Where dreams and dairy cows coincide

16 May

My childhood was immersed in stories.

I read veraciously. I wrote obsessively. I actually got in trouble for reading too much (when I was supposed to be bathing, when I was supposed to be getting dressed, when I was supposed to be sleeping). Super nerdy. As I added facts, literary devices, and vocabulary words to my holster, I began to write my own stories. I wanted to write a novel, become a foreign journalist, publish poems.

When I went to college, I had big dreams of the city, journalism, and power suits. I knew the pickings were slim for jobs in my creative field, so I planned to move far, far away. But then I met a handsome farmer. We moved to the country. Our lives unblinkingly surged in another direction. The longer I was on the farm, the more my dreams became entangled in my husband’s dreams. These new dreams weren’t better or worse, they were just different.

I think I was always in danger of becoming complacent.

I worked through my issues with cows, country, and the lack of Chicago (my marriage depended on it). I found the strength to support my husband’s dreams, often above my own. I teetered on the edge of martyrdom, but I managed to find happiness in my new home. I dealt with the transitions much more gracefully than anyone expected I would.

But something inside of me cooled. The passionate, wild, idealistic dreams of my post-college months succumbed to “realistic” dreams that would put food on the table and give me a modicum of self-respect. I found a job with people I liked. I learned to cook, loved on my dog, and fixed up our old farmhouse. I knew that my creativity was most likely going to be used on my own time, so I started a blog.

It was almost enough.

I still felt twinges of loss—the growing pains of new dreams—but I was happy. I knew that dreams change, twist, evolve, and even disappear over the course of a life and there was nothing wrong with that.

This all changed when I heard about an amazing job in our small town. It was the kind of job I dreamed of as a young college grad, full of writing, graphic design, social media, and zeal. It was the kind of job I could see myself growing into for the rest of my career.

So I applied. Somehow, I got it. After only seven months in my current job, I am moving on again.

If there is one thing I’ve learned from the dairy man and his farming family, life’s greatest riches come to the risk-takers. Very few people have the world dropped into their lap. Ultimately, every dream requires a dangerous first step … and hundreds of difficult steps after that. My father-in-law milked every day for seven years when he started the dairy. That’s every single day; twice a day; no weekends, holidays, or vacations. For S-E-V-E-N years. He made profound sacrifices that would one day lead to a booming, successful business. He risked everything he had. It would have been impossible to predict success or failure, but his dream sustained him.

As the wife of a dreamer, I’ve had to find peace in the truth that we will have to take risks to achieve my dairy man’s dreams. Businesses don’t grow without sacrifice (time, money, relationships); career aspirations aren’t realized without leaps of faith; passions are not satisfied without following a dream.

Farm life has taught me flexibility. God has shown me that the best-laid plans are subject to his will. Life happens, love happens, cows happen. At the end of the day, however, I know that the farming man who is brimming over with vocational passion will rejoice that I have found mine. We celebrate each other’s dreams.

I’m excited to start this new chapter of my career, but I’m also terrified. I thought this particular dream had fizzled. I accepted it. I felt God’s gentle nudging in a new direction. I clung to the best parts of myself, but I also acknowledged that I needed to evolve. I wasn’t willing to live a lifetime of dissatisfaction by doggedly clinging to old dreams, so I made new ones.

But this new dream is better than I could have imagined. I can feed the long-forgotten creative corners of my soul and still live in our small town, take long walks down dirt roads, and support my dairy man.

No matter which direction life takes us, we dream on.

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Time alone in wide open spaces

9 May

As planting season gets underway, I find myself with an abundance of free time. While the dairy man spends every waking hour tilling and planting, I am getting (re)used to being alone.

This alone time often falls victim to things like naps, Facebooking, and Mad Men marathons, but I’ve been trying to spend more time taking long walks with the pups. Without any reason to rush home (i.e. no one is waiting for dinner), we’re free to journey further and further from the dairy.

