5:00 am – alarm goes off. Curse the cold and snuggle back under the electric blanket.
5:15 am – drag myself out of bed. Put on a hoody, quilted flannel, and insulated coveralls (grown-up snow pants) over long-johns and jammies. Brave the cold house.
5:30 am – start coffee. Curse the slow coffee maker.
5:45 am – coffee in hand, check the weather report and email. Let the dogs out while keeping the outside cats outside.
6:00 am – time to start the fire. More cursing.
6:30 am – get the boys up, ready for school, and on the bus. Cursing galore.
7:30 am – more coffee and breakfast #1. Curse the slow toaster.
8:00 am – pick up the boys’ underwear and sock explosion.
8:30 am – now that the sun is finally up, it’s time to bring in more firewood. Realize that I haven’t added wood to the furnace and the fire is out. More cursing.
9:00 am – bring warm water to the spoiled goats, feed the chickens, and play “Find the Egg”.
10:00 am – breakfast #2 (fresh eggs, yum!)
10:30 am – house chores: wash dishes, rearrange clutter, and fight cobwebs. If any spiders jump out, there’s even more cursing and much screaming.
12:00 pm – lunch: what leftovers need eating up?
1:00 pm – farm chores: mostly moving poo. Probably the least curse-filled part of the day.
3:00 pm – stoke up the furnace. Again. Curse. Again.
3:30 pm – boys get home; eat a snack and commiserate with the drama that is grade-school.
4:00 pm – the sun will be down soon; time to gather even more firewood and finish farm chores. Play “Find the Egg” for the last time.
5:00 pm – man, it’s dark! Time to start dinner. It’s a coin toss whether I’ll actually cook something yummy and exciting or if we’ll just eat freezer pizza.
6:00 pm – crap. Did I add wood to the fire?
6:30 pm – chase the boys into the bath.
7:00 pm – homework time. Lots of cursing, whining, and whinging.
8:00 pm – yay! It’s time to send the boys to bed. Oh, the drama. See above re: cursing, whining, and whinging.
8:30 pm – finally, I get to veg with some knitting and mindless TV.
8:45 pm – fall asleep on the couch. Wake up enough to stumble to bed and the electric blanket.

(Cross-posted from our Facebook page.)

Before diving into this farming gig, I knew I would have to be a jack of all trades. In a single day I might build a chicken roost, change a tire, seal a drafty door, judge the chemical makeup of a compost heap, and try to identify a mystery plant in the garden, all on top of the day-to-day chores of feeding and watering the livestock, milking goats, and collecting eggs.

However, there is one hat I never expected to wear: the pimp hat. And I’m not a nice whorehouse madame, concerned for her girls’ welfare and ready to step in when a trick gets uppity. Nope, I’m Huggy Bear with extra slapping hands for my hos.

November is breeding month here at Turtle Cove Farm. The ram is in with the ewes and the buck is in with the does. I assumed that nature would take its course, everyone would get their sexy back, and babies would show up like magic in five months.

Uh, no. Apparently, my ewes and does haven’t listened to enough Justin Timberlake, because they want nothing to do with those nasty males (and goat bucks are nasty). Instead the girls yell and scream and stare at me with pleading eyes, begging to know why they’re being treated like sex slaves smuggled in from Eastern Europe.

Meanwhile the ram and buck are blubbering and singing and chasing the girls (and the buck pees on himself, but the less said about that, the better). Anytime a doe or ewe is distracted by hay, or the water bowl, or just staring into space dreaming of a world where a young Richard Gere will rescue her, the buck or the ram is there, trying to get a quickie before she notices. The doe or ewe will holler, whirl around, thump that nasty man-thing as hard as she can, and run off.

I put on my Huggy Bear pimp hat, harden my heart, and ignore those desperate pleas for help. I tell my girls, “Just close your eyes and think of England!” I also double check every fence, because nothing is better at escaping than a goat doe trying to get away from a buck. My breeding fences are seven feet high in some places.

If I think too hard about that, the feminist in me shrivels up and dies.

We've been documented.

It took almost a year, but I finally got the Turtle Cove Farm sign up. My husband Dale had it made for me as an amazing Christmas gift last year.

I think it gives the farm that certain je ne sais quoi.

You can now buy 2012 CSA shares at the shop! Choose from our Regular Season or Extended Season for the best in fresh, seasonal produce that hasn’t traveled thousands of miles to your door.

CSA shares make the perfect gift! Tell us the share is a present, and we’ll send a beautiful card, handmade here at the farm.

Don’t forget to update your bookmarks; the blog address has changed to www.turlecovefarm.com/blog.

This was Tom, my beautiful, silly, giant cat. He died in my arms this morning. I am absolutely shattered.

We adopted Tom and his sister Murder Girl when they were somewhere between four and six months old. They were the semi-feral kittens of a feral cat, born in a boat parked in a then co-worker’s driveway. Their six other brothers and sisters had found homes pretty quickly, but as these two got older and wilder, their prospects got bleaker. Since apparently I cannot say no to kittens, they came home with me.

Those first few weeks the kittens were little balls of fluffy terror with razor sharp claws. We’d drag them out from under beds or couches – complete with the high-pitched sounds of kitten hisses and growls – and force them to spend time with us. After a lot of time and patience, we had two kittens who loved to play and cuddle.

At first, Tom was the big scared-y cat, but, as he grew into his oversized body, he became much more outgoing than his sister. And Tom grew into a large cat. Topping out at almost 25 pounds, our vets always guessed he was a Maine Coon mix. However, his giant body always seemed unbalanced because, through some weird mix of genetics or lack of nutrition as a developing kitten, he had no tail. In fact, I often described him as having a rabbit body with a slightly too small cat head tacked on.

