the 'perfect' farm came down in price and looked pretty good, too. But those folks wanted $50,000 more for half the acreage and a good number of poorly maintained outbuildings - and they wouldn't go lower. It was a disappointment, but one we got over faster than the rest of our rejections.

And I never even measured those rooms.

Either I am becoming more patient and peaceful, or I'm a scarecrow wearing armor. I'm opting for the former. Mostly because I refuse to believe that the bad and difficult things that challenge us are meaningless. If they were then my whole life would be a waste and that is just not acceptable. All this practice farm-purchasing is creating something wonderful inside me. Inside both of us.

For one thing it is helping us meld what was his dream more firmly into what is becoming our dream. It is teaching us what we want and what we don't want in a farm and in our lives. We are growing wiser together.

Most likely we needed that.

This kind of move, from one type of life to another is going to be a challenge once it finally takes place. We're going to make mistakes and we're going to need the benefit of all the wisdom, patience and peace we can muster to make it work.

Maybe being impatient and overly anxious wasn't the best way to start this journey.

Maybe Someone bigger knew this better than we did.

Maybe we should be grateful for all the delays and rejections.

Maybe we don't have the 'perfect' farm, but maybe this is the 'perfect' reason at the perfect season to thank the One who is guiding us.

And, maybe it is time to learn to breathe again and let Him bring about His plan in His time.

Besides I was only wistfully wishing for ruby farm-bound slippers to whisk me away to the place where I'm supposed to put down roots - literally. Let's face it, we all know those don't come wide enough for my feet.

All of us here are wishing you and all yours a Merry Christmas. We hope the peace of God that passes all understanding will bless your home.

Are We There Yet?? (10/20/2007)

"Not quite" would be the answer to that question. But we are getting closer.

I know... I've said that a couple of times. And a couple of times it seemed true. What makes "now" different is that not only are we narrowing in on our choices, our choices are narrowing in on us.

Not only is real estate selling slower - such as our house - it is not going up for sale as fast either. Sellers are just not listing homes - or farms for that matter - the way they were earlier in the year. Some of this is just the time of year. Who wants to chance having to move during the holidays? Still, I think the current market has lowered prices to the point that people are rethinking whether selling is a good idea at all.

I can't blame them. We've lowered the price on our house by over $20,000 and, as we were when we listed, we are the lowest priced house in our neighborhood, which happens to be a very desireable neighborhood. We didn't even question the need to re-up when our current listing ran out. If we find a farm we want, we want our house on the market. If other people are opting out, good, less competition.

So as I said, we have narrowed our choices down to one farm at this time. What is more the price is good, the area is acceptable, it has everything we need, and buying it will leave us with plenty of money to do all the other things we want to do to get our farm up and running. It sounds like a win-win situation . . . and yet, we are stalled.

It is taking some time to get our minds wrapped around a few of the house's limitations, such as one bathroom instead of two. Such as smaller bedrooms. Maybe even such as the fact that it is in Oregon and not Washington as we orginally wanted. But Oregon farms are really good farms. And I like the feel of this farm despite the size of the house. And there's nothing else out there in either Washington or Oregon and hasn't been for some time.

Yes, there may be more choices in spring. . . or next week. . . or tomorrow, but we've been thinking that for weeks - no months. And whenever we find something we really like it is over-priced, or the seller wants to keep farming it even though we own it, or the seller doesn't want to fix things discovered by the inspection . . . or ... or ... or. What all the or's amount to is a closed door to a purchase.

Now I think we are actually facing an easily opened door. Not the elusive, let's-shoot-for-the-moon-and-see-if-we-can-get-it-farm. In some ways I wonder if that kind of farm represents a subtle form of sabotage we've been unconsciously activating to keep from buying a farm at all. In most cases we've known our offer would not be accepted or that the farm had incredible challenges in condition that would be difficult to overcome.

Now we are faced with a farm that has none of these issues. In fact, everything is so near right with this farm - at least more right than any of the others - that it's scary. The only way we will lose this farm is if someone else buys it first. And that's making us think. Somewhere questions are broiling around inside keeping us from purchasing.

Is that good? Is that bad? What does it say about us? What does it say about the farm? How much are these questions related to the fact that we are standing - finally - on the edge and it's time to jump off into something from which we might not recover? At least not without a monetary loss.

Did you know that when a cow is chewing it's cud - during one of the several times it does - it is said to be ruminating. That's what this post is all about. I'm ruminating. Emotionally laying down in some green pasture, chewing on these farm questions, trying to make it all palatable enough to finally swallow for good. How many times I may need to do this, or we may need to do this, before we decide that a farm is ready to nourish us, I'm not sure. In the meantime, we are getting very hungry.

Greener Pastures are not for Sissy Farmers (9/24/2007)

Joe’s oldest daughter was married last weekend in Spokane. Knowing we would be in there for the wedding, we decided to look at farms in the Spokane area and a couple of weeks ago began scanning the MLS listings to this end.

Naturally, with the threat of moving to the other side of the state looming, I started frantically looking for another farm on this side. Eastern Washington felt too far away and too different from our current comfort zone for me.

The result was yet another round of farm visits and another declined offer on a farm in an area we both liked. This particular farm was seriously overpriced. If we’d wrangled more and somehow overcame our desire to not pay more than the farm was worth, we could’ve had it. But being foolish with our available money to buy and start our farm was not an option. Especially in light of the fact that near Spokane farms similar to the farm we made an offer on appeared to sell for significantly less money.