Out here, there are no sidewalks.

There is no pavement.

We leave the dairy behind and set out into the deep country.

Jersey and I wander down dirt roads and disappear into an overhanging canopy of trees.

Tire tracks let us know that others have traveled the road before, but we don’t see a soul.

I would enjoy the walks more with company. Having the sturdy dairy man by my side would certainly dispel the occasional “I’m going to get murdered” feeling that comes from such rural isolation. But the wilderness is peaceful. I am alone with my pup, my thoughts, and the rustling of a gentle breeze through the leaves.

The silence is deafening. My soul craves it. Somehow these rolling hills and the wafting scent of manure stun me. I live in a beautiful place.

Things are only going to get crazier this spring + summer + fall, but I’m no longer a complete novice to this country life. The dairy man will get in when he gets in; we might eat tacos at 9:45 p.m. or Subway on the side of the road; I will have to relearn how to be alone. But I can’t help but feel so very blessed.

And you can’t beat the view.

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I’m sorry I compared my dog to your baby.

4 May

This topic has been a long time coming. We need to talk about it. It’s part of my therapy. This is for all of the people who roll their eyes at me and say, “Oh gosh, you’re becoming one of those people.”

Hello, my name is Jessica, and I am just a leeeettle too attached to my puppy.

If we all think back, I didn’t want a dog. During the days of commuting and zero free time, it was hard enough to keep the dairy man and I fed, clothed, and alive. Why add anything else to the mix? But the dairy man wanted a furry best friend to chase cows.

So, on DM’s birthday, we welcomed a border collie pipsqueak into our lives.

Jersey was supposed to live in the kitchen for a few months and then move outside to become a farm dog. But, well, I fell in love.

The girl who was terrified of animals (yes, the girl who lives on a farm) slowly, inexplicably turned into a dog person. I read books about dog training; I started following dog blogs; I fed the pup far too many treats; I left insane schedules for my brother and sister when they dogsat.

As if this outlandish testament to my OCD pup-love isn’t enough, I’ve compiled a list of 10 reasons why I’m a crazy dog person. Please don’t judge me.

  1. I compare my puppy to my friends’ children. Seriously. The words “oh, Jersey did the same thing yesterda…,” have slipped past my lips before I could stop them. I know babies are different than dogs, I do. Humans, dogs, I get it. But I can’t help myself.
  1. It’s impossible for me to serve dinner without at least one dog hair sneaking in. I know it’s gross. I’m sorry.
  1. I kiss my dog. Before I leave for work in the morning, when I get home, before he goes to bed, when I’m overcome with love for the little guy … you get the idea.
  1. We are Mom and Dad. My parents are Grandma and Grandpa. My dad calls Jersey his grandpup. Despite the dairy man’s pleas that “He’s just a dog!.” this dog is a member of the family.
  1. I leave the TV on all day when the pup is home alone because I can’t stand the thought of him getting bored or lonely. As if he really wants to watch Judge Judy or Passions. On the upside, he is getting very good at trivia thanks to Who Wants to Be A Millionaire.
  1. There are more pictures of my dog than myself on Facebook. He even gets his own album. 90% of my mobile uploads are of the dog. My brain can’t comprehend that there are people who might not find the artsy close-up of my pup’s furry face to be the most adorable thing they’ve ever seen.
  1. When I talk to him, I expect answers. In English. In the dairy man’s frequent absences, the dog is my closet confidant.
  1. When the dairy man and I go away for the weekend, no well-intentioned friend or family member will do for our dogsitting needs. Jersey goes to Whiskers Resort & Pet Spa. He gets his own suite, complete with bed, TV, and a unique theme. He goes to playgroup. He gets a bath, blowout, and a haircut. I’m quite certain he’s the only farm dog that has been to a spa.
  1. In preparation for a certain pup’s first birthday (May 7!), I’ve spent a good amount of time researching pupcake recipes on Pinterest.
  1. I let the dog lick me on the mouth even though I know that HE EATS MANURE ALL DAY LONG (!!). Something is wrong with me.

