Family Farm Friday #100: The Boys on the Farm

A while back our friend D. Felger Photography came out to take photos of rams for us.  While she was there, she got some pictures of the boys being boys.  The humans and the ram, Forrest.

(And yes, if you are wondering...the ram chasing my brother is the same one loving on my kid.  He's a good judge of character, that one!)

If you're needing a photographer--whether for livestock or people--D. Felger Photography is absolutely phenomenal!

Family Farm Friday #98: Fourth Generation

Almost 60 years ago, my grandparents bought a farm.  They spent money.  They spent time.  They made sacrifices.  They irrigated, plowed, and fed sheep and cows.  They planted our tree row, got our lambing barn, and raised their children.

When my grandfather died at 45, leaving behind my grandmother and two teenage sons, everyone told her to sell the farm and move to town.  A single, working mother trying to raise boys simply could not manage a farm.  But they didn't know my grandmother.  She stayed put and went to work.

My dad took up the baton for the second generation.  He gave up a lot in order to keep the farm going. He never go to play sports in high school.  He did not get the chance to spend summers bouncing from basketball camp to State 4-H to Washington, DC.  He did not have the ability to go on post-college trips to Costa Rica or Italy.  He stayed home and worked his ass off to be sure that farm continued.  He was overlooked for promotions at work because he was simply not willing to leave home.

When he married my mom, she was drug right into the fun as well.  She talks about how she gave up a teaching job on the California coast to become a farmer's wife in New Mexico.  And after years of making lamb bottles and plugging holes with the pick up when we're moving cows and making sure every breathing creature on the place has clean water and (more than) enough to eat, I think she'd tell you it's been better than California.  Most days, anyway.

When my brother and I were children, we were quickly brought into the farm business.  My Gran taught us to write checks.  She taught us never to put up land as collateral for a loan.  My parents talked to us about the struggles of having jobs in town to help support the farm.  We knew what it meant when it did not rain and a crop did not make.  We understood what was lost when a ewe or a cow died.  And, maybe most importantly, we understood the importance of that farm.  The land, it's story, well...it's in our blood.

The Boy from Texas jumped right in.  Fortunately for me, he had his own farm background.  He has become quite the sheep expert in the time we have been together.  He's worked on balers and helped sort ewes and branded calves.  He happily posed for wedding pictures in a wheat field.  He understands the importance of the farm to me and over the last few years has developed similar feelings himself.

And now, the fourth generation has set foot on that same soil.  He doesn't know the history of the place yet.  He's not driven a tractor or gotten a lesson on docking lamb tails.  He doesn't realize that the dirt he plays in is the same that his great grandfather plowed, and his grandfather sowed wheat and his mom ran a swather.

But one day, if we do anything right at all, he will.  This land will be in his blood too.  And maybe one day, it will be the fifth generation sitting in the middle of a wheat field wearing baby Carhartts.

Family Farm Friday #96: Roadtrip to Iowa

My dad has been asking about when I'd blog about our adventure for months.  Here's hoping I don't let him down.

We needed a new Dorset ram.  Our current go-to is a great fella named White Lightning, who we've had for about 6 or 7 years.  He came from Iowa, the result of a road trip my dad and little brother took together.  And he did exactly what we bought him for--raised champions.  But, alsas, White Lightning is starting to show his age, and it was about time to find his successor.  So, when The Boy from Texas, my dad, and I had the chance to load up in the pick up for a 14 hour road trip (one way) in search of the successor, you better believe I was all in.

The Boy from Texas drove the entire way there and back.  At first, I think he was just trying to be nice.  Later on, I think he wanted the badge of honor to use in future arguments about who should clean the floors or take out the trash.  "I mean, I could do that, but I did drive 28 hours to Iowa."

For the record, he was not texting and driving, we were just pulling out of the drive.

 One thing I'll say about The Boy from Texas, is that he's up for anything.  I guarantee you had you told him before he met me that he'd go on a 28 hour trip to look at sheep, he would have told you he was crazy.  But for this one, he studied up pictures on websites before we left and got right in the middle of things when we arrived.  He's all in, that husband of mine.

We went by two different sheep farms while we were there and, as always, we enjoyed the chance to look at the livestock, meet the people, and see how farming is done differently in another part of hte country.

We ended up back at the same farm where White Lightning came from those years ago.  The owners are a middle aged man and his 94 year old father, Roger.  I'd heard stories for years from my dad and brother about Roger, so I was excited to meet this guy.  He didn't disappoint.  He was sharp as a tack, funny, really interested in "life out west" and reported that this year--when his son had a bum knee--he sheared the flock himself.  At 94.  They don't make 'em like Rog anymore.

After lots of analyzing, looking, thinking, figuring, we selected the ram that we would bring home. And we promptly loaded him up in the cage.  At least we thought it was him.  While my dad was writing the check and The Boy from Texas was organizing things in the truck, I caught a glimpse of the eartag and realized the owner had loaded the wrong ram.  That could have been a major mistake had we not caught it until we made it back to New Mexico some 14 hours later!

The correct ram ready to roll.

When we got home and I thought about what I had learned on the trip, there was one thing that kept coming to my mind.  The entire drive, my dad continually commented on the beauty of the area we were driving through.  Fields of canola in Oklahoma, rolling hills and rock fences in Kansas, black cows, freshly planted corn fields in Iowa, pouring rain.....he enjoyed seeing it all.  He wasn't focused on how much farther we had to go.  He wasn't preoccupied with a cell phone or the radio.  He was content to just look out the window and see the beauty passing by.  I've traveled the world, he's never left the US...but I'm not sure I see, really see, anything as well as my father.  He's got a gift.