Tom was a silly cat. He loved to play “tag” throughout the house. He would “chase” me from room to room, trying as hard as he could to jump from couch to chair to table, never touching the floor. If I crouched down for any reason, he couldn’t resist rearing up and grabbing my head or climbing on my shoulders. As he was a love biter, this was always a little scary for me.

I have two favorite stories about Tom to share with you. The first almost ended with a new friend being punched in the face, and the second saw the loss of any dignity Tom pretended to have.

Back when we lived in Florida, my husband and I had met a couple that seemed too good to be true. Annie and Nik were smart, witty, and we all shared many of the same interests. We had had them over a few times, but, because Dale and I have the social graces of isolated chimpanzees, we were still on our best behavior, nervously watching for any cue that this couple had finally realized what geeks we really were. (They are, by the way, two of the best friends we have now.)

Nik and I were both in the kitchen, while my husband Dale and Nik’s wife Annie were in the living room. We were all chatting innocently when someone goosed me: full on hand-on-my-ass goosed me. I whirled around, ready to slap Nik into the next state. He threw up his arms to protect his face and pleaded, “It was the cat!” Sure enough, Tom had reached up and goosed me. We still laugh about the time Tom grabbed my butt and tried to blame it on Nik.

Unfortunately, I was the only witness to this next story. You will have to believe me when I say I have not embellished or exaggerated anything:

Tom loved all the geckos in Florida. I don’t know which he loved to chase more, the twitching tails they left behind or the lizards themselves. It got to the point that a gecko with a full tail was a very rare sight in our yard.

One day I was sitting on the front step, enjoying the day, when Tom chased a gecko out from the palmettos next to the step. Wham! He slammed his front paw down on the poor gecko. The gecko, through some mis-firing of the fight or flight instinct, bit Tom’s toe and refused to let go. Tom flung his paw up and quickly tried to shake off the little lizard, to no avail. I couldn’t help it; I laughed out loud at the whole thing, especially the expression on Tom’s face. Tom took one look at me and decided he was not going to be laughed at any more. He froze and pretended that he was not bothered a bit by the tenacious gecko clamped on his foot. Imagine a giant cat trying so hard to keep that inscrutable sphinx look while a lizard dangled from one up-lifted paw.

As I practically choked on my laughter, Tom realized that strategy wasn’t working. With one giant shake of his paw, he flipped the lizard into the air, and caught it with his mouth. It was an amazing bit of juggling, and I would have been very impressed, if that silly gecko hadn’t decided it wasn’t done fighting. It bit down on Tom’s lip and held on. Tom immediately dropped the lizard, but the lizard didn’t fall to the ground. It hung from Tom’s lip like a particularly large lip ring. In shock, Tom once again froze. The two held that tableau for a moment until Tom finally gave in and shook his head, flinging the lizard across the yard.

That image of Tom, desperately pretending nothing is wrong, while a lizard hangs suspended from his lip, is utterly priceless and never fails to bring a smile to my face.

Although he hated the trip here, Tom loved North Dakota. In the summer, he would spend as much time as possible outdoors, coming in only when he was starving. In the winter, he would divide his time between patrolling the basement for mice and sitting in the window, watching the chickadees flock our homemade birdfeeders.

Sometime in the last few days, Tom started to feel bad. As cats often do, he hid. I found him last night, weak and dehydrated. I brought him to the vet this morning, and, sadly, X-rays showed either an intestinal torsion or blockage. Given his weakened state, there was no way Tom would survive the exploratory surgery needed to find and fix the problem. I chose to euthanize my Tom and held him in my arms until he was gone.

I know it was the right decision, but I already miss him terribly.

Within the Army, the 101st is (in)famous for its Air Assault School, a rigorous course that teaches soldiers airmobile and air assault helicopter operations. One of the school’s requirements is the 12 mile road march: 12 brutal miles in boots, fully loaded with packed rucksack, kevlar helmet, and rifle, that must be completed in under 3 hours.

Because of my embarrassing inability to complete the required obstacle course (I can’t jump my way out of a paper bag), I was in constant training for Air Assault School. Fridays were road march days, and I became really good at this exploration of human endurance: starting the morning with a 12 mile road march in just over two hours, taking a quick break for a shower and breakfast, and then working a normal day. Looking back on it now, I’ve realized that this intense training is also required for a successful shearing day.

Lenny knows he's handsome.

We added Icelandic sheep to our farm menagerie this fall: four ewes and a ram. They are beautiful examples of the breed, and I am proud to say they are mine. But sheep mean shearing, and five sheep cannot justify the cost of a professional shearer. I bought a pair of hand shears, queued up as many how-to videos as I could find, and dived in.

The sheep books all agree: shearing is very hard on the back. Professional shearers often rig up a support belt hanging from the rafters to protect their backs from the strain. Imagine my surprise when, after shearing my sheep, my back didn’t hurt at all! Instead, the ache of my leg muscles almost crippled me. Butt, thighs, calves, even the tops of my feet, all were screaming at me.

Although I am nowhere near the road marcher I was ten years ago, I still think of myself as in pretty good shape. I walk a couple of miles every day, and basic farm chores keep me strong. Obviously, not strong enough for shearing days. Before spring shearing next year, I will have to restart my road march training, and I may make a recommendation to Army trainers: add sheep shearing to the training regimen and nothing will faze the modern soldier.