Getting picked last.

From playground dodge ball to varsity athletics. I think everyone in my generation, and likely anyone who is over age 3, has felt it. The knot in the stomach, the frustration and disappointment, the profound sadness of being overlooked until there is no choice but to be added to the team.  Being picked last is not being picked at all. If you’re not naturally optimistic, you might think ‘they are stuck with me, they didn’t pick me, they probably don’t even want me.’

Event after event, year after year, for some people it drags on into, and some cases through adulthood. The stigma carries on. Adults might avoid working on projects that might set them up for being picked last. Teenagers may avoid college to avoid ending up last. Kids sometimes avoid sports teams to avoid the emotional pain that comes with being picked last. It makes me sad, especially since I know the truth.  I just don’t know how to share it with those hurt and disappointed and feeling the impact of being last.

Being picked last is perfection. It’s the best! Please, pick ME last!!!

After decades of struggling with this challenge, I finally learned this lesson, in my 40’s, on Valentine’s Day.

In order to share, I have to bring you up to date with some recent events. Our beloved rat terrier, Maggie gave birth to a litter of rats… er, pups on 12/23/2011. We had homes for up to 7 babies and had planned to keep a boy for ourselves. We weren’t sure how many babies were coming, but we figured we were covered.

The selection of babies was in a set order, the baby-daddy momma (owner of the sire) got pick of the litter, and wanted a girl so it was no conflict with us keeping a boy. Next was a couple we knew, then a family that knew the baby-daddy, then a friend of mine and a friend of a friend and so on. When the babies came, three beautiful girls and one gorgeous boy arrived, all healthy and happy. Maggie, who was a little freaked out by the first pup, had settled into being the best mom ever by the time #2 was born. Things were easy and wonderful. Too easy.

Tired Maggie with newborn

Things continued to go well until about week 4, when the first ‘waiting list’ couple dropped out (got another puppy), now that they had decided to get a puppy, they just couldn’t wait.

Then another.

Then another.

By week 6 we had only one more home than puppies available – we had even boosted one person in line as we decided the boy was a perfect fit for their home.

Then it happened, the people we were waiting to make their selection so the last people could know what puppy they were getting, decided now was not the time for a puppy.

The next morning I contacted the next person in line to let them know they would get to pick, rather than be assigned a pup. They had grown tired of waiting and got a rescue dog 2 days earlier (yay for them and him!). I called the last back-up home… they had also quit waiting. They got a gorgeous puppy.

We now had 2 puppies and one potential home left to contact. I made the call, the answer was a resounding YES! Lovey joined Webster and Buttercup with wonderful, amazing adoptive homes waiting.

Puppies at 6 weeks

There was one pup left. The only one I had given a nickname. I called her Marshmallow Butt. Okay, quit laughing. It suited her. Marshmallow Butt’s body is all white with just one spot near her tail. She is not nearly as traditionally attractive as the two other girls with pretty spots like their daddy and not as drop dead gorgeous as little Webster. Adding onto her boring white and big round body, she doesn’t have the puppy face her three siblings have. From the moment she was born she has had a serious, old-soul look.

It’s fair to say I have fallen in love with this comforting, snuggly beast. Her mother has too. When her mom plays, she picks Marshmallow Butt to play with. But we had decided not to keep a puppy.  We never counted on this little puppy, this little marshmallow butt that came into the world at a measly 8 ounces. We didn’t pick this puppy. She was last.

This morning, the little puppy woke me up, placed on my chest by my loving husband, with a beautiful handmade red bow around her neck (and three siblings and Maggie pulling at the red curls!). “Happy Valentine’s Day.” Yes. Indeed.

Was Marshmallow Butt (we need a new name!) picked last? Really? I think not. I wouldn’t trade her for any of the other 3. As it turns out they all have exactly the perfect dispositions for their new homes they are going to, with Marshmallow Butt having the perfect disposition for us.

We are not stuck with Marshmallow Butt, we could find a different home for her, but we can’t because this IS her home.

So please, if you find yourself ever standing there, alone, being picked last, please remember Marshmallow Butt. Remember you aren’t being picked last. No team is being stuck with you. You are ending up where you belong… and who knows, you just may be the perfect fit to complete the perfect team. And you may not… when life goes one, what team you were on for dodge ball as kid won’t matter. Trust me. The things that really matter come from love, sometimes on Valentine’s Day.

My Funny Valentine

Today, I wanted to take a few moments to let you know what you did. Well, what we did, but could not have done without you. Your purchase of a $5 “Taste of Whidbey” snack at the Bayview Farmers Market or $600 worth of cheese for your restaurant or $85 special order for your special event or $1200 for your store… or even that $5 bag of Laughing Bellies Toffee you picked up at the Bayview Hall – Holiday Market today.