Bummer.

So last Friday we packed up our wedding clothes and our farm paperwork and headed for Spokane. I learned a few things on this trip about the east side of the state:


First, unless the farm is located within the city limits of whatever town it is near, or is located on a highway, do not assume it will be on a paved road.


I knew the mountains were full of unpaved logging roads used by timber companies and hunters, but I didn’t know whole farming communities may only have one paved road in town and that was usually the highway that passed through it. Clearly eastern Washington farming is not for sissies. My poor Jag learned this lesson well.

Our first attempt to find one of the farms on our list led us across seven miles and back down a dusty dirt road, covering the car with a fine film and providing sticky hood ornaments in the form of bees, grasshoppers, and other unidentifiable once-living insects. It was a bit of an embarrassment when we had to turn it over to a valet at the hotel in Spokane in this condition.

Second, never pre-judge a farming community, it may surprise you.


Before seeing it for myself, I was pretty sure the farms near Spokane were dry, unappealing places. Instead, we drove through soft golden hills where wheat had just been cut and hauled away. These hills went on for miles, maybe even hundreds of miles, edged by distant mountains with clusters of deciduous trees popping up on the horizon to indicate where farm buildings were. I could see forever. It stirred up memories of Arizona and I found myself responding to the views with more favor than I expected. Instead of hoping we wouldn’t find a farn we wanted, I found myself wishing we would.

Third, just because an online map service, or more than one online map service, shows you where an address is located doesn’t mean there is a dwelling at that location. It may only be a mailbox. This was true for two out of the five farms we wanted to drive-by.

Driving by farms, especially the ‘serious’, no-paved-road kind in eastern Washington, isn’t like driving by a home for sale in your neighborhood. Farms hide out. Their mailboxes are often NOT located close to their dwellings. And the address you type into a map service online might only lead you to the mailbox.

Try to figure that one out when you can see for miles while parked by the mailbox and there’s no farm nearby that resembles the one you came to see. This was frustrating. And since I am a worst-case-scenario-girl my mind immediately wondered how emergency people would ever find these farms if need be. Maybe these farmers have to haul the injured or sick people out to the mailbox for pick up when they need an ambulance like they were mailing an important package. I know, a very citified remark, but really isn’t that why everyone had to get a physical address for their dwelling place a few years back?

Fourth, either a farm will look way better in person than it ever did on the MLS or it will be significantly worse. And for the record, it usually looks significantly worse.


Fifth, hand in hand with the above, if the price is low, there’s a reason.


Our effort to find Farm No. 1 was a complete failure. We were on our way to Spokane and since the farm was on the way too, it seemed like a great time to drive by. What we eventually found, after much confused searching, were a few mailboxes, one of which belonged to the farm we were looking for, but the farm itself was no where in sight.

Farm No. 2 was the lowest priced farm. Our trip to this farm was crammed in during a short two and half hour period before the wedding on Saturday. The farm was in a lovely area of the state. Being south of Spokane, it was buried in the middle of wheat fields with stunning farms and charming small towns with miles of paved highway in between. Driving through all of these great farms lent hope that the farm we were going to see would be something special.

When we got to the small town where Farm No. 2 was located, we couldn’t immediately find the street it was supposed to be on. Having only a short time before heading back to town so we wouldn’t be late for the wedding, we quickly drove around the town's bumpy dirt roads determined not to be thwarted like we were with Farm No. 1.

Finally, we got on the right road only to find that the farm we were looking for sat on the saddest piece of land we’d seen for 35 miles. Instead of rolling hills of wheat, the farm sat at the top of a flood-prone ravine with rickety fences that allowed the bovine occupants of the fields to roam freely.

We encountered an escapee, a black angus, on the road as we drove past the farmhouse to scope out the fifty acres of dubious land that comprised the farm. (This part of the story gets a bit fuzzy. Being as we do not yet have a farm or animals, I haven’t developed the habit of scoping out the private parts of livestock anatomy to note if an animal in my path is male or female. Therefore, based only on the fact that this specimen looked a bit on the feminine side to me – rather than beefy like a steer or bull – I will call it a cow). The cow was perched at the top of a steep slope, causing me to fear that if we scared the poor animal it would fall all the way to the bottom because there was no way to run safely down that hill, even with four feet. And, being me, I also doubted that on a snowy day Joe would safely make it down that hill. This farm was off our list.

The next evening, after the wedding, we were at it again. Racing against the setting sun we pursued Farm No. 3. It was fifty-five miles north of Spokane. The big draw here, at least for me, was how far the comforts of the city stretched out into the farmland. I spotted every necessary store and fast food place a person could want within a forty minute drive from Farm No. 3. This boosted it higher up the list of favorites.


Our challenge this evening was darkness. As we traveled northward the sky became very dark with clouds and we were increasingly afraid that we wouldn’t get to the farm in time to scope it out. It had looked so promising on the MLS and we didn’t want to have to come out again on Sunday, so Joe drove with a little more daring than I liked but he got us there in time to see the lay of the land before the sun disappeared. And yes, what looked promising in pictures was not so in life (internet dating services have known this for forever – us farm hunters are still learning). The buildings pictured were all there, but they were crammed into the small open space the twenty acres afford. All the rest of the acreage was treed. Not heavily treed, but too treed for the pastures full of hay we would need with cattle.


