Category: Family

Family

Summer on the farm.

by Modern Farm Wife9 Comments on Summer on the farm.

I’m back.

No, I haven’t been trampled by a cow.  I haven’t moved to a foreign country, joined the circus, or lost both of my thumbs in a tragic accident.

It’s been a little bit of procrastination, a little bit of family tragedy, and a little bit of summer, but I’m back.

Procrastination and summer fever can happen to anyone, but the family tragedy portion of my recent life deserves mentioning. Since mid-April, two of my Dairy Man’s grandparents have passed away. We acutely feel the loss. I’ve wanted to write about our wonderful Grandma F or vivacious Grandpa Z, but I can’t seem to find enough words to describe their love and faith. They were amazing people. I was a lucky girl to even get to know them. We rejoice to know that both are celebrating in glory, but our family parties this summer will be missing some important people. While the loss of our precious grandparents clouds my psyche a bit, the summer soldiers on.

This week has been a “slow” week for my Dairy Man—in a world where 50 hours is slow—and I’ve taken full advantage of the chance to spend time with him before 10 p.m. But, as always in farming, this is the calm before the storm. In a few days, second cutting of hay begins, and it is CRAZINESS. I’m talking tractors and trucks out in fields at 2 a.m. craziness; no showers for a week craziness; meals that consist entirely of things the Dairy Man can eat in one minute or less craziness. I’m not looking forward to it. All I ask, dear hay, is that you wait until after the fourth of July.

So. While I’m still feeling tranquil and full of good humor, I thought this would be a good time to show you what summer looks like on the farm. As someone who gets all tingly about tall buildings and taxi cabs, I never thought I would find the claustrophobic openness of the country to be beautiful. But I stand corrected. I am a human being full of wisdom and growth.

But on to the prettiness.

This is the view from our back deck. Beautiful, right? Even the most fervent city slicker has to admire that big blue sky. I love sitting out here with a glass of Cab and a husband. Even the cat likes it.

Here are the cow dormitories, er, I mean barns. Dor-moo-tories? Anyone? Oh boy, I need to get more sleep. And better jokes.

But not all of our cows live in the barns. The Dairy Man has moved our dry cows (a.k.a. the pregnant cows) out into the pasture.  Surprisingly, they don’t suffer from mood swings or crave chocolate ice cream with pickles, but they do love to sunbathe. And eat. Oh my, do they eat.

As temperatures rise in west Michigan, the Dairy Man spends a lot of time making sure the ladies stay cool and comfortable. Since a beach day is out of the question (we just can’t afford that many flip flops and scuba masks), it’s all about the sand. Each barn has several rows of “free stalls,” which give the cows a cool place to lounge in the sand. So, life as a cow really IS like a day at the beach.


The beautiful weather makes a tramp around the farm on a warm evening nearly irresistible. I even managed to coax a feline companion to join me!

Until he spotted a baby woodchuck to meow at…

…And, after chasing it into a hole in the ground, decided that he would not be joining me for the rest of the stroll. Heaven knows he had an exhausting day at the office, sleeping, eating, chasing bumblebees, and sleeping. A cat needs his rest.

After a long day at work and the proceeding 80 minute drive home, there is something profoundly peaceful about my place in nestled in the hills of dairy country. I still think that skyscrapers and asphalt are sexy, but I’m beginning to love green pastures and blue skies. Besides, we have our own skyscrapers.

Family

Multiplication.

by Modern Farm Wife1 Comment on Multiplication.

A look outside my kitchen window this morning revealed this sight:

If you have been following my blog, you know that I have one cat. Only one. His name is Shadow and he’s my friend.

These two sheepish looking creatures are not my friends. But apparently Cat/Shadow has been socializing around the neighborhood and decided to bring some buddies over for breakfast.

Darn him.

On the upside, these two new cats are skittish and seem to have no desire to dart past my legs into the house every time I walk out the door. I wish I could say the same for a black feline who shall remain nameless. Once, he made it all the way to our living room before I was able to catch him!

So. Apparently math on the dairy works in an exponential fashion. One friendly cat + a bowl of food = three cats. I just hope the three musketeers are content with their clique (and feel no romantic inclination towards each other); otherwise I may find myself spending a fortune on cat food…

Family

Fast food.

by Modern Farm Wife5 Comments on Fast food.

For many, “fast food” evokes images of golden French fries, drive-thru windows, and a frighteningly deranged clown. Though I’m editorializing on that last one; this gal is not a fan of clowns. All that makeup? Creepy. You never know what they’re thinking. But I digress.