Caprine Cream Chevre with Honey out to eat!

Without exaggeration, our farm would not exist without you.

Laughing Bellies Toffee - Super Nut

This is what we did this year, with your support.

We survived unemployment. My husband lost his job in the fall of 2010. His job is what our 300+ page business plan relied on. The farm is not intended to be profitable at this point. It isn’t even expected to pay for itself for another few years. Without his job, and with all of our savings/retirement/equity sunk into the construction and paying feed bills as we endured Island delays, we were in BAD shape. Finally, less than 2 weeks ago, my husband secured a job. Once again we look forward to little things like being able to see a doctor. Sometimes our income from the Farmers Market, indeed sometimes the ‘trades’ at market, were what saw us through. Thank you.

We survived my husband’s absence from the farm. Again, referring to that business plan, we planned to one day become an employer in Island County, but in the first few ‘running in the red’ years, I counted on free labor from an underpaid, overworked, but always willing husband.  Then my sweet husband had to take a consulting gig in the Bay Area to pay our bills, flying every week to California and back. I’m sure you can imagine the toll the constant travel takes on someone. There were mornings he woke up literally not knowing if he was here or there. There were times he nearly missed his flight from falling into an exhausted sleep at the airport. There were times he couldn’t get home because of travel delays.  There were weeks I worked more than 125 hours on the farm, although I averaged a mere 115 work hours per week during our main season.

We survived illness. The first time I was sick and Tom was gone, I dutifully did my chores. I milked the working girls morning and night and made sure they were fed and watered.  What I didn’t do was make cheese – to our fiscal loss, but I think I might have died… and who really wants cheese made by someone with the Plague?

We survived injury. I twisted my ankle, an atypical severe sprain that still gives me occasional trouble because I don’t follow my Physical Therapist’s instructions.  The fall happened on a Monday and it could have been much worse, but was bad enough to keep me on crutches for two+ weeks. Fortunately by that time I had help and someone I was able to rely on during that frustrating time.

We survived loss. We lost my mother-in-law, initially to the ravages of Alzheimer’s, then from this world completely. When thinking of mother-in-laws you could hope to have, Candy exceeded the best one you could design. Maybe it’s because I didn’t set my sights that high after having a monster-in-law my first marriage, maybe just because Candy’s patience, smile, genuine caring, joy, humor exceeded any average persons at any given time. I think it is the later, Candy’s beautiful spirit if fortunately not lost, for she has left a legacy of her gifts in her remarkable family.

We survived. And for that we are grateful. We survived kidding season, weaning season, a harassing neighbor, 14+ inspector visits, grain that made my entire milking herd gravely ill, unresponsive vets, sick kids, sick momma goats, injured bucks, unrelenting rain, wind, and mud, noxious weeds, cheese that failed, spilled milk, unreliable vendors and help, people late for appointments (or failing to show up), inability to access medical care, parasites (both 2-legged and affecting the working girls), automotive woes, and I’m sure more things that I can’t even remember right now.

We survived all of this with your help, but we are remarkably lucky. WITH your help, we were able to not just survive. We flourished.

With the hardships of the year, we found a spectacular farm hand. So spectacular that in 2012 the Little Brown Farm will become an employer. In my fantasies and realm of self-importance, I think this is our contribution to the healing of this great nation on some small scale. We never even believed we could be lucky enough to find someone that was reliable, thoughtful, willing to do whatever was needed and equally as comfortable (and helpful!) in the cheeseroom as in goat pen. Hopefully someday we will be able to reward her equal to her real value here.

For the first time, we are able to offer cheese year round, using aged cheeses and frozen cheeses – our girls still get the rest they need.

We are able to pay, with cheese sales, for 9 months of our feed bill and a portion of our other farm expenses, including some of our cultures and milking supplies, instead of relying solely on Tom’s or my employment income or worse, our now non-existent savings.

We are able to keep our herd in health and put premium food on both their and our tables. The majority of our food dollars are reinvested right here on Whidbey Island. More than $.75 on every food dollar we spend is spent here with other farmers, growers, food producers and a portion of the remainder is spent just a bit north of Whidbey on Highway 20.

We feel your support. Your dollars translate into sustainable support. Your emotional support translates into strength during our times of weakness (physical and/or emotional). We rely on you, and you’ve always been there for us. Thank you.

We exceeded our business plan projections for 2011 and hope to move ever closer to being a truly sustainable farm in 2012. We know that with our hard work and your support, ultimately we will get there.