We headed back to the hotel to turn our dusty, insect encrusted car into the valet and carry our dinner of fast food burgers up to our hotel room.
Sunday both Joe and I woke up sick with headcolds, but there were still two farms on our list to drive-by. In addition, we had the long drive back across the state to Seattle to make. We packed up early, bought fast food breakfast sandwiches, downed medicine, and headed into the country. Again it was a great drive.


The scenery was lovely, the day was brilliant and blue skied, the air was perfect – not too hot and not to cold. We felt miserable, but all this going on around us made it easy to overlook.

The closer we got to Farm No. 4 the more excited we became. There were plenty of wide fields of hay and wheat and long vistas of openness that felt absolutely wonderful. When we arrived at the little town that was nearest to the farm, we were really impressed. It was great. It had paved streets for one thing, and there were at least two grocery stores, a cute downtown shopping area and more than one gas station. Hot dang!

On the other side of town, where the farm was, the good stuff didn’t end. We only passed the road we needed once before finding it and the driveway was clearly marked. We were on a roll. When we headed down the long narrow road that led to the farm our first warning that the one we saw in the distance (nice old house, big red barn, great fenced pastures) might not be the right one, was the driveway seemed unused and the farm ahead was clearly in use. We stopped and looked around for another farm.


Remembering that the MLS pictures showed a ‘view’ of sorts I looked up at the hill ahead and saw a broad expanse of yuppie-inspired windows gazing down at us.


Joe figured that was it and wanted to just back down the long drive, but I was not the kind to back down any where and I prevailed. We continued up the winding drive to the top of the hill to find the yuppie-house but no sign of a real farm. And it was the right place, it matched the house pictures perfectly. We looked it over, as it was clearly empty, and then turned the car around and headed back to Spokane.


Farm No. 5 was on the way home, just off I-90 near Moses Lake. With our headcolds increasing in painfulness, we were only sure of one thing: we didn’t want to make this drive again too soon. So we dutifully set out to find the farm when the exit came along.


Stocking up once again at a fast food burger place (no we don’t always eat burgers – we’ve learned to become very adventurous and try other things – like fish sans buns, salads, yogurt and fruit thingys, etc.), we pulled out our less than trusty online map service maps and set out to finding Farm No. 5.

I’m going to make this long story short. One mailbox displaying the right address, miles of slightly rolling farmland and no house in view. The only house we suspected could be it looked derelict even from a distance, and believe me we approached as closely as we thought safe. All of the searching for this farm was done on the inevitable dirt roads.


In the end, Joe’s daughter had a great wedding and we had a nice time visiting with the people at our table. We liked the eastern side of the state as much as the western side, and even though the entire state is available to us now to search for a farm, it is still going to be hard. Who would have thought?

Another Farm Down (9/13/2007)

Well, the farm in the lovely town in Oregon fell through.

I think the hardest thing about this whole effort is the complete thrashing all of our expectations have taken since we started. We didn't count on the real estate market floundering this summer. Our house here hasn't yet sold despite frequent walk-throughs (we were so confident it would be gone within weeks). Then every farm we looked at and contemplated purchasing up and sold within days, leaving the pickings very slim.

Now we are living in the dreaded "Tween" stage: tween house and home, tween retired uselessness and farm-life busyness.

The 'tween' stage is fraught with stress. Our current house must be kept in model mode with certain behaviors absolutely forbidden (no cooking fish, no spreading out paperwork to ponder for a few days, etc.) and at least 90% of our beloved belongings are in storage. Because we are generally only given a 15 minute notice before people arrive to look at the house, we are not even comfortable having company over.

Without a new farm on the horizon, I can't lavish my new-found time on planning a garden space, designing a chicken coop, planning an orchard or pondering how many goats I might fit on the spot Joe will allow me to have. I've been learning about these things, but it's not the same when there's no 'real' space where you can envision your plans happening.

The "tween" stage is heck.

On top of all this, the reality of being 'retired' is hitting. I suspected that motivating myself would be tough, but it's tougher than I suspected. The fact is I feel a bit . . . worthless. I never imagined that.

My house doesn't need me after my initial run-through clean-up every morning, it stays boringly perfect.

My son is off to school via Joe's sacrificial early-rising taxi service and he isn't in much need of me these days even when he's home (high schoolers rarely need their mommy).

I'm bored reading books already, although I still gather them frantically around me for comfort (my library card has taken a beating).

My craft stuff is in storage and I daren't mess up the place doing them anyway.

My desire to write has become smaller the more time I have to indulge it.

I don't like shopping and I don't want to buy more stuff just to move it someday or pack it into storage now.

I'm not an avid movie goer nor a tv watcher.

What I am is truly pathetic.

This started as Joe's dream. It has become our hope of salvation from retirement. I'm looking forward to having goals outside my house again even if that means just outside the back door. Decorating a new place will be great and I have dreamed of taking walks on our new property with incredible longing.

I've been pulling my heart away from our house here for months knowing we will eventually be leaving (and I love this house). I painfully let go of the dream of a beach house when we decided to pursue a farm. And still all of that would be alright if there were a farm home to which I could anchor my heart. I know it sounds rediculous, but this 'tween' state is agonizing.

I'm not losing hair (yet) but it's turning very gray fast. My stomach is not happy about anything I eat.

It's possible we'll be here until next spring when the house market may take a little jump, as it traditionally does, and our house finally sells. More people will be listing places then as well and maybe our farm will finally hit the market. But spring feels like a long time away to continue living in the 'tween' state. Please tell me God is more merciful than that.