Let's hope his ability to see translates to picking rams too.  We're breeding the new guy for the first time this year, his lambs should be on the ground starting in December or January.

Oh yea, the new ram's name?

Rog.

Family Farm Friday # 95: The Value of the Land

"Once you have lived on the land, been a partner with its moods, secrets, and seasons, you cannot leave. This living land remembers, touching you in unguarded moments, saying, "I am here. You are part of me." ~The Land Remembers

I've had some interesting conversations of late about the value of farm and ranch land.  You know, appraisals and stocking rates and profit margins.  All of that grown up, men in suits, business stuff.

And at the end of the day, it makes me just shake my head.  Don't get me wrong, ability to pay your bills is quite important.  But for those of us who have been fortunate enough to grow up on family farms and ranches, the value of that land we call home is so much more.

If someone were to look at our family's farm and try to put an appraised value on it, they would have no idea.

They wouldn't understand that the value of that land includes blood, sweat, and tears poured into that dirt for decades by three generations...The Baby from Texas will make four.  The banker wouldn't know that every tree, every fence, and every ditch has a story.  He never saw my grandpa planting a windbreak with his two young sons.  He doesn't know about the time my 7 year old cousin assured my dad she could drive the pick up home and crashed it into the middle section gate.  He's never heard kids screech with joy while swimming up and down an irrigation ditch while their parents set tubes. He doesn't know that my mom's bum knee occurred when a horse reared up and over on her in the lot in front of the barn or that my crooked finger came about helping my Gran move milk crates, or that my brother's discolored tooth occurred because of an unfortunate bike mechanic incident.  Other people don't have memories of feeding ducks in the pond or taking wedding pictures in a wheat field or spending the afternoon riding horses for hours.

From the outside, land looks like most any other.  You don't know the lessons it's taught.  The importance of family.  Horsemanship.  How to balance a checkbook.  Independence.  How to drive a tractor.  Work ethic.  How to pull twin lambs that are coming backwards and upside down.  The true meaning of the word sacrifice.

I wonder, sometimes, what my grandparents would think about the place now.  Was this what they envisioned when they started out almost 60 years ago?  I'd like to think so.  I'd like to think that it wasn't the profit potential, but the idea of their kids and grandkids and soon to be first great grandkid understanding the value of the land might have been what they were after all along.

Family Farm Friday #94: Dad's Rain Dance

“From where we stand the rain seems random. If we could stand somewhere else, we would see the order in it.”  ~Tony Hillerman

You might remember this blog I wrote in the midst of a multi-year drought about having faith that the rain gauge would fill up one day.  I have always seen empty rain gauges during rough times as a sign of hope and faith that one day, the rain will come again, as improbable as it may seem at times.

I am happy to report that currently, we are having one of the wettest years that I can remember back home on the ranch.  Grass is green.  Hay is growing.  Livestock is full.  Everyone is happy.

How much rain have we gotten, you ask?  Couldn't tell you.  We don't have a rain gauge up.

Every winter, my dad turns the rain gauge upside down because when it freezes, it will break the gauge and you don't measure snowfall with the gauge anyway.  So you leave the gauge upside down until Spring when you flip it over and start counting the rain drops. Except my dad decided not to do that then. Now, three months after that first rain, he still hasn't done it.

When we call for rain reports we get one of two answers.  "There are big puddles in the driveway" or "The neighbor says he got an inch twenty."  The Boy from Texas asked me why my dad didn't just go look at the rain gauge.  I knew the answer.  It's the same reason he wore the same shirt holes and all to every pig show for 8 years after we won our first banner.  My father is incredibly superstitious.

He has convinced himself that if he walks out to the fence and flips that rain gauge, the rain might stop coming.  Logical?  No. But he comes by it naturally.  My Gran had a very strict rule that you did not look at that gauge until the rain had stopped, there was no checking mid-way through a storm to see where things were sitting, you waited until the end because you didn't ant the rain to quit.

And after you survived four years of one of the worst droughts on record, I suppose you do whatever you think will work. So you may not see my dad out there doing a rain dance, but if you come by our house, you'll see a rain gauge upside down on the fence and puddles in driveway.  Praise the Lord for that!

Family Farm Friday #92: Milo Watch 2014

My dad and his trusty iPhone camera have been helping me with a little project for the last 5 months.  Today, we have the results of this project, Milo Watch 2014.  As I've mentioned before, it had been 5 long, hot, dry, pretty miserable years on the farm.  The drought was record-setting.  We were allotted no irrigation water.  So not much farming was going on.  But this year, things turned around and we got rain and irrigation water and well, my dad went to work.  He planted milo (also called maize and/or grain sorghum) this spring.  And we've been photographing it's progress ever since.



 

This is how things looked back in June. 

 

 

And this is where we were in July.

 

 



And next up we have the first weekend in August (and some of our engagement photos helping to show off that crop!)



Here's where things stood mid-August.  Look at those colors!



 

Next up, we have September's shot.  Starting to see some red.

 

 

Then came a photo in late October.

 

 

 

And then, in early November, it was time to harvest.  The grain is cut using the combine, then it is put into the grain truck, where we take it to our storage bin.  Over the next year, we'll be grinding this grain up, mixing it with hay, and feeding it to our sheep.

 

 

Farming is hard work.  You're dependent on the weather--will it rain enough?  Will it rain too much (usually not an issue for us....)?  Will the hail or wind damage the crop?  What will go wrong with the tractor/combine/grain truck?  What is the moisture content of the grain so we know when to harvest?  Are there any issues with weeds or bugs in the field?  I could go on an on all day.  But all of the work and sweat and worries aside, my dad has put up a great crop this year.  That gives us one more thing to add to our list as we celebrate the harvest this Thanksgiving!