I hope this long-winded collection of words helps express to you the value you have to our farm and our lives and how much we appreciate it and look forward to Spring on the farm (come snuggle babies in March!!).

Susanne Newbold of Sweetwater Creek Farm Studio snuggling CC

Tomorrow… is simply Friday.
Get through the day and know you ARE loved.

Today I’m giving thanks for all I have, every warm and fulfilling or even annoying (sometimes those end up the best) thing and remembering those that have so much less, after all it is Thanksgiving.

Often people think ‘fresh local dinner’ means washing and cutting and baking and searing and kneading and slicing and dicing.

Not in our house.

It can mean putting hours of effort into preparing, but I find one of the benefits of eating market fresh foods is that the hours of work that makes a meal taste delicious have already been put in what I make.

Tonight dinner was exceptionally quick and exceptionally local – I needed to get my ankle up and on ice, so what was I to do?

A purple potato from Willowood Farm cooked through – one of our Taste of Whidbey (the one with Willowood’s garlic and olive oil) on it, then liberal splashes of a local salsa (special mix for Djangofest picked up at the Langley Second Street Market).

The purple potato was amazing (yeah, I never thought I would use amazing to describe a potato) - the cooked skin became an irridescent purple a teenager would strive for as a nail color, the inside was a delightful combination of blues and purples. Truly beautiful and delicious to… if you’ve never seen one I highly recommend you get down to Bayview Farmers Market next week and invest in some local farmers!

Local Dinner

Once the potato was cooked, prep time was less than a minute. Then I could sit, get my frozen lima beans on my ankle and write a long overdue blog. Not the most interesting blog (seriously, a ‘this is what I had for dinner blog???? my apologies), but it’s a start… I’m baaaaaack!!

People who are passionate about what they do, interest me.  People who are passionate about what they do and who are very good at their chosen obsession are the people I want to have as my closest friends. Most particularly, those who are good at making food and wine!   Vicky is very, very good.  In addition, she adores her goats (or her girls, as she refers to them) and views them as partners in the process, not just tools of the trade.  Her husband, Tom also works with, as well as for, the goats. (See Vicky’s earlier post on that topic)

As a painter, I have long held the philosophy that when you buy something made by hand, made with passion for the process, you are not only buying a “thing” to put on your wall or on your dinner plate, but supporting the tradition from which that painting or cheese springs. Listen up: this is important!  Things made by hand matter.  Yes, they may cost more than something made in a big factory.  I’m also not saying that everything should be made by hand.  (Look at my new car! I knitted it myself!)  What I am saying is that when we have the opportunity to experience or own a handcrafted product, be it cheese, painting, or textile, we should.   If we are able to keep these traditions alive and viable, our lives and our world will be all the better for it.  And, the only way to keep them viable is to support them financially, is by buying them.

So, if you live on Whidbey Island, go to the Farmer’s market, find The Little Brown Farm’s booth and buy some cheese.  If you live somewhere else, I bet there is a farmer’s market where you live too.  Check it out. You’ll be glad you did.

Anne Belov

http://yourbrainonpandas.wordpress.com

http://nothingoverlooked.wordpress.com

This winter the frightening decision of whether or not to implement our ‘exit strategy’ was heavy on our hearts and minds. Leaving the business out of the farm and selling the equipment would give us the funds we need to maintain the farm for up to a year, and with me going back to work off the farm full time and stopping production, we would be okay indefinitely. The financial indicators pointed to the decision we should make, but our hearts would not accept it.

Now my supportive, loving husband gets on a flight every Sunday afternoon to head to work in California, he flies back home every Thursday, getting home in the middle of the night. During the week that leaves me, in sickness and in health, to manage the farm. I manage the milking, the feeding, the waters, the babies, the milk, the cheesemaking, the cheese tending, the cheese wrapping, the cheese marketing, the sales, the deliveries, the tours, the cleaning, the dishes, the goat emergencies… you get the idea.

On the weekend my husband is home, so I can go sell the cheese at our local market (Bayview Farmers Market), and make deliveries to local stores and restaurants. Sometimes we even get a meal together… rarely it’s sitting down and talking to each other. It’s much more likely to find us eating standing in the milk parlor plotting what needs to be done before we can crash, exhausted, in bed at night.

It is a lot and it is not sustainable. We hope to find a real solution soon, but in the meantime, we will continue to fight tooth and nail and sleepless nights to pursue our dream.

