Farmers' Knowledge

I screened a Frontline documentary this morning that I intend to show to my composition class. The documentary was an expose' on the internet culture, called "Growing Up Online." I've had internet connection since I was in early middle school; I can still remember waiting for hours to the sound of the screeching modem, praying that AOL would hook me up with the rest of the world before the overcrowding would boot me off. I guess I've grown up with the internet. It has given me a Matrix-like sense of being an instant expert at anything and everything. I have confidence to take on new tasks because, even if I don't know the proper protocol, I know that Google does. And for the most part, Google is an extremely willing teacher. But I'm learning that internet knowledge is actually far behind that of your average, hard working farmer. And I'm not just talking about spiritual knowledge, though such a topic would be worthy of a blog all its own. Farmers tend to know things that are far too bizarre for any of us internet junkies to even think about searching - there are more things, I suppose, in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our cyber philosophy.

When we bought our gelding, Junior, he was an all-pasture-all-the-time horse. As a result, he came to us with a severe case of rain rot over his back and hind quarters. Rain rot is a nasty bacteria that latches onto a horse's skin if he's been out in the rain for too long. In extreme cases like Juniors', it will form a hard, wart-like shell over the infected area. Though the rot doesn't hurt or itch the poor guy, a quick Google search told me that it could lead to nastier infections that would require a vet's attention. We certainly didn't want this for our gelding, so I searched, "How do I get rid of rain rot on a horse?" The search turned up pages upon pages of warnings and advertisements, all of which seemed to insist that my animal cruelty will be a mark against my soul if I did not buy any one of the expensive, anti-bacterial, anti-microbial horse shampoos that the websites were promoting.

It just so happened that our dog, led by Spirit, escaped Emotive Acres one day to visit with our neighbors, who were out for some riding lessons. During our retrieval of Sampson, John and I struck up a conversation, and managed to share Junior's plight with our newfound friends. "Listerine!" our neighbor cheered, throwing his arms up so that we could read The Church Has Left the Building painted boldly across his chest. "Listerine will make the rain rot go away just like that!" Listerine? Such a remedy was nowhere on the internet. Nowhere connected to my search terms, anyway. I asked his wife where she'd heard of such a remedy, and she shrugged. "Don't know where I heard it," she said. "I just took out a bottle, poured it on my horse one day, and the rot just came right out."

Some years ago, while leaning over my husband's motorcycle to fix my make up in his rear view, I got too close to his pipes and seared a grapefruit-sized third degree burn onto the outside of my shin. The pain was excruciating - it just wouldn't quit. As we stopped for a beer at a secluded bar, an older lady approached me and winced at my boo boo. She was already three sheets to the wind; I think my blood alcohol level was raised when she exhaled on me to shout, "Mustard!" Sure enough, we lathered my wound in mustard and the pain went away instantly.

This kind of advice can only be given human to human; it has no place on the web. Certainly, when I search "mustard" with "burns" or "Listerine" with "rain rot," I stumble upon thousands of netgoers who have discovered the same gems. Yet I'm afraid my creativity is limited - I would no sooner think to type "Listerine" and "rain rot," than I would to search "Coca-cola" and "car engines." An internet search is only as good as the imagination of the searcher. Google has no excitement in its advice; it exhibits no eagerness to share useful information, or to guarantee that the information is both accessible and intriguing. A farmer, on the other hand, goes beyond the simple sharing of information, and adds thrill of discovery to his advice. A farmer will give no advice unless he's tried it out on his own land, animals or body first. In sharing his discovery, therefore, he is able to relive the excitement of success that he'd experienced when he first came upon the solution.

If the intellectual prowess of the internet is derived from the combined intellectual prowess of all its contributors, then certainly the breadth of knowledge it provides surpasses that of any individual. But breadth is not always best. A farmer's knowledge is a condensation of family teachings and first-hand experimentation. God has provided all that we need, a farmer knows this. Because small farmers generally operate on limited funds, they have a unique appreciation for the things they already have. Putting together the right patterns, discovering the simple household items or natural elements that can remedy a given problem, is like uncovering another of God's mysteries. It's a childish game; It's why farmers are never bored.

