Disclaimer: This is not a happy entry. In fact, it is very difficult for me to write and probably for you to read. If you would like a happier entry, I invite you to read any of the other posts in our blog. I am writing such a sad post because sometimes you have to share the bad with the good, but please click away if the death of an animal disturbs you.
Homesteading on the internet is a beautiful thing.
It's all cute farm animals in barns laden with straw. Wild, impressive row gardens and immaculate, bountiful, raised beds. Farmer ladies in flowy dresses in the middle of a field basking in that golden hour sunlight, collecting clean rainbow colored eggs, or stepping off of a tractor in some sturdy boots not covered in poop and mud and other brown things.
This might be the reality for more capable farmers... but for me, I find many parts of this homesteading journey difficult, messy, and very un-photogenic. If you are following us on Instagram, you'll notice that even in the background of my posyts, I am unable to hide the clutter that has accumulated on my counters (because I'm in the middle of processing something, or something is growing there, or family members have decided that's where things need to be, and this is just my life now). I'm not a good photographer to begin with---I almost never remember to photograph anything and when I do, I'm in a rush to get it over with so I can finish the task at hand, so nothing is ever "aesthetic" enough. I find myself scrolling through the beautiful pictures posted by friends and people I follow and oscillating between pangs of envy at their beautiful gardens and flourishing animals, and joy that their homesteading journey is so successful and positive.
Not to say that we haven't had our fair share of happy moments on the farm, but there are many mornings where I am staring down into my cup of coffee, giving myself a pep talk to stand up, tug those boots on and get moving! And once I am outside, not to feel overwhelmed by the tasks that seem to stretch on all around me. It is very difficult for me to choose the job to work on and not get distracted by all the other unfinished projects that also require my attention. It is so easy to be discouraged, to get pulled in so many directions that nothing gets finished. I always feel like I am behind, even though my husband and I parse out necessary jobs in a pretty scheduled way.
What you don't see on the internet, are the days (and weeks and sometimes months) that seem to end in catastrophe. The failures that build up and up, the checklist that is never cleared, the struggle to even get started, let alone make progress. I would love so much to stand in a meadow without being eaten alive by bugs and doing a desperate tick check or scratching like mad because I'm terribly allergic to grass. I am always covered in dirt, dust, and mud, and I have fallen to the ground more times in these four years of farming than in my whole adolescence and adult life combined. My hat is torn and full of holes. I can only find left hand gardening gloves because I usually only wear the right hand. My tools are rusty because I am absent-minded and leave them out in the rain. The blistering sun bakes me alive, and I am a miserable grouchy wretch that must be avoided at all costs in the summer. Yes, that is the same pair of overalls I've been wearing all week. Yes, that's probably poop on them. No, I'm not changing yet because there is work to be done, and it's not Sunday.
We don't like to talk about farm tragedies. We don't like to admit when we make mistakes or that this was a difficult time that we must bear and learn from. Even if you don't make any mistakes and check everything off the list--sometimes things still go bad. Things still fail. It's not pretty and doesn't make for great social media posts--and if you do end up sharing them, it leaves you open for the world to judge and criticize and to generally be cruel. And yet, if you live on a farm, tragedies abound. It is an engrained part of this life, because when you become the steward of so many--the animals, the gardens, the land: you are open to both the positives and negatives of that responsibility.
So here I will attempt to be brave and lay bare one of our farm tragedies. Because to be honest, I learn the most from them. The bumper crop of vegetables and the brooder of fluffy chick marshmallows are lovely, but I grow from the tears and the sweat, the struggle and the pain of what failure teaches. And hopefully it will be of some use to you as well.
A year ago, my husband and I decided that it would be good for our farm to take the next step in raising pigs, and start breeding our own. We decided upon making the American Guinea hog our breed of choice for this endeavor (You can read about our hog journey here) and purchased a proven breeder sow and some piglets from a neighbor. We completed our starter pig flock with a boar, advertised online from a farm three hours away. We had never seen an intact, adult boar before, especially one of the AGH breed. When Leo arrived on our farm, he was so happy to be on grass and dirt. He had spent his life on concrete, and while AGH pigs don't root around like the larger commercial breeds, Leo greatly enjoyed tilling into soft earth, and methodically turned over the soil in his pen in long parallel lines. He was gentle around the children and enthusiastic in his duties, but we also quickly discovered that he was very overweight (even for a pig). Guinea hogs are a type of grazing pig. Their primary diet is from foraging pasture, and they don't eat much grain like the fast-growing commercial breeds do. The place where we purchased Leo fed him like a commercial breed and so he was very obese by the time he arrived on our farm. He lumbered about slowly and painfully, and you could hear his wheezing breath before you saw him. We had him on hay and pasture, and he was slimming down with space to move and the improved diet, but he was very big and several times he would get stuck, unable to move because of his girth and would need help to get back on his feet.