The reason? Why would anyone do this? Why would anyone work 18 hours a day to make not even enough money to support just the feed bill for the farm for 10 months? Yes, you read that right, if we sell ALL of the cheese we make this year, it will pay for our feed bill for 10 months, meaning my husband’s work is paying for 2 months of feed and all of the containers, packaging, labels, water, electricity, market tables/tents/samples/etc. Why, again, would anyone do this?

There are a few reasons, this is our start-up period. Most businesses are not profitable during their start-up time. Even in our business plan our dairy wasn’t intended to have a break-even year until the third year. Feed prices continue to go up, and we keep choosing to select better and better qualities of feed for our girls. But again, this isn’t relevant or even why I started typing this today.

The real reason: Last week I had an amazing Seattle school come for their annual tour of our farm. It’s a small group, and a targeted group of kids already interested in farming. These kids are AMAZING! I have never been more impressed with a group of pre-teens and teenagers as I have been with the groups that have come to our farm.

I get to show the kids and their chaperones the goats, the parlor and impart information about the cheesemaking process. These kids know more about where their food comes from more than most people that pride themselves on being locavores or foodies. But these kids don’t even know how powerful what they know is yet. One day they will.

Today I got this year’s  ‘Thank You’ notes in the mail (I know, handwritten and in the MAIL – what a nice touch!!). One of them actually made me cry, tears of joy, reminding me exactly why I work so hard.

Let me share with you what it said.

“Thank You Vicky!

Dear Vicky,

I learned the basic steps of how to make cheese. I found that you can feed baby goats cow milk interesting. I thought they could only drink goat milk. I have decided to spread the word about your farm and to eat more organic food. Thank you so much for the cheese tasting and letting us feed the baby goats.”

Did you get that? “and to eat more organic food”

A connection. A young human that is learning the connection and true cost of food. Eureka!!!

I have always said that if I can reach one person and help them make better decisions than I have made, help them learn where food really comes from, then I will be happy. But I’m not, one child isn’t enough. I know this because I reached at least one child from the group last year, and it’s addictive. I can’t stop. I am completely and udderly (get it?) addicted to reaching out and educating people.

Now if I can just make the time to get those cheesemaking classes started.

My love, my passion (outside of my family) is the goats first, then the education, then the cheese… it’s a good thing there’s enough of me to go around.  18 hour days pursuing your passion will make you tired, but it’s the kind of tired you can get sleep and wake up rested from.

Now, back to work – I’ve got a market and deliveries to make tomorrow, with our new cheese, Caprizella making its debut!

Caprizella - the newest member to our cheese family

Don’t be a stranger,

Vicky Brown

Chief Milkmaid

Our sheep are over their irritation with me for stealing their wool coats yesterday (actually, they seem to rather enjoy having the extra fluff gone and have been playing and running around like lambs).

Sugar's wool coat

Babies are everywhere, including underfoot when we take them for walks.  (You’ll have to go to our facebook page to watch the video though www.facebook.com/littlebrownfarm)

I’ve been able to do chores in 2 layers instead of bundled in the usual 4.

Colors, other than the usual dark greens and drab greys, are creeping, sometimes exploding onto the palate of our neighborhoods.

On our farm we have a few bold yellow daffodils blooming, down the street some bright pink plum trees with flattering maroon leaves.

Daffodil bloom trumpeting "Spring is here!"

In Coupeville today there were fields assaulting my eyes with the bright chartreuse of new growth on what was recently nothing but black, fertile patches of optimism.

The alders have carried a hue of melancholy rose as they pull themselves from their deep winter sleep. The grasses shout memories of St. Paddy’s day to my eyes.   The winding vines of the berries offer fuchsia blooms in promise of the fruit they’ll trade for their thorny tenacity.

Berry blooms

But today, I was nearly breathless by the golden delight that I saw in our yard. It wasn’t the brash yellow trumpet of the daffodil or the subtle tones of the alder trees. It was the new growth and glowing bark of our weeping willow. The one the deer completely girdled while rubbing their velvet in the fall. We were certain it was dead.  

Weeping Willow

Weeping Willow close-up

I set out to get a picture of my girls lying down on green grass in the bright sun, ruminating, to set the tone for the blog.

Instead I ended up with a series of shots much better than anything I could ever say.

Enjoy!

Life is good on the farm… and yes, after that stretch, Dixie got her nap… and I got a kiss from CC.

*SMOOCH* Happy Spring!!

Today my baby girl has been on my mind, even more than usual. I mean my 21 year old baby girl.

Baby girl

This morning I found myself thinking about her a lot and recounting stories of her elementary school days with a friend. Late morning I was texting with her. This afternoon my mind was swimming around how special it was to have her here a year ago.

At 12 - yep we were in for a ride.