The very day of our neighborly conversation, John and I rushed out to pick up a bottle of Listerine. We poured the bottle over Junior's rot and, sure enough, it began to flake right off with the aid of a mane comb. He still has more treatments to go, but he is doing much better and seems to be much happier. Thanks to the unique qualities of farmers' knowledge, our bank account is safe, our horse is healthier, and our barn now wafts with the delightful scent of vanilla mint.

No, I Don't Mind the Commute

Breaking the news that we've moved our family into the Ozark mountains and away from the city is like announcing that we've decided to become monks and nuns. "Why would you do that?" our suburbanite friends ask, not out of impoliteness, but out of genuine concern. "That's so far away - doesn't the commute kill you?" Monday through Friday, I drive an hour and a half into the city to teach literature and composition courses at the university. Some days are a breeze, and I'll arrive at my destination in an hour fifteen, giving me time to run to the ladies' room and dispose of the two cups of coffee I'd just sipped down from my enormous travel mug. Other days, if it's raining, if there's an accident or construction, or if it's rush hour, I'll make it there by the skin of my teeth. That's an adrenalin rush, let me tell you. But I've never been late.

I understand my dear suburbanites' concern. Commuting from home to the grocery store is a traumatic experience in the suburbs. Before we leave our houses, we check every door and window to make sure they're sealed tight, and then we head out, defenseless, into the world from which we've just protected all our most precious things. Out there in the world, we encounter road rage and gridlock, awkward social exchanges and the constant possibility that something we are doing could at any point be found offensive by somebody in our vicinity. It's why we speed; it's why we double park with our flashers on. We want to get in and out as fast as we can, and return from our thirty-minute adventure to the secluded safety of our den. My commute, however, is not a minor part of my day. Driving is not about transporting my body from one block to the next to pick up a gallon of milk. Three to five hours of my day are spent in the driver's seat of my CRV. The road has become an extension of my consciousness.

Wayne Dyer tells us that before we speak in public, we should take some time for quiet meditation. At the university, I'm on my feet speaking to more than a hundred students for more than six hours per day. My commute has made me a better teacher. Because most of my ride is through the open, rolling Ozarks, I am not bombarded by the overstimulation of towering glass buildings and flashy billboard advertisements. All is quiet, except for my thoughts. It is autumn now, so the land is covered with a patchwork of orange and red, yellow and brown. As I ride up and over, down and through the hills, it appears as though the earth is breathing, dreaming, occasionally adjusting herself to find a more comfortable way to lay. I transcend loneliness on that road, and I succumb to aloneness. It's the kind of aloneness I knew as a child without siblings; my mind bubbles with imagination and creativity, inspiring me to write with wild abandon, the way I did before I was seduced by the constraints of literary criticism.

Often I find myself wishing that my hands were free to do some knitting or writing, but I've found that forcing my hands to stay quiet has also opened the door to some lovely inspiration. With my hands and my eyes occupied by the drive, I've only my ears to entertain me. My commute has made me a better listener. My darling husband has burned CDs of audiobooks for me, catering to my love of stories. The other day, I brought down Professor Moriarty with Orson Wells (who, that day, was the voice of the great Sherlock Holmes) and I was later attacked by an army of little green men courtesy of Stephen King. Today I get to share some time with Garrison Keillor, a gift from a student of mine, and I'm sure that by the time I arrive home I will have laughed, cried, and cringed at the nostalgic stories of Lake Wobegon.

My commute reminds me of the long hours spent on the road with my father during cross country trips, and the seemingly endless rides on the Garden State Parkway when he and my mother would have their custody exchanges. I'm often reminded of my Pop pop, who at the dawning of his Alzheimers' could comment on how the trees in the parks made it look like we lived in a forest, and how every telephone pole was Christ's own cross. It is good for me to consult with the ghosts of my past during my ride. No matter how fast I go, no matter how windy the road, I can't outrun them. I'm forced to sit and talk with them, straightening out any residual confusion of my childhood, and reclaiming the optimism that confusion threatened to snuff out.