But for a farmer’s wife, “fast food” can mean things entirely different.

Fast food means picking up a sub sandwich, driving to the field that the Dairy Man is planting, parking on the side of the road with my flashers on, and waiting until he finishes his row and meets me at the car. From that point on, the Dairy Man has approximately five minutes to stuff his face, ask me about my day, and generally just make sure I feel  loved and remembered before he climbs back into the tractor.

Fast food means thrusting a sandwich and a handful of baby carrots to the Dairy Man over the threshold of our back door (so he doesn’t have to take off his manure-spattered boots) and waving as he runs back to the tractor. The tractor, by the way, is parked in my driveway, lights a’flashin.

Fast food means scarfing down a meal together at the kitchen table in one of the Dairy Man’s brief breaks between loads of hay. Etiquette goes out the window as we rehash our days through gaping mouths full of leftover chicken. If we’re lucky, we will use plates. But sometimes it’s just much easier to eat straight from the tupperware.

Sometimes I dream of leisurely French meals. Six courses, good wine, sparkling conversation, an entire evening dedicated to the art of dining. I would bask in the hors d’oeuvres, delight in the cheese plate, rejoice in the main course. I would use words like “divine,” “glorious,” and “resplendent.” I picture myself wearing some sort of elaborate hat. But alas, when I shake myself free of thoughts filled with truffles and caviar, I am square in rural Michigan. The corn must be planted; the hay must be harvested; and my job is to simply make sure the Dairy Man eats something between lunch and bed. Right now, we live on fast food.

And as long as our fast food doesn’t include a Mc-Anything, I feel ok about that. This season, like most, won’t last forever. For now I will simply work on my speed and agility in meal preparation and wait for a day with plates, napkins, and a beginning, middle, and end.

And that is finger-lickin’ good.

Family

Finding a Home

by Modern Farm Wife23 Comments on Finding a Home

Not every little girl dreams of living in an old farmhouse.

Some little girls dream of wide open lofts, exposed brick walls, floor-to-ceiling windows, sharp edges, chrome fixtures, and stainless steel appliances.

But sometimes that little girl may inadvertently marry a dairy farmer and find herself miles and miles from the nearest high-rise apartment building (and civilization in general).

Unlike many newlyweds, I didn’t have a choice when selecting our house. When you househunt with a dairy farmer, you buy a home that is either 1) on land he wants to own or 2) on a farm he wants to own.  The house is just an add-on, an extra; the real selling point for the farmer is the LAND. This was an impossible concept for me to grasp the first time I set foot in what would become our home.

Our house is many, many years older than I. The upstairs has no heat –apparently people in the olden days just slept under piles of blankets and raced downstairs in the morning to change—and the downstairs has no carpet. Originally the walls boasted wood paneling as far as the eye could see.

My first thought when I stepped into our future home was, “Oh Lord. It would be easier to just tear it down.” The house had been standing vacant for three years and it showed. There was a thin layer of dead bugs on the carpet; the water was yellow and smelled like rotten eggs; the wood paneling made the rooms feel dark and claustrophobic. At the end of the tour, I sat down on the dirty floor and cried. This house was not what I had pictured and I didn’t have the foggiest idea how to make it better. The Dairy Man tried to console me, but I hated this house.

I talked in a previous post about raining on the Dairy Man’s parade. Between you and me, it has happened a lot in these first few months of marriage as I try to adjust to all of the life changes. On the day I was weeping on the floor, lamenting the fact that I would be forced to live in this hellhole, the Dairy Man saw opportunity. He recognized the challenges that this old house posed (like um, hello, our refrigerator is in the wall), but he believed that it could be something great.

We would live in this house because it was ON the dairy. My Dairy Man could walk out the door and go to work. He could keep an eye on the cows and the employees at all times. I would see him more because he didn’t have to drive 10 minutes to the farm if something went wrong. This would be our home.

I couldn’t see any of those things at first. All I could see was the chicken wallpaper in the kitchen and the dark wood paneling. But this was going to be our home whether I liked it or not, so it was time to roll up my sleeves and stop complaining.

Home-ownership has proven to be a lot of work. My list of projects is a mile long and we’re not millionaires, people. But we were fortunate to have family and friends who helped us get things started. I’m so appreciative of all the wretched souls who spent hours at our house scouring bathtubs, scraping off wallpaper, sanding wood trim, painting walls, and making dozens of runs to the hardware store. The house will always be a work in progress, but we’ve come a long way.