We dealt with a lot last year. My husband was travelling often, this particular time for work, and we suffered a shocking herd loss. A coyote had gotten into our center walkway and climbed over our fence. One bite was all it had a chance to do before the herd chased it off (based upon the trampling of hoof prints). Unfortunately, the bite was deadly as an effective predator’s bite would be. We lost the beautiful yearling daughter of Winsome. My daughter was there for me. She sent me away, into the barn to compose myself. Once I had sobbed sufficiently I came out to see she had already loaded the poor beast into the tractor. We cried a little bit more and moved onto the unhappy task of burying a herdmate.

A few short weeks later we lost one of my older mommas, sweet Camellia, after several days of a draining and painful vet-assisted fight. It was heartbreaking. My husband was travelling again, this time visiting family, something he hasn’t been able to do often enough with the rigors of the farm and supporting the farm. My daughter was by my side with strength, support, love and compassion. Beyond my broken heart, my daughter graduated to a whole different level of incredible in my eyes. My child had evolved into a lovely woman and I was the lucky recipient of her grace.

My precious child, now woman, raised the bottle babies Camellia left behind and even happily added Gypsy (Tulip’s rejected doeling) to the family when needed. She helped finish the construction of the dairy. She helped me during the emotional ups and downs of last kidding season. To say I miss her this kidding season is an understatement.

As much as that kidding season will always have a scar on my heart from the loss of my dear friend Camellia, it will also hold the memories of my child graduating into a lovely woman in my eyes and my heart. Always my babygirl, but no longer a child she has become a woman that I’m proud to call my daughter.

My favorite young lady, surrounded by two of my other favorite women.

Perhaps it was her doctor appointment today that had her on my mind. Whatever it was I’m happy to have nearly spent the day with my daughter.

There are few things I love more than cheese and more than my goats, but there is nothing I love more than my daughter.

Last Friday both my husband and I were exhausted, as usual by the end of the week. Our planned 9:30pm milking and barn check slipped to 10:10pm. This isn’t a problem because I’m milking two other times during the day, so at worst it shortens the time between night and morning milking.

At 10:10pm we walked in the barn and heard the high pitched meeeeh of a baby goat. Our pace quickened and we both arrived at the only pen that had a pregnant doe in it. Sure enough there were two wet babies on the ground. The new momma was just starting to figure out that she was supposed to be cleaning and drying them off. Since her instincts seemed to be kicking in, we helped dry them off and put them under her nose to care for while we milked the 5 does that needed milking.

After milking the doe kid was still not up and standing. Too long. Too cold. Too listless. We heated the bathroom in the barn and brought the siblings in there and took care of our new baby duties (weights, belly buttons, etc.)

The little girl was still cold and listless, not holding her head up and too cold to digest food and certainly not interested in nursing. We agreed she probably wasn’t going to make it. It had been a rough, emotional week on the farm, although my brain said she wasn’t going to make it, my heart just couldn’t accept it.

By 10:30pm, the little girl and her lively brother were up in our house, by 10:32pm she was immersed in a warm water bath, then a warm blow dry and a bit of colostrum tubed into her belly. No improvement. Midnight came and went I knew I should give up, but I couldn’t.  My husband took care of the other babies and went to bed. I resigned myself a night of keeping her company until she died… or improved.

Tucked in tightly to my chest, under my clothes, under my robe, her listless body absorbed my heat. At 2:30am I tubed a bit more colostrum, hopeful she would be warm enough to digest and make use of it. Still not holding her own head up for more than a bob or two, she just tucked back in while I watched recorded tv shows and hoped against hope.

At 6:00am, my husband came out to relieve me, somewhat in disbelief that I was still up and still with her.  He helped me tube another 2cc’s of warm colostrum into her belly, took her from me and sent me to bed. Knowing she was in his hands, I slept. About an hour and half after I fell asleep, still deliriously tired, I thought I heard my husband tell me to come see my baby girl. My heart raced, was he calling me because she was on her last breaths and I needed to say goodbye? I stumbled with bleary eyes to the bathroom where our house goats live. There she was trembling, but standing and holding her head up, and greedily asking for a bottle. My exhaustion dissipated instantly, replaced with joy.

I’ve been told I wear my heart on my sleeve. However, it seems this little girl, while tucked under my 2 sweaters, a robe and packed under a towel, stole my heart. Now she has the audacity to wear it on her back. What to name this little sweetheart? Any ideas?

Heart on my sleeve?

Here she is at a week old. Healthy and bounding with no sign of her rough start.

She won’t stand still for a picture, but here’s a better blur, with her heart showing:

Heart on my back, because I don't have sleeves!