Until things begin moving, however we will abstain from fish, excessive holiday decorations, and too many guest to clear out in 15 minutes.

And if I get too bored I'll volunteer some place, even if it's just shelving books at the library. Then I at least won't have to check out so many books to feel comforted.

City - Farm Trauma (9/8/2007)

Is it possible to get Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from shopping for farms? If the dreams I’ve been having lately are any indication, then I think it is. More interesting, there's a weird correlation between city and farm mindsets that make these dreams particularly odd.

For instance I recently read a book about chickens.

Because I know so little about chickens I was fascinated by all the facts of chickendom this book revealed. There are so many types of chickens. Some adorable, some fancy, some weird and some are downright irresistable. And they all looked like they'd had their pictures taken after spending hours at the local feather salon. After carefully studying the pictures of chickens and tucking thoughts about egg-laying, arrested development, and the importance of knowing the color of a chicken's earlobes into my overloaded brain, I fell asleep and dreamed (viola') about chickens.

While chickens are not known to inspire traumatic thoughts, fear and distress pecked their way into my dream anyway. The dream went something like this:

Joe and I were settled on our perfect-peace-at-last farm, but in my dream he was out running errands when the worst happened. Strangers snuck onto our farm intent on making off with my beautiful, true-to-breed, show-worthy chickens (these were like the Prada of chickens). I fought the chicken thieves off (scences played out in black and white - an artistic touch, I think, to show the drama of the moment), but was completely unsuccessful. I felt totally traumatized. Struggling to wakefulness, groggy-eyed and frantic, I could hear those chicken’s desperate squawks as they were carried away. Squawks that later proved to be coming from the crows in my backyard (how could I have mistaken crows for chickens – my unfamiliarity with chickenese, I guess). The image of my perfect chicken-condo empty of the carefully selected, fashion-conscience hens I'd purchased was terrible. Those nasty chicken thieves even stole the eggs from their nests.

Not having learned from that experience, however, I continued to read farm-related material at night. My next book was about cows. It seemed safe. Cows are not a subject that keep people awake at night. In fact, counting farm mammals is often used to help people fall asleep.


In this dream there was a long line of highly desirable heifers for sale (they had the sweetest faces and such curious brown eyes) and I wanted one or two in the worst way. But because the man who owned them was giving away a cow gift basket (full of goodies in the shape of cows) with every purchase, I had to wait in a long line of women who also wanted to buy cows and secure a gift basket. This of course, filled me with a deep fear that there wouldn’t be enough cows for me to buy even one and/or there would not be enough gift baskets left for me if I did. Of course, I woke up before I got to the front of the line. I didn’t get to actually buy a cow nor did I even get a good look at the goodies in the gift baskets.

What makes a normally sane woman dream like this? My mind is mixing city/mall-fears and city/danger fears into farm/animal scenarios. I think I might be suffering from an all new form of PTSD. Some form that might be called, well . . . maybe, PTFS for Post Traumatic Farm Searching.

I’ve been scouring the MLS online again looking for the ‘perfect’ farm, only to be disappointed over how few farms are left to pick from, at least in western Washington. This lack of farmage is causing my desire for lovely feathered chickens and brown-eyed cows to be pushed further and further away from reality. Worse yet, the solid thought that we might be on a farm in time for Autumn, my favorite season, has been dashed into near non-existence. If happy dreams can't be had then I am left with traumatic ones.

In an effort to overcome this situation, Joe and I have expanded our farm search south into western Oregon. While the farms there are lovely, it is hotter there in the summer and I hate heat.

Still, we have found one farm in Oregon that beckons us, but negotiations are proving difficult (more fodder for bad dreams) (sigh). And while the house is charming (a Prairie Square – combo prairie house/American foursquare) there is no barn, no garage, no shop, no greenhouse, no garden space, no orchard, in fact there isn’t much more than 30 of the flattest acres I’ve ever seen planted in hay and the house. Despite the absence of supporting outbuildings or even a fringe of shady trees around the house (most unfarmlike), it is farm. This is true due to the presence of crops.

The small town nearby is lovely and very proud of its place in Oregon history. We loved the town. Huge Victorian houses and tiny charming cottages line the streets. The shops are small and quaint and the Post Office was cool with the ‘old’ post office windows as a backdrop behind the new post office counter. The ma and pa grocery (yes, it really was one – he was at one register and she was at the other) had the best donuts ever and the milk they sold was in glass bottles with cream gathered at the top. The town had a distinct sense of community that outweighed the lack of outbuildings on the farm. Don’t ask how that works, it just did. We made an offer and even a counter offer so far. Now we must wait until Tuesday for a reply to the counter offer. Should be interesting.

My dearest hope is that we can work this out soon so I can get some relief from my rampant PTFS symptoms. Securing a farm will get me back to dreaming of better things. Things like decorating a Prairie Square home (will French country work?) and planning a garden to be located somewhere within the vast confines of 30 flat acres of hay.

Maybe that last one isn’t such a good dream… it has the makings of PTGP, Post Traumatic Garden Planting. Is there no end?

Dreams of Sludge? (8/17/2007)

I've come to the conclusion that following personal dreams is hard work. While I recommend it for everyone, be warned that it's a tough road.

And why not?

Anything worth having is going to be tough to get or else (1) you'd have it already and/or (2) so would everyone else. Dreams are special and therefore not easily obtained.

How does this apply to the move from the city to farm? Well, we're still in the city and not on the farm. The one farm we thought would be wonderful to own has turned out to be something of a potential money pit.