This is not a home decorating blog. I don’t want that kind of pressure. We are poor newlyweds living in an old farmhouse. It’s better than it was, but it’s still not worthy of Martha Stewart. That being said, I am proud of the process we’ve made. This old house has come a long way. To prove myself, I wanted to share just a few before/after pictures of the rooms that are presentable.

Back entryway before:

Back entryway after:

Kitchen before:

Kitchen in-progress:

Living room before:

Living room after:

Bedroom before:

Bedroom after:

Little by little, things are getting better. Things are starting to look like “us.” For all its imperfections, the house is full of warmth and full of love.

This place has a long way to go, but I finally feel like I’m home.

Family

Our first planting season.

by Modern Farm Wife7 Comments on Our first planting season.

Early last week the Dairy Man sat me down. He took my hand and said, “Well, it’s been fun. We had a great winter and I’ll always remember the time we spent together. But now it’s time to plant. I’ll see you in a few weeks.”

Yes. Sometimes the Dairy Man likes to be dramatic. But after we had a good chuckle, the basic point was still there. He was kidding, but not really. Spring is here and the busy season is off and running.

I wasn’t really aware that we were ever in a “slow” season, but normalcy for farming starts a lot higher than the rest of the world. 60+ hour work weeks are the norm. Busy season means getting up really early, staying out really late, and working like a madman to get as much done as possible before the rain comes. My Dairy Man, his father, and/or my future brother-in-law have been known to still be in a tractor at 11 p.m. at night.

This is my first planting season and I’m still adjusting. I find myself secretly hoping for rain so that I can see my Dairy Man for a few precious minutes. But it cannot rain. We will lose time, or the corn will get into the ground too late and the whole season will be thrown off.

In this small farming community, it seems like every farmer and his brother is driving some type of machinery down a road or through a field. The town is buzzing with activity. On my drive to and from work, a glance to either side of the road reveals fields speckled with shiny metallic tractors and the air is thick with the scent of … fertilizer.

My Dairy Man and his father farm over 600 acres between our two facilities. Every square inch is planted with corn to be ultimately turned into feed for our cows. I don’t claim to be an expert on the intricacies of planting (just when I was finally getting the whole cow thing down, we started an entirely new aspect of farming!), but I’m trying to learn just what my Dairy Man is doing out in those fields all day.

One night I decided to find out. After work, I changed my clothes, pulled on my rubber boots, and set off to find the Dairy Man. I located him in one of the barns and sweetly coerced my way into a ride-along. We climbed into the big red truck and set off to check on the fields.

This particular night it was his father and future brother-in-law sitting in the tractors. Here is my FIL working the ground.

Conversations with the Dairy Man (and extensive research on Wikipedia) tell me that there are four main stages to planting a field: 1) fertilize, 2) chisel plow, 3) disk, and 4) plant.

Fertilizing is an easy one to understand. We have many cows. Those many cows produce manure. That manure is stored in pits (like the nearly-empty one below) during the winter and spread on the fields in the spring as fertilizer. How very green of us, eh? Though anyone who lives near a farm will tell you–it stinks to high heaven.

This particular night, I was able to witness the disking portion of the planting process. Now, at long last, I know what this spidery thing actually DOES. Step #2, chiseling plowing, involves another piece of machinery to turn the soil. Using a disk harrow (below) finishes the top of the soil for planting. Not exactly a plow pulled by oxen, is it? Modern farming is big, intense, and involves a lot of giant toys. The Dairy Man still spends hours working the land, but his tractor has air conditioning and satellite radio.

Once the land has been properly fertilized, chiseled, and disked, it’s planting time. Within a few short months, this entire field will be bursting with leafy waves of corn.

So, there you have it. Apparently planting corn does not involve throwing handfuls of seeds into an open patch of dirt. Who knew? Though that does explain why I haven’t seen the Dairy Man for more than twenty minutes per day in the past week. It hasn’t been easy being a planting widow, but I know that this craziness won’t last forever. And a long hug in the morning can get me through just about any kind of craziness.

(And yes, I am aware of just how awesome my rubber boots look with shorts.)

Family

That’s just not natural.

by Modern Farm Wife17 Comments on That’s just not natural.

It’s the age-old question: “Tell me, Dairy Man, where do cows come from?”

To find the answer, the Dairy Man forced encouraged me to watch the “Dairy Cow Midwife” episode of Dirty Jobs. Needless to say, my delicate sensibilities will never be the same.