I am forced to confront the stress, worry and concern that all adults deal with during our hectic days. That stress is compounded by the fact that I can watch the miles tick down on Highway 44, knowing that there is nothing I can do to control my situation until the commute has had its way with me. I must sit with my obsessions, become nearly maddened by them, and then watch as the anxiety melts away on its own. Had I not taken that time with my stress, it would have been bottled up, occasionally coming out in minor explosions throughout my home and work times. I still act inappropriately, of course. I'm human, after all. But because I've been centered by the commute, my recovery time is much faster, and that recovery is more meaningful.

John's 42nd Birthday

In mid-October, I blew all the cash I'd saved up for my husband's birthday on a black Resistol and oilskin duster. Though the cowboy attire was a much appreciated surprise gift for John at the time of its giving, I was quite distraught to see November 14th roll around without any funds for the celebration of his forty-second year. Yet the day came. And while money, it seems, may make the world go round, it has no power to stay the procession of the calendar. Nothing about the day had been planned, nothing had gone as expected, and everything was perfect.

The morning began with a brilliant pink sunrise over the Ozarks, a daily perk of life on Emotive Acres. John rose early, and happily accepted his steaming cup of coffee (one sweet 'n low, with a splash of milk) as the only gift I'd be able to offer him that morning. (I'd given him kisses, too, but those were all for me.) We ate a tummy-warming breakfast in our mid-renovation country kitchen, and suited up to turn out the horses. One by one, we lunged and turned out our stallion, our gelding, and our filly. Since this was John's special day, we decided it was time to get him on the back of our four-year-old mare for his very first ride around Emotive Acres.

A few days earlier, we'd made an unspoken agreement with our chihuahua that, as long as he stayed within Emotive Acres's property, we'd allow him to run free along with us as we worked the pasture. Chico had been adhering to our agreement, perhaps too closely. As soon as John slipped onto Bubbles's back, the chihuahua was at her heels, sniffing at her hooves. The sensation startled the mare, who managed to land a swift kick into the ribs of the little dog. Chico hollered as he flew through the air and slammed against the bars of the round pen. The chaos of the little dog caused Bubbles to rear and buck, just as John had stuck his hands in his pockets to retrieve some apple-flavored treats. John was airborne for a moment, bounced along Bubbles's wide frame, and managed to get a foot underneath him before breaking his fall with his rear end. This was to be Emotive Acres's first rodeo event. Chico, displeased, walked away with his tail between his legs, muttering under his breath. John, I am proud to say, managed to keep his hat on the whole time.

We did get a ride out of Bubbles that day, and John was very pleased. With the homestead in working order, we voyaged into town to pick up some bread and milk. As we arrived at the meat market, the most amazing smell of barbecued bratwurst wafted over to us. The brats were being cooked by a grinning fellow in a camouflage shirt, jeans, and a neon orange cap with tiny deer antlers protruding from the forehead. From under his mustache, he offered us some free samples. It was the best brat I'd ever tasted. Inside the market, however, was the real treat. Four local wineries had sent over their best bottles, and were offering free tastings to the people of Owensville. We ended up hanging there for nearly an hour, getting tipsy on little plastic cups of heaven and lunching on gourmet cheeses and free sausage. We celebrated with preachers and sinners, connecting with our fellow countrymen, loudly and jovially quoting Bible verses and country music songs. It was a joyous occasion.