We made our offer and we waited (the topic of my last blog entry) and waited. Finally, it was accepted and we were thrilled to move onto the NEXT step in the process - the inspection. We were so excited just to be on the farm again, Joe and I couldn't sleep the night before the inspection. We were up early and out of the house surprisingly fast. We even arrived on time! When Inspector Josh showed up we were ready.

I had a nifty book to organize all the measurements of each and every room in both of the houses for use in future decorating plans (you would have been so proud of me, Suzy!). My favorite automatic pencil was loaded and primed for work. I strapped on my 30 foot measuring tape and grabbed my spiffy digital camera and was ready to collect detailed information. Joe was going to follow Inspector Josh around and report important facts to me from time to time.

Even though the initial inspection reports filtering in weren't positive (of course, he wasn't going to hunt me down just to tell me everything was great), they weren't unbearably bad. The main house was a mish-mash of small, but doable repairs. Many we had already guessed at.

The guest house, which we thought was the best house during our second visit, proved to be a series of horrific bad reports. Even while I worked to get its room measurements and snap pictures of it, something told me these efforts may prove worthless (and I grieved for my new organizing book because I had used some ink in it).


And, as if that weren't enough we visited two barns, the main barn and a smaller, but important barn and, despite their stupendous appearance, which didn't seem all that inconsistent with other barns we'd seen, they were leaning. Badly. To the degree that Inspector Josh suggested that only a structural engineer would be able to determine how safe they really were, how they could be repaired (if at all) and how much that might cost.

Ugh!

No, let me be completely honest - super Ugh!!!

These difficulties only got worse when we discovered (either by purposeful device of a disgruntled tenant still on the farm or by devine intervention - we haven't decided which) that the guest house was literally swimming in the waste of an overflowing septic system.

Oh man, super yucky Ugh!!

Joe and I were two very heavy hearted potential farmers driving home that afternoon. Our dream of a 40 acre farm in the middle of a huge, lovely farming valley was quickly turning into a mountain of barely useable buildings that would lay waste to our money, energy and dreams.

We had never completely given up looking at other farms in the MLS listings online (was that unfaithful?) and we knew for a fact that there were very slim pickings in available farms. Many of the initial farms we'd looked at had been sold. Others were just too high priced (I found that every farm over a million would have suited me to a T - now if that isn't just my luck).

After over a month of daily effort we are still at square one. Unless we can convince the woman who owns the farm we just inspected to put some money out and fix it up to a habitable state, we aren't getting a farm any time soon.

So, there go my dreams of pygora goats in spring (yes, I said goats - I know I wasn't going to even consider goats after the MA Goat Film debacle, but putting that aside, they are so cute, especially pygoras). To speak nothing of Joe's desire for a field of hereford mama cows and calves (I mean, the farm is his dream after all).

If something truly wonderful in farmdom doesn't show up soon we will be obliged to continue our quest by tromping a muddy trail through possible farms during the winter. This thought inspires an "Ugh" that even I cannot adequately express.

But as we know, following personal dreams is hard work. If Joe wants to tromp a muddy path through the countryside this winter, well then, so will I.

And next time I will save my organizational decorating book until after Inspector Josh is done and wear my knee high sludge boots with heavy socks.

Moo-ving and Redefining Moments (8/7/2007)

Important definitions for this blog entry:

Waiting – long lengths of time consumed in agonizing uncertainty about vitally important life issues.

Sweating bullets – the product of waiting; esp. when sane action is prohibited for insane reasons.

First we made an offer on a farm and then we . . . . waited.

Then we discussed various counter offers and . . . waited.

We sweated bullets, made a second offer and quickly proceeded to . . . wait.

We engaged the services of an attorney in an effort bring order to the issues (now that is an oxymoron) and we are still . . . . waiting and sweating bullets.

To-date we have been waiting for acceptance of our offer on the farm of our choice for the last three weeks. Naively I assumed when I retired from work that life would become stress-free.

How wrong.

Waiting, as defined by this blog and recent events in my life, embraces stress with an enthusiasm that is frightening. And, when the waiting is finally over, I’m highly suspicious that a repair-desperate 40-acre farm will be all ours. A property that can single-handedly overcome any threat of peaceful moments with an abundance of stressful problems (welcome to farming).

On top of all this, I have been punctuating my quiet time with educational reading. My nights have been filled with books about the many and varied aspects of farming: like chickens and eggs. I could tell you some interesting stuff about that pair and let’s not get started on roosters, no sir bob.

And there’s organic and heirloom vegetables which are right up there with gardening techniques. I now know the secrets of organic gardening, much of which centers around seeking out and removing nasty pests with heavily gloved fingers to drown them in a jar of kerosene. Apparently, bugs are not covered by the laws of humane treatment for living creatures. No PETA advocate is going to throw himself in front of me to save a plump grub that is threatening my tomatoes. My guess is vegetarians don’t defend critters that threaten the food they want to eat.

My education didn’t stopped there, however, I watched a film that should have been rated MA for Mature Audiences about goats (of all things) and I know more now about hay, soil, and tractors than I ever dreamed I would. . . yep, I’m very certain of that, I NEVER dreamed I would.

Let’s not forget to mention too, that I’ve even been to a livestock auction. No, we didn’t buy anything. This was an educational field trip. My first face-to-face meeting with the type of critters that will someday surround the house I will call home. This was a dairy and feeder cattle auction (feeder cattle refers to meat cattle – where steaks come from. Since the only ‘feeder’ critter I’d ever encountered before this were “feeder fish” I was concerned and confused by the term “feeder cattle” . . . at first).