I may be a farm wife, but there are certain aspects to my husband’s job that I don’t want to know anything about. Before that fateful episode of Dirty Jobs, I had some vague ideas about artificial insemination but had always managed to push those disturbing thoughts out of mind. The less I knew the better. I wouldn’t be forced to ask questions I didn’t want the answer to, such as “WHERE does the breeder stick his arm?!?”

The process of birds and bees on a dairy farm is not quite like it used to be. Dairy farms of old had a bull or two running around the farm to turn on the charm and make cow babies.

But in modern dairy farming, this method of reproduction is highly inefficient. Or so the Dairy Man tells me. You can’t control genes, desirable traits, success rates, milk production. Because, of course, we want super-awesome high-producing wonder cows. Bulls are dangerous and modern farming can do better. We don’t want just any Joe Bovine impregnating our ladies.

So, what’s a farmer to do? Buy high-quality sperm for use in artificial insemination of course. Yes. There are entire companies dedicated to the sale of baby-making liquid for cattle. And the Dairy Man wears their hats.

This knowledge is an example of a fact I wish I didn’t know. But alas, one cannot be a dairy farmer’s wife without losing some innocence. I also know where hamburgers come from. Traumatizing, eh? Welcome to my life.

Family

My Shadow.

by Modern Farm Wife6 Comments on My Shadow.

I would be remiss to discuss my life on the farm without mentioning the cat.

Though the Dairy Man long ago dubbed this black ball of fur “Shadow” because he followed me around like a bedraggled puppy, I am just as likely to call him by his original name: “Cat.”

Cat came into our lives when we moved into our first house after getting married. The previous owners mentioned that there was a black cat that occasionally lived in the barn. For the first several weeks, we didn’t see a hair of him. But the Dairy Man saw signs of life near the barn, so he started leaving food out to see if he could coax the feline out of hiding.

To make a long story short, the cat showed up. He started eating our food. And, much to my chagrin, the Dairy Man kept moving his bowl closer and closer to our house. It’s not that I don’t like cats, but once this cat was our friend, he was our friend. He was waiting outside the door to terrify/trip me at 6:30 a.m. when I left for work. He came bounding from the trees whenever my car pulled into the driveway and would follow/trip me up the steps to the house and try to sneak in the door behind me. If I didn’t get out of my car quickly enough, he would sit directly outside the door and meow incessantly. Once he even climbed on to the hood of my car and put his paws on the windshield as if to say, “GET OUT AND FEED ME.” He was constantly annoying me, tripping me, terrifying me, meowing at me, or staring at me. People would tell me, “It’s not a big deal, he’s just being friendly.” But I knew he was evil. Those beady eyes followed my every move. I was a prisoner in my own house. Dairy Man affectionately called him Shadow. I indignantly called him “Dangitcat!”

Then, for no reason other than to distract him from my legs, I started feeding him. I discovered that if there was food in his bowl, he would leave me alone and I could walk to the house in peace. This discovery brought a level of begrudging tolerance to our relationship. I even started making him earn his supper—no food would be poured until he rubbed against my legs to acknowledge his subordinate role and gratitude.

Thus was my fatal mistake. Cat started to like me. I started to like Cat. I vehemently denied this fact to family and friends, but Cat had started to weasel his way into my heart.

A few months after I married the Dairy Man, we moved to a new (our current) house ON the dairy farm. We faced a dilemma: to take the cat or not to take the cat? On one hand, he was 100 percent an outside cat. People saw him all over the neighborhood. This was his turf, his home. We fed him, but he was perfectly able to fend for himself. Would he be happy on the new farm?

We feared he would try to run away from the new house, exposing his furry self to cars, cougars, and getting lost, so we left him. But out of guilt, I kept going back to the old house to feed him. I couldn’t leave him alone. So, one dark night, the Dairy Man catnapped our feline and brought him clawing and squawking to the dairy.

Since then, Cat has adjusted well. He appears to be the leader of a small group of wayward barn kitties and is seen all over the farm, as evidenced below:

Cat by the sliding door (watching us eat dinner):

Cat looking in the kitchen window:

Cat in the barn:

Cat has been here (poor car):

All of his creepiness aside, I’m glad that Shadow and I have worked out our differences. I might even like him just a little bit. But shhh, don’t tell.

Family

Family on the farm.

by Modern Farm Wife1 Comment on Family on the farm.