That afternoon, our buddy Bull arrived at our doorstep with an arsenal of firearms. Seeing the unmistakable light in my husband's eyes, I politely ducked out and let the men play. Bull and John took the guns outside, strapped up some targets, and began to fire. The cracks of the gunfire split through the crisp mountain air, and held all living creatures at attention. After a while, the men invited me out to try my hand at the trigger. I was pretty good with the 22 rifle and the 22 pistol. Nearly hit the bulls eye each time. But then they put a heavy black beast in my hand. I hadn't expected much of the gun, and I suppose I'd gotten cocky from my first two experiences with firearms. But this time, as I pulled the trigger of the 38 special, the explosion in my hand sent me flying backward, and the noise was like a cold icepick to both eardrums. Not thinking, I flinched and covered my ears with my arms. The men hollered and dove for the gun, which was now flailing about as I tried to escape the ringing in my head. Bull managed to pry the gun from my fingers, and John sympathetically encouraged me to return to the safety of home for my recovery. "But you did really great!" he insisted. He's so sweet.

The night rounded out with a delicious homemade steak dinner, and our nightly barn ritual. I've planned a few birthday parties for John, always topping the last occasion with grander festivities and elaborate surprises. This birthday didn't cost a smidge of time or money, yet John insists that it was his best. Such is the life we've created on Emotive Acres. We've learned to surround ourselves with simple delights that supersede any urban need for pomp and circumstance. Every day is a celebration of life and birth. Each new sunrise commemorates our existence here on earth. We are truly blessed to have stumbled upon the amazing rewards of stewardship, and we look forward to sharing those rewards with any who visit these Emotive Acres.

Xavier's Barrel Fire

It was midday on our farm. I was washing dishes, when over the noise of the faucet I heard the unmistakable sobs of my seven-year-old, Xavier. He came rushing into the house, buried his face in my apron, then fell with his tush on the floor to expose a few deep red cuts that had opened up on his knees.

“What happened?” I asked, dropping to a knee and sympathetically sucking air through my teeth. “Oooh, those look deep. Howdja get that?”

“The… the bush…” he said between gulps of air. “It had all these stickers and thorns and they… they got all scraped up in my knees and stuff…”

“Woah,” boomed a deep voice from behind me. I turned my head to see who had cast such a powerful shadow over us. It was my husband, who towered above us in his dark work vest, jeans and boots. His blue eyes were piecing under his black Resistol, and I felt butterflies in my stomach the way I did when we’d first met. “Those look like some pretty nasty farm wounds,” he said.

“Yeah…” Xavier’s voice sounded breathy and was now void of tears. I rested my gaze back on my boy to see that the image of his dad before him had stirred the same adoring butterflies.

“Man oh man,” John said, not taking his attention away from the boy for a moment. “That’s too bad. I was just going to set up the barrel fire. I was going to ask for your help, but maybe you should rest until those heal…”

Xavier looked torn. Would he milk my sympathy or buck up for his dad? The decision was made in an instant.

“No, I’m ok!”

“You sure?” John said, giving me a sideways wink that again sent me aflutter.

“Yeah, I’m sure! What are we gonna burn?”

“Leaves,” said John, “and lots of ‘em.”

“I’ll get the lighter!” Xavier was up on his feet, digging through the junk drawer in a flash.

“No, no lighter,” said John. “We need matches.”

“Oh yeah!” replied Xavier, as if he’d known that all along. He walked into the living room and looked around. He wandered into the garage and looked around. He returned to the kitchen. “Mama,” he said to me. “Where’s the matches?”

I shrugged. “They’re in the barn,” said John.

“Oh yeah!” replied Xavier. He bolted through the screen door.

“Woah, woah, woah!” called John. “Hold the door open for Mama.”

“Oh yeah!” Xavier ran back to the kitchen, his knees bounding up so high as he galloped that I feared they’d knock out what was left of his teeth.

Xavier held the door open as I stepped out and leaned up against the side of the house. He was then by John’s side, entirely inseparable unless given a command.

“Is it time to light the fire?”

“No, we have to put the leaves in the barrel first.”

“Oh yeah! …Can I light the fire now?

“No, we’ll wait until nightfall.”

“Oh yeah. What about this box, can I put this in?”

“Not yet, we’re going to make a paper towel bomb out of that.”

“Oh yeah!”

“Xavier, go get that lighter fluid.”

“Sure! Can I pour it in?”

“Sure. Gently, now.”