In an effort to learn all I could, I watched the ranchers who were buying. These knowledgeable farmers would eye their prospective purchases carefully and then casually reach down to check out a cow’s udders or grab a bull’s . . . well, privates. I was secretly glad that the cattle portion of our farm was not going to be my responsibility. They were selling goats, too, but after watching the MA goat film I wasn’t overly anxious to see them.

Needless to say, life has changed for me. My mind has turned from spreadsheets, financial statements, invoicing and agreements to how to choose the right hens for laying eggs or to eat. How to construct just the right coop, prepare just the right free-range, caged environment for happy hens and how to swap unfertilized eggs from beneath a brooding hen for a batch of purchased and overnight shipped fertilized eggs. And to think I once thought magicians with their fake and swap tricks were good – now I know where they learned their stuff.

I’d like to think that all of this is broadening my mind, deepening my appreciation for life, and opening new venues of interesting metaphor for my soon to be penned novels. But I haven’t thought of writing in weeks, hence, the long length of time since my last blog.



Really, I think the writing cessation is due to two things: the overall farm purchase issues (the waiting and sweating bullets moments) and my frantic need to learn everything I can about farming so I won’t feel desperately out of place after the move from the city to the farm.

The first cow we saw at the livestock auction was agonizingly made to stand in the small sunken corral for about twenty minutes before the auction started. She looked around frantically scoping out the sounds, the smells and the audience. Not recognizing anything she knew, she began to moo. . . loudly, looking for her herd. In the distance, there were responsive moo’s that sounded just as desperate and lost as hers.

I don’t want to be that way. I don’t want to get out on the farm look to my left, look to my right and see no comforting neighbors. I don’t want to find that my cell phone doesn’t have a signal, the stores are appalling far away (and none of them sell Writer’s Digest) and that my questions about where the nearest Starbuck’s is invoke blank stares from fellow farmers.

I don’t want to start longing and moaning about my missing herd. Especially not if the night is as dark and quiet as I’m afraid it will be. Most of all I don’t want to disappoint my dear husband whose dream I’m trying to support.

This last week we visited a John Deere store and he climbed onto a spiffy new tractor (just to try it out). He had that look again. The one that told me he was where he belonged. Later we bought the all important royal trappings: a cowboy hat and farm boots. I know that if I am agonizing over the farm buying issues, he’s doing so ten times more. After all this is his dream. It reaches down into the parts of him that mean the most.

Let’s hope that God, who created chickens and overnight shipped fertilized eggs, can pull off a good fake and swap trick with me between the city and the farm. With luck, no one will ever catch on that I’m out of my element.

A Plague in the Basement (7/20/2007)

Yesterday was a day for the records.

Over our weekend at home (meaning that we didn't spend it driving all over the countryside looking at farms) we scoured every MLS listing for farms in the areas where we are interested in living. Much to our dismay we realized that we had seen, dismissed, or were thinking about all the farms there were to see at this time.

If we weren't going to expand our search to different parts of the state or minimize our needs to include properties previously excluded, the ones we had seen were the ones we would need to chose from. This meant our task for the weekend did not include a new list of farms to drive-by on Monday and view on Tuesday. It meant determining which of the farms we'd already seen that we wanted to see again. With the intent, of course, that we would make an offer on one.

We carefully narrowed the list down to the top three farms, none of which we were truly certain of, but that's what a second visit is about . . . right? Our realtor set up the viewings and on Tuesday we started out for these very important visits with our digital camera in hand so we wouldn't forget important details about these farms.

The first farm was one we'd only driven by before, but all the research we'd done made it look good. The farmhouse was small, but I have begun to wrap my mind around accepting this as normal for a farm. When we visited it we found it to be a cute Dutch Colonial that was very cozy and comfortable inside. The land, however, had too many trees and consisted of rocky soil and rolling hills. It was no longer a contender.

The second farm was the lovely, but needy 40 acre farm we'd visited before. After looking it over thoroughly this time we realized that it wasn't really as bad as we'd first thought. And this time we got inside the second house on the property, a cottage that proved to be very warm and charming. There was work to do, but it didn't look like too much and it was a great property.

The third one was also a great choice. The owner had come back and finished up some unfinished projects and overall the house was looking better than it had before. We had even begun to think that it might be our first choice until we went down into the basement for the last part of our inspection. The first indication that all might not be well was when a tiny two-inch frog happily hopped past us across the basement floor.

Now it had been raining all day, but the frog was inside the house, not outside. My first thought was how one of the seven plagues of Egypt that God sent when Moses was trying to set His people free were frogs. This is a very unfarming, city-fied thought, I admit, but it does give one pause. Well, it gave me pause.

All of us began to wonder where the water was that this little guy had sprung from. While my husband and our realtor busied themselves searching the dark spider-web encrusted corners of the basement (and there were too many), I scanned the basement walls from the safety of the second or third stair up from the froggy floor (give me a break here, there was more than one frog hopping about).

I was surprised to discover that I could see outside around the blocks of the foundation. The grout between many of these blocks was missing. And the wood flooring above us was not completely attached and sealed to the block foundation. There were bands of light showing along the top of the block foundation as well.

Hummmmm . . . . .