My family derives a great deal of joy of out my placement in this farming wilderness. The Jess of old would have never set one delicate high-heeled foot into such a place. But this Jess is different. This is the Jess that fell sway to the charms of a sweet dairy man and had to make some big changes. This Jess is different but happy.

That being said, they still get a kick out of seeing me in boots.

They giggle when they think of me stepping in cow pies.

They remember a Jess who was afraid of dirt but not of rush hour traffic. A Jess who would eat any type of sushi but wouldn’t touch a rare steak. A Jess who had big dreams of big cities and was getting out of Michigan as soon as possible.

The tales of my new life provoke delighted laughter. Ironic guffaws. Incredulous snickers. A whole lot of, “I never thought I would see the day …”s. But deep at their cores, my family is happy for me.

And now they also have a farm to play on.

Two weekends ago my parents and sister came up to tour the dairy. It was a beautiful March day and my dairy man was in his element as tour guide. (Though I did have to keep reminding him to give the “kindergarten tour;” not everyone can be as passionate about the details as he!) We saw the parlor, the barns, the steers (young males), the horses, the tractor, the barn cat. For my suburban family, it was a treat. My dad let the cows lick his hands and my mom got her shoes dirty.

Understandably the cows were very curious about these city slickers:

The Dairy Man and I had a great time showing my family around our farm. I may have fabricated some of the details in my portion of the tour, but at least I now have the vernacular to SEEM knowledgeable.

Those city folk didn’t know the difference.

Family

On parade.

by Modern Farm Wife4 Comments on On parade.

Texts between a Dairy Man and his wife:

MFW (6:42 am): I just passed five tractors in a row driving down Main Street. What’s going on?

DM (6:44 am): Oh yeah. It’s “drive your tractor to school day.” Totally normal.

*no response*

DM (6:55 am): Carhartt sponsors it at the local high school. They do it every year.

MFW (6:57 am): What kind of a crazy place do I live in?!?

Family

What’s cookin’?

by Modern Farm Wife8 Comments on What’s cookin’?

This is an understatement every time I use the phrase, but I am not a “typical” farmer’s wife.

One of the ways that I’m atypical—at least if we’re talking about stereotypes—is that I have little to no cooking ability. Literally; it’s sad sometimes. The Dairy Man taught me how to make scrambled eggs. Before we were married I ate a steady diet of grilled cheese, macaroni, Hamburger Helper, bagels, and baby carrots (for health purposes, of course).

When we got married, it was a proverbial game of chicken to see which one of us would do the cooking. We have equal levels of cooking ability, but unfortunately I also have more time on my hands. I get home at 6:30/7 and he gets home at 8/9. Tragically, the task of preparing dinner falls to he/she who sets foot in the house first.

So that’s how I starting doing the cooking.

The Dairy Man and I have been married for seven months and have survived happily on tacos and Bertoli or P.F. Chang frozen dinners. As the one who lost our cooking game of chicken, I’m thankful for this. When I get home from my 80 minute commute, I’m tired, cranky, and agitated (from the road rage; but that’s another story). The last thing in the world I feel like doing is learning how to cook. I face three hurdles:

  1. I have zero natural ability for cooking. It takes me forever to make something because I have to stop to Google words like “mince” or “sauté.” I have to read the recipe with a fine tooth comb or I might accidentally make 10 lbs. of shredded chicken because the recipe called for six chicken breast HALVES, not six chicken breasts (not that I’m speaking from experience…).
  2. Whenever I want to make something that isn’t from a box, I have to stop at the store on the way home because we NEVER have any of the ingredients I need (and then it takes me 20 minutes and two grocery store employees to find red pepper flakes).
  3. Thanks to my work to home distance, it’s impossible for me to get home before 6:30. Throw in a trip to the store, prep time, and the time it takes for something to actually cook and it’s almost my bedtime (10).

These reasons explain why I haven’t picked up a pork chop in seven months of adult living. But. Those Bertoli dinners are all starting to taste the same. Dinner is always something rushed, something edible but not delicious. Say what you will about feminism and resisting conformity, but I’m starting to feel like a bad wife. Not because the woman should do the cooking, but because this woman just happens to have more time than her Dairy Man. And shhh, don’t tell: I am sick of frozen dinners.

The best way to learn is to do. So I’m going to start doing. My attempts may be an affront to all things edible, but I have to start somewhere.

Last night I started with pineapple glazed pork chops with brown rice and asparagus. It was invigorating. The Dairy Man was thrilled and I was puffed up with pride. Though yes, I did have to Google “how do you know when a pork chop is done?”