“Oh yeah.”

“Nice job. Now go fill that bucket with water, for a safety.”

“A safety?”

“A safety.”

“Oh yeah!”

I watched my men build the most brilliant barrel fire I’d ever seen. The children and I gathered around and warmed our hands and faces as John watched reverently over us. Silently, we all acknowledged how lucky we were to be under the care of somebody so attentive and capable, and I was especially grateful to have seen him impart that power and generosity to my boy.

Lila, Xavier’s little sister, noticed the scratches on his knee by the light of the fire. “What are those?” she asked.

Xavier shrugged. “Just some farm wounds.”

“Bet they hurt,” said Lila.

“Nah, they don’t.”

“Because you’re a big, strong farmer, right?”

Xavier smiled and let his gaze fall on his dad.

“Oh yeah.”

The Kids' First Day

Don't ask me how, but John and I managed to keep Emotive Acres a secret from our children for a month and a half as we were setting it up. For a month and a half we'd adopted horses, suffered loss, painted a house, added seven cats to our household, tended to sixteen acres and a lake, and never once let the kids suspect a thing. And finally, the big day came. In a swoop, we changed the direction of our brood's childhood forever.

John picked the kids up Saturday morning, while I bustled around the house and barn, preparing for their arrival. They burst through the door with excitement, ready to show me the toys they'd gotten in the happy meals their dad had bought them, his generous offer to me for more prep time. As soon as they came through the door, they forgot all about the little plastic ponies in their hands. All their stuff was in a brand new place, and they weren't quite sure how to react. "Welcome home!" I cheered. "Go find your rooms!" And so they did, unsure how to feel about the sudden and sweeping change. The boys were thrilled to see their very own computer and video game stations set up in their rooms, and the girls hopped right on their beds to cuddle stuffed animals and muse over their gorgeous Ozark views. Though they showed us happiness, it was clear to see that their hearts were heavy with the thought of being so far away from their friends. So we took them outside.


"We have a barn!" our oldest daughter, the horse whisperer of our family, cried. John and I encouraged them to go inside, where they were amazed to see three stunning Appaloosas and a powerful chestnut gelding chewing hay in their direction. "This is your herd," we told the kids. They thought we were kidding. Then they heard the meows. Honor, our oldest boy, found the kittens first. "WOAH!" he shouted, his ears turning red with the excitement, "So cute! You won't believe how cute!!" Before I knew it, he and Lila, our youngest, were squeezed into the kennel with all five kittens. Xavier immediately spotted the ATV, and was at the seat, gripping the handlebars, making motor noises as if he was a sports driver. Violette, overcome with emotion, let her little nose turn pink and washed it over with tears of joy.


The entire weekend vibrated as high as that initial introduction. Our house had no TV, no internet hooked up yet, but our children were as blissful as we'd ever seen them. They spent hours upon hours climbing hay bales and playing with kittens. All the kittens were named that day - we now have Mischief, Sweetie Pie, Killer, Alicia and Treasure (though Treasure's name still might change; Lila is uncertain). Violette spent her time chasing Fancy Pants around the pasture. It warmed my heart to see our girl running beside a galloping stallion with a great big smile and confident posture, making him rear and dance, then move in to nuzzle her for some spot on affection. John commented that if she can work her relationship out with him, then we have no worries about her teenage years.

We were given a beautiful weekend, thank goodness. In early November, after two weeks of constant rain, the skies gave way to brilliant sun and seventy degree days. When there was a lull in the day's activity, we walked the kids down to our lake and let them strip down to their underwear for an afternoon dip. They covered themselves in mud, laughing like seagulls, and instantly overcame all suburban decorum to live like natives. I thought I was watching Lord of the Flies come to life. We washed them off, picnicked for lunch, then let them each ride Junior twice around the round pen. Cowboy Daddy, as my beloved husband is now known, then rode us all on the ATV to a remote area where he'd prepared a brilliant bonfire. We snacked on s'mores and fell asleep under a stunning canopy of stars that we hadn't shared since our last trip to the planetarium.