I could go on, but I’ll try to cling to the shred of dignity I’ve retained. At least I don’t dress the little guy! Though these would be perfect for our future spawn (or, as you could probably guess after #4, Jersey’s future “brother” or “sister”).

I have to laugh at how things have changed. I’m teetering on the edge of crazytown, but I think I manage to walk the line. Jersey the dog is a part of our family.

I may be “one of those people,” but I love this ball of fur. Though if you ever see him wearing a stylish tweed blazer and a tie, please get me some help. Woof.

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When it reeks to high heaven…

11 Apr

Marrying a dairy man has inexplicably changed my vernacular, my vocabulary, and the stories I relay without a second thought. I am often shocked at the things that come out of my mouth. Seconds after nonchalantly finishing a sentence with, “…and that’s how the cow broke out of the barn,” I realize, with startling clarity, that I am slowly becoming desensitized to the things city slickers find abnormal.

I chat about feed prices. I regale mildly interested coworkers with tales of mischievous cattle. I utter words like “artificial insemination,” “TMR,” and “manure” without skipping a beat. It’s shocking. Half the time I don’t even realize I’m talking about something counter-Jess until I’m around a friend who knew me before I moved to the country. Their look of horror/shock/confusion provokes a moment of self reflection—“Um, how the heck do I know that!?”

I hope to cling to my urban roots for as long as I can. I don’t want to lose my knowledge of the Chicago subway system or how to be an aggressive city driver, but as I spend more time out here, it’s inevitable that I will slowly morph more deeply into my role as a farmer’s wife.

This brings me to something I never EVER thought I would be discussing: cow poop. Or, for those with more delicate sensibilities, manure.

These are the facts: We have cows. Cows eat food. As with all animals, food has to be digested and then *ahem* disposed of. Our hundreds of bovine ladies spend a good majority of their day engaged in this disposal process. When the girls are in the milking parlor doing their thing, our employees drive a skidster (small loader) through the barn and push the latest offerings out into a manure pit.

Our dairy has several small pits. Please do not confuse them for ponds or reflecting pools. Not even the ducks would make that mistake.

The dairy man’s father’s dairy (also known as the home dairy) has a massively ginormous pit.

This baby is the size of a soccer stadium and can hold FOUR MILLION gallons of manure. Back in 2008, it was a thrilling addition to the farm.

Each winter, the cavernous pit fills to the brim. In the spring,  we (as always, “we” is a loose pronoun) spend a couple of frenzied weeks emptying it out.

Typically our manure hauling just involves a pit, a pump, and a tractor. But during the weeks I’ve dubbed “Manure Mania,” we actually bring in trucks to expedite the hauling process. This allows us to haul a greater quantity of the smelly stuff in a shorter period of time (because, after all, five trucks can drive much faster than one tractor). The dairy man hauls manure throughout the year, but there are only a couple of weeks in which we actually try to empty out the pits.

During the mania of manure, there are four steps.

1: Pump the manure from the pits using a tractor.

2: Fill a truck and drive it to one of our fields (we’ve only got 1100 acres to choose from – oy vey).

3: Pump stinky liquid from truck to manure spreader.

4: Drive the tractor through the field spreading a delightful fairy dust of … poo.

Rather than simply throw manure on the fields, we inject. Oh yes. A futuristic little contraption on the back of the manure spreader injects the organic fertilizer directly into the soil.

This process not only cuts down on the odor, but it injects nutrients directly into the soil, creating an optimum environment for our future corn babies.

Waste not, want not. The cows are making it and our crops will love it.

Now I just have to resist the urge to whip out this information at dinner parties.

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Social prowess, a diasporia, and awkward friend-dates

28 Mar

I feel that I am getting more socially awkward in my old age.