A closer look revealed new support beams installed on raised concrete blocks to hold the main beams of the house up. The basement floor was a study of muddy remains pointing to flooding. Flooding that apparently had resulted in the house having to undergo extensive foundation and support beam repairs that were not done well. This sent us all upstairs and with a definitive swipe of the pen, this place was checked off the list of possibles for our future farming happiness.

This left us with the 40 acre farm to which we'd become attached the moment we first saw it (over the past week I have decorated that farmhouse in my dreams too many times to count). An Egyptian plague in a basement had pointed us in the right direction and we like to think of this as devine intervention.

Our offer had to be made for less than the asking price and as of this moment we are praying it is accepted, or at least there will be some negotiation and discussion about what kind of offer will be acceptable.

In the end we know there is every likelihood that we won't be able to meet the asking price for this farm. But we had to try. If by some incredible miracle, some 'nevertheless' moment (see Facing Your Giants - Max Lucado and 2 Samuel 5:6-9) it becomes ours we will certainly be happy. If not, then we tuck the visions this place inspired away, as many other home and farm buyers across the world have done when their first choice became no choice, and wait for the right place to come up for sale. If you think about us over the next couple of days say a prayer - either way it goes we're going to need it.

Turkeys really are TURKEYS! (7/12/2007)

In our search for the perfect, or even reasonable, farm property, my husband and I have visited four prospective farms over the last two days. They ranged in size from 5 acres (which we are now convinced is too small for our needs) to 40 acres (which really looked overwhelmingly big). Each was an experience in itself. I am convinced that each farm, with or without current residents, has a character all its own.

The first farm we visited was 5 acres. The main house was an old farmhouse built in the 1930's. It had been recently updated and gently expanded, yet still maintained its farmhouse appeal. This 'old' farmhouse appeal was at first a negative for me. I am used to well-kept, professionally built, big city houses. To some, this may sound perfect. But over the last two weeks, after having visited and explored farmhouses built from 1907 through the 1940's, I've opened my heart to the possibility that it doesn't take these elements for a house to be perfect. Each of the old farmhouses I've been in were really cozy. I don't mean 'city' cozy - a description sellers use to describe a very small, boxy house - I mean 'home' cozy.

While you might find small weirdnesses in construction in an old farmhouse you are also going to find a previous owner's hopes and dreams paced out across the original wood floors. You will likely stand at a kitchen sink that has been the place for cleaning up after dinner for the past 40 to 60 years. And you will warm yourself by a wood buring stove in the same way members of several generations before you have warmed themselves.

Most importantly you will come to understand that because the part of the farm outside the farmhouse is the part that made living in the farmhouse possible, the barns and outbuildings will likely be larger and better made than the house itself. I've seen barns that are four times the size of the house. I've stood beneath oak trees that are twice the size of the house and looked out over fields that literally swallow the tiny farmhouse in its acres of billowing hay. Living inside was not as important in the past as living outside was. It's a different lifestyle all the way around and I feel it is slowly romancing the adverturesome part of me back into life.

Farmhouses are not the only place where country differences can be found, however. While viewing the outbuildings surrounding the 5 acre house I previously mentioned, we were followed and harrassed by a very large, perfect to the tiniest detail, turkey. The realtor, Kit, had been told that the only animal that we would need to be wary of was not the dog (as I feared) but the turkey. She was of course right. The moment we stepped out of the house to inspect the various barns and coops the turkey came stomping toward us acting like ... well, a real turkey. A simple 'shoo' didn't do the trick in dealing with this persistent beasty and we had to backtrack and change directions often to avoid a sneaky backside attack. Finally, Kit found a bright yellow plastic bat, left we think by a previous victim, in the yard. She waved it at the turkey and the bird finally showed some respect, gobbling at us from a safer distance.

The farm was lovely, if short on acreage. The current farmers had assembled a surprising group of 'farm' animals. Amongst the cow and calf combo and several horses, peacocks and peahens strutted. A pair of black swans rested in the shade of a tree and mallard ducks hurried away from us in a rush of quacks. I liked the chicken coop best. It was an odd-shaped tent-type building filled with delightful clucking. I opened the door to find the prettiest hens I've ever seen this side of farm artwork. White hens with black spots, red hens, black hens, and white hens with liver spots. I decided that I want hens on our farm just like these.

On a previous jaunt visiting farms along the Oregon - Washington border we came across a farm hosting a two-humped camel, a plethora of curious alpacas, and several shy llamas. By far and away the camel was the best. Dark fur ran from the back of his head and journeyed over each hump to end in a tassel at the tip of his tail. The camel's eyes were exactly like the kind drawn in cartoons, huge and lazy-lidded, and he was tall. I remember hearing that camels stink something terrible, but to me this one wasn't any worse than most farm animals.

One of the other farms we visited possessed a farmhouse that had pretty much been ruined. It had been built in 1942 but had been completely renovated with a new facade. It's porches were erased, replaced with a massive, ill-made deck. An attempt had been made to update every room in the house, but none of the work was finished. Doorframes, baseboards and window frames were often missing or incomplete. New windows had been installed but few still had screens attached for pest-free air circulation. The lovely windowed front door refused to open, jammed into place by a modern lock that was clearly too big. There were no doors on any of the closets (maybe this was a blessing as they too might have suffered the jammed-door syndrome) and once solid interior wood doors were replaced with cheap hollow doors that were badly finished in odd shades of wood stain.

Everywhere we turned, 'upgrades' glared like wounds inflicted by a DIY-wannabe madman (my apologies to any really talented DIY-ers who may be reading this). It was just sad. And offered up for purchase at a very high price.