We live in high desert country. The summers are dry and brutally hot. Think weeks upon weeks of over 100F weather, no breeze or precipitation to bring relief. Everything dies and crisps, and we are always on watch for wildfires. In that heat, you don't even dare run a lawn mower (not that there's any grass), because a single spark from hitting a rock can scorch hundreds of acres in a matter of minutes. Another lovely side effect of the heat is loss of power. As a rural community, we're the last priority for maintenance and repair when the power grid goes down and it often does on the hottest days. It can be hours upon hours until the lights are back on, before the fans or (if you're lucky enough) air conditioning move the sweltering air around, and before it's safe to crack the fridge to grab a snack. But the biggest obstacle with no electricity is you have no water. We use the last reserves of the pump reservoir to fill up water bottles for drinking. Then nothing until the grid is up again.
On one such day, it was a scorching 120 degrees. The power cut out in the afternoon, and my husband went out to check on the animals. On the hottest days we check on them every few hours. Their waters are topped off and kept full, always, but sometimes on those kind of days, everyone needs a spray down, everyone needs a wallow and shade. The cows were good. The chickens were fine. The sows were doing well, but Leo.... he had died. He had gotten stuck in his wallow right next to his full trough of water. He was too big to roll over and the combination of his great weight and the extreme heat and been too much. We made the decision to butcher him because he was too big to bury as one whole carcass, and there was a chance that if nothing else, it could be used to feed the dogs. In the fading daylight, my husband hoisted up the gambrel and began the arduous process of breaking down a 350 lb. hog, with me bracing the sides, flashlight gripped between my teeth, and trying to keep the children clear of knives and the bone saw in the twilight. I recall that it was the night of the Pentecost vigil. There was no one we could call for help because our friends and family were at church. We had no water to rinse off, and once the sun set, we had no light save for the dinky flashlight still gripped in my mouth.
It took hours to break everything down to cool and save for butchering and by the end of it, we stumbled back to the house in the dark, covered in blood and sweat and tears for the pig we had lost and the brutality of that day. I sat in the dark, stinking, and unable to wash, unable to see, unable to sleep because I couldn't bear to lay down in my bed. It was still so hot and the air was suffocating. I needed to be clean. I was so sad. So numb from the horror of the day. It was the worst day. I thought, how could we possibly go on after that? My husband and I sat in the dark, turning over what had happened, wondering if it could have been avoided, could we have done anything to save him? What were we going to do now?
The power didn't come back on until almost 2 in the morning. At which point, all I could do was thank my husband for doing what he did, to be grateful for the roof over our heads, my children tucked in their beds, the animals that were surviving and thriving, and for this life. All of it. Ugly, tragic, beautiful, and bountiful.
I can't control the weather. I can't control the power going out or when it comes back on. We have armed ourselves against the ever-increasing power outages by getting generators and beginning the steps to install solar. We have found different ways to access our water even when the pump is out. We still do regular checks on the animals, and Leo taught us a significant lesson in choosing animals for the farm. We know what qualities to look for in a boar, and for any animal that we would like to introduce to our property. While Leo was wonderful in temperament, we wouldn't make the choice to have an animal with his physical issues again, to prevent another tragedy, and to ensure that all the animals on the farm, both bred and bought, are healthy. Sometimes they get sick. Sometimes things happen... but we can do our best to be prepared.
I had such great respect for my husband. He was undaunted by the challenge presented to him, uncomplaining, solemn and stoic and ever steady as he always is. He completed a job that he usually did with two or three other men by himself with only me to help. I am so grateful to be by his side, and ever appreciative of his skills on the farm.
I am so thankful for my children, who even despite the heat, their own sadness at losing a beloved pig, being out in the dark, were brave and helpful in their own ways, and they absorbed that day and matured as the very capable farm girls they are today. These tragedies are difficult. They try us and test us, but we are not broken by them. In facing them, we have learned to be unafraid of the challenge and the mess, to be undaunted but made stronger and better prepared for the tomorrows that follow. I pray that in your homesteading journey, you face less tragedies if any, but if you do, I hope they are a moment of learning and growth.
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