In this case, “old age” refers to the period of life after college. Something shifted the day my peers and I donned cap and gown to cross the fine line from student to adulthood. Sure, a few of a few of us got a slow start. Some stuck around that summer to finish up their last few credits. Others (like me) moved in with our parents to wage war with Michigan’s job market. Many of us stayed close to Grand Rapids, close to our home base. But in the years that followed, people moved away, went to grad school, got married, had babies. The inevitable diaspora could not be put off any longer.

And with this diaspora, my social skills began to wane. Now, I was communicating with my closest friends over email, phone, Skype. The effortless friendships of college, fueled by proximity, common interests, and a mutual love of Ernest Hemingway, were no more. I could no longer fall into late nights contemplating the mysteries of the male gender, big glasses of red wine shared on the back porch, spontaneous trips to the beach, to Chicago, to anywhere.

Suddenly, friendships required maintenance and effort.

After landing my first real job, I moved into a teeny studio apartment in Grand Rapids. I was mere steps away from restaurants, bars, theaters, concert halls, and the remaining post-college young adult population. It was more difficult to sustain a social life, but it was not impossible. All I had to do was force myself to put on a pair of heels and thrust those heels out into the world.

But then I married the dairy man and moved to the country. Life got better, but it also got different. On the weekends, the 1.5 hour drive to the city (and to my friends) was a nearly insurmountable barrier. There was nothing I wanted to do less on my days off than get back into the car and it’s not always easy to coerce friends up to your farm. Thus, my social life quieted down.

I won’t say that it was an easy transition. Though I comfortably settled in to weekend nights home alone with the dog (perhaps a little too comfortably), I was painfully aware that my finely tuned social capabilities were out of shape. I would often walk away from conversations at church thinking, “What the HECK was I talking about? I shouldn’t be allowed to talk to people. Yikes.”

At first, I refused to make friends in our small town. I think I still felt a twinge of resentment that I was being forced to move away from my sushi-loving, city-water-drinking, friends. I generalized, judged, and overlooked the people around me. I watched too many episodes of The Beverly Hillbillies. Believe it or not, living in the country does not make you a gap-toothed, moonshine-drinking, overall-clad, hill person. The more I looked around, the more I realized that there were a lot of people like me. I somehow fell into a group of fiercely smart, strong, and hilarious women.

It wasn’t as effortless as college. I vividly remember asking one of the girls, whom I barely knew at the time, out for dinner. A “friend-date,” if you will. I must have tried on five different outfits. The dairy man thought I was crazy. During dinner, my head was filled with a litany of thoughts usually reserved for first dates: “Do I have food in my teeth?” “Am I talking too much?” “Is she having fun?” “Am I having fun?” “Is still really going to call me?”

It was ridiculous. Thankfully, a few months later, she confessed to the same insane thoughts during that first dinner. This is what happens when adults try to make new friends. Sheesh. It’s difficult, uncomfortable, and there’s no guarantee it’s going to work out.

I’m happy to report that the friend date (and those that followed) went well. Despite my adult social failings, I’ve made friends in this town. I miss my old haunts and college cohorts, but somehow a social life has sprung up in the boondocks. It gets harder in adulthood, but you just have to shake off the awkwardness.

The dairy man and I know wonderful people. We do fun things. And I even find time to discuss British literature every once and a while.

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Those lazy-hazy-crazy days of … March!?

22 Mar

Oh hey, in case you haven’t heard, the weather in Michigan is going crazy.

This was the temperature two days ago, on MARCH 19. This was only at 12 noon. It went up from there. To 85 degrees.

March, a month that usually brings light snow flurries, gradual warming (to the 40s/50s), and the fleeting promise of spring has plopped us smack into summer.

For the past week, temperatures have been in the 70s and 80s. Wednesday’s high was one the warmest ever recorded in West Michigan in the month of March. Phew.