Driving the kids to school Monday morning was a surreal experience for all of us. How do we face a "normal" world, after all our biggest dreams have come true? How do we interact with those who are still searching, still wishing, when all of our wishes have been granted? I can't wait to see what the children do with this new level of emotional security. Their perceptions have changed - no longer are video games, TVs and IPods the defining items for our children's existence. Materialism has given way to stewardship, now that they have little animals and a piece of land to care for. It took until my twenty-sixth year to learn the true value of things. I can't wait to see what this early learning will do for our little spiritual powerhouses.

The Arrival of our Barn Cats

A few days ago, I brought six cats to Emotive Acres.  Following up on a classified ad in the St. Louis Post Dispatch, I’d found a lovely young tortiseshell kitty who came with five nursing kittens in tow.  The mama had been a stray in the suburban village of Troy, Illinois.  Despite growing skinny as she fattened up her five little furballs, she was extremely healthy and happy, thanks to her generous rescuers.  Our barn needed barn cats; we’ve taken to stabling up our horses each night for their “bedtime ritual,” so it was more imperative than ever that we employ a force of working felines to keep the area bug and rodent free.  Sweetie’s resume in the Post Dispatch was perfect.  As a stray, we could trust that she was already a trained and successful hunter.  As a mom, she had an army of five behind her, learning from her, ready to divide, conquer, and protect our sixteen acres from any vermin unfortunate enough to cross a kitty’s path.  And, secretly, I’ve always wanted a tortiseshell.

Our first night didn’t exactly go as I’d hoped.  It took almost two hours to get the kitties home, and by that time Sweetie’s anxiety had gone through the roof.  She had squished herself between my truck’s window and the box that held her kittens, and she was panting like she’d just run a marathon.  Though we tried to be guarded as we transported the wee ones into their deluxe new hayloft apartment, Sweetie managed to escape in a burst of freedom that only a frightened stray could muster.  No sooner had I placed the first fluffy black bundle in the kennel, than Sweetie had disappeared into the rolling hills of the Ozarks.  My stomach sank.  Mama cat was gone, and now I had five fuzzy faces, ten tiny blue eyes, looking up at me in expectation of full nipples and sweet milk.  I couldn’t believe Sweetie had left her babies.  I’d rather she’d stayed and hissed and fought me for them.  I wasn’t expecting to take on five orphans while the paint was still drying on Emotive Acres’s office walls.

But this is a farm.   More often than we encounter death on our property, we encounter birth and life.  Each new baby is our new baby.  The kittens are as much mine as they are Sweetie’s.  They are also my husband’s and my children’s, my dogs’ and my horses’.  Each new foal belongs to the land; each new calf belongs to the land’s inhabitants.  In turn, I must recognize that my children belong to the land, too.   They are no longer just mine and my husband’s; they belong to our horses, our fish, our cows and our cats.    On Emotive Acres, each living creature, each blade of grass, exists to serve others.  Some creatures will live longer than others, some will require more training than others.  On this land, there is no deflection of responsibility.  All responsibility is joy, and so we tend to each other in peace and happiness.  So when a mama leaves her young for any reason on this land, she can do so with the confidence that they will be cared for as she would care for them.

Thank God for Google. I managed to make it through the night on some all-species milk from the feed store and some moistened cat food.  I was forced to lock the kittens in their kennel that night, to ensure that no sneaky creature would slip in and help itself to a tasty tabby treat.  I left a bowl of cat food out for Sweetie, hoping that she would return.  And she did.  The next day, we found her moaning at Sampson from behind the kennel, dismayed that she could not find her way in.  It took some coaxing (and a lot of chin scratching) for Sweetie to get her bearings in her new home, but now she is as residential as any who have ever called or will ever call Emotive Acres home.  I was overjoyed to see Sweetie return.  We’d operated on faith, she and I, and we both arrived at the same place: we refused to be forced, coerced or tied down.  We chose Emotive Acres, and Emotive Acres chose us.