Our last farm adventure this week was a 40 acre farm that must have been glorious in it's heyday. Two houses, one huge and lovely old barn, an ancient-can-I-sell-this-at-the-antique-mall milk house, and all the buildings that accompany a farm where horses are loved, including an indoor riding arena. Sadly all were in terrible disrepair.

Looking at this farm it was easy to understand why some farmers might become unhandy-handymen. While I was grateful that the lovely farmhouse and its accompanying country cottage hadn't succumbed to the mad repairs of the unskilled DIY-er, it would have been kind if someone had at sometime through the years had tried to halt the disintegration of its beauty with some gentle care. Taking on this farm would mean a lot of money and a heart for thoughtful renovation. I loved every inch of it, but our pocketbooks aren't this deep. And let us not forget that we are supposed to be retired. (sigh)

With every visit to another farm the decision about which farm to finally settle on gets more difficult. Should we buy the picture-perfect place with the questionable-if-in-existance-at-all-septic-system; the 17 acre piece with the modern facade and madcap upgrades; the tiny sweet 5 acres with a fat turkey for Thanksgiving; or, the 10 acres with a new farmhouse but no barns and no fences but a view to love and a price tag that might prohibit the purchase of needed equipment?

How does someone find the perfect balance between what the heart wants and what the farmer needs? And trust me, once you know a farm is in your future the heart does get involved. Personally, I don't think anyone can move to a farm without their heart getting involved.

How did this happen? (7/11/2007)

Two weeks ago I was a newly retired woman working with her husband to build a dream home at the beach. We were going to walk the beach every day, I was going to write my great American novel, and he was going to. . . he was going to . . . what?

This was the question that came to me after attending a wonderful conference about 'following your dreams'. I realized that, while I knew what my dreams were, it had been a long time since I'd heard my husband talk about his dreams. It seemed I remembered a farm figuring somewhere in those dreams.

His grandparents were the last of a long line of family who owned a 100 year old Oregon farm in the Willamette Valley. My dear husband, Joe, grew up on and around that farm throughout his youth and into his early adulthood. When his grandparents died the farm couldn't be saved from sale. The taxes were too high. Despite his own deep desire to have it, the farm was gone and so were a lot of his hopes. He'd told me about the farm when we first met 12 years ago. At that time it had been nearly 15 years since it was gone and it still hurt.

Writing was my dream and when I realized that it was a mobile dream - it could happen anywhere - it became important that I understand what Joe's dream was before we were fully committed to building a house at the beach. We had already bought our lot, had it leveled, purchased house plans, picked our contractor, paid for permitting and were on the verge of digging the footings. What if it wasn't what he wanted?

Joe is the kind of man who, upon learning of my dream to write, became my biggest supporter. If I needed something to keep me moving forward he'd help me get it. He is also the kind of man who would sacrifice his own dreams for mine.

It didn't take much prodding to discover that this is exactly what he'd done. Not that he didn't like the idea of living at the beach, but he had begun to doubt if he could be happy there. While I churned with ideas about stories to write, he was feeling a bit desolate at facing a future with nothing more to do than waste time on eBay buying things he didn't really need.

He hadn't purposely misled me. It just hadn't occurred to him until after he'd retired and after the scramble to get our current home ready to sell, that beach life wouldn't give him much to do.

We are relatively young for retiree's (early 50's) and we both like to think there's a lot of life left in us. Now it looked as if beach-bumming wouldn't be the best place for us, especially if it wasn't the best place for him.

After coming home from the conference I asked him about his dreams. Joe still wanted a farm. After many 'talks' we laid out a plan to find out if his dream of having his own farm was real or just a fantasy. That meant visiting some farms for sale and see if the passion for farming was still racing somewhere in his blood.




The moment his feet hit the gravel drive on the first farm we viewed there was a change in him. The property owners had already moved on and Joe walked quickly up the drive to check-out the house. He spotted the barn and couldn't get there fast enough. He carefully gazed over the fields, checked out the fencing and gauged the length and breadth of the land. All the while I sat in the car and let him have the space to feel the strength of his dreams. This choice to exchange our beach plans for farm life had to be his.

When he finally waved me out of the car my eyes were full of tears. For the first time in a long time there was a buzz of life in him that had been missing and I hadn't even noticed it until that moment. There is no doubt that life's light dims when dreams are abandoned.

As of this time we have spend the last two weeks driving hundreds of miles to see farms that interested us, still looking for that special place where his hopes will take root. While he is excited about taking on a farm I am terrified. Being a full-blown city-chick, the demands of farm life are a mystery to me. I am only certain of one thing, I have a lot to learn.

Just translating city lingo to farm talk is challenging - water and sewer lines in the city become wells and septic tanks on a farm. An outbuilding isn't just the garden shed in the backyard, on a farm it can be loafing barns, animal shelters, hay barns, milking barns, chicken coops, dog runs, wood sheds, carriage houses, well houses and any other number of buildings constructed to house farm implements or its inhabitants. Also, unlike my city house, farmhouses are smaller. Cozy is the term I hear often, and they rely heavily on wood stoves for heat in the winter and good screens for air in the summer. Farmhouse sinks don't have garbage disposals if they are hooked up to a septic tank. Fences on farms are often electrified. Barns look ancient and near collapse from the outside but inside they are a marvel of heavy beams that look indestructible.

Farms are a new world for me and this blog is where I will share the experiences of changing from a city chick to a farm chick, if that is possible.