Even though a small part of me feels like the world is going to end in a apocalyptic ball of global warming, I have emerged from a long winter hibernation desperate to soak up as much “summer” as humanly possible. The hammock is out, my skin is rosy (from a long nap taken in aforementioned hammock), and all of our meals take place on the deck. From this vantage point, it’s easy to see that everything is turning green.

I know that this is wrong, wrong, wrong. This can’t last. Something in the universe has gotten out of whack and we’ll probably get a blizzard in the middle of June. I half expect to see a plague of locusts or frogs spring forth from the earth.

The cows are confused. Most of our girls haven’t even shed their fluffy winter fur yet. They are hot and bothered, but fortunately the dairy man turned on our big fans to cool things down. There was talk of a frozen daiquiri bar, but dairy man wants to try the fans first.

The heat wave has also allowed us to get a jump start on Manure Mania 2012. Bum bum bum. The dairy man doesn’t call it that, but I added a name to the annual process to lend some drama and flair. I’ll provide more details on this odorous undertaking in a future post, but all you need to know at this point is that warm weather = manure spreading. All day, every day. Our two orange tractors work the pavement from dawn till dusk. Pit to field, pit to field, pit to field. The goal? To empty our manure pits before the real craziness of spring starts.

We’re not the only ones. Dozens of farmers’ tractors are motoring around the countryside and the scent of spring is upon us. The dairy man says it smells like success. I say it smells like, well… poo. Agree to disagree.

I know the summer-March won’t last forever. The earth will figure this out and I’ll go back to light sweaters and boots. But until then, we will haul, cool the cows, and spend time outside with the pups.

I just hope we can get him back inside.

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Eat, drink, and give milk.

12 Mar

The dairy man and I aren’t diet fanatics, but we do pay attention to what we eat. Fruits and veggies are a must. Processed foods are limited. French fries, soda, and candy are seldom (though all bets are off during jellybean season). A balanced diet is very important.

Cows aren’t entirely different. My dairy man pays close attention to the diet of our bovine ladies to make sure that they stay healthy, happy, and high on the milk producing charts.

Before I moved to a dairy, I thought all farm animals ate …well… hay. That’s the iconic mental picture, right? In the far off, seldom-used corner of our brains entitled “what happens on a farm,” we see an overall-clad farmer, chewing a stalk of wheat, and heaving hay into a trough with a pitchfork. At least that’s what I thought.

But the process of feeding dairy cows is infinitely more complex than that. Dairy farmers have to be part nutritionist, part scientist, and part ecologist in order to properly feed the herd. On our dairy, we feed the cows something called a Total Mix Ration, or TMR. This TMR is comprised of several different commodities (found below).

Our cows are fed once a day, typically after their first milking. While the ladies are in the parlor doing their thing, one of our employees hops into the tractor and pulls the mixer wagon (the dapper blue apparatus) to the commodities shed.

This is our commodities shed.

Each section holds a different tasty element of our cows’ feed. Think of it as the cow salad bar. Each component of the feed is mixed together into a carefully constructed ration inside the mixer wagon. This wagon is essentially a KitchenAid mixer on wheels. It doesn’t come in a plethora of pretty colors, but it gets the job done.

The metal blades spin as the ingredients are added and blend them together. In addition to hay and corn silage, our TMR contains…

Corn gluten:

Soy hulls:

Soy plus:

Ground corn:

Canola:

Once dinner is prepared, the tractor drives through the barns and deposits the food into the feed bunks (which, as far as I can determine, is just what we call the space on the floor directly in front of the cows).

Each ingredient in our TMR plays a different role in growing healthy cows. Just like people, cows need the right amounts of proteins, starches, and carbs. Despite the deliciousness, we can’t eat a diet of pizza and Whoppers. And cows can’t eat a diet of just corn, or just hay. Our ladies need a balanced diet with the proper nutrient structure.

But the cows don’t exhaust themselves thinking about nutrition. They trust us. Eating is just a favorite activity, right up there with napping, socializing, and chewing cud.

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