My husband and I are crazy about our five dogs.  And we like them to act like dogs.  Run around outside, get dirty, dig holes, bark at cars, swim in the ponds, chase the cats.  The whole “real dog” thing. 

But this Christmas, this day of peace and human kindness, we somehow came to the surprising decision to dress up our rough, tough, scruffy dogs ---  like holiday elves.  If you look at their dear, patient, cranky faces, you will see JUST how much they enjoyed this little Christmas exercise.



It started with baths for everyone.  Oh joy!  They shivered and cowered in our claw-footed tub as we scrubbed off the detritus of several weeks at our farm, which has been snowy, icy, and mostly muddy—and which features bigger animals who fertilize the ground regularly for us.  You can read between the lines.  The water in the white tub ran dirty for quite a while.  After their scrubbing, they all emerged looking like drowned rats, but clean and sweet smelling.

 

Once they were dry, the real fun began.  Our wardrobe options included a little santa suit with a black belt and an elf hat/ivy collar ensemble.  Our rough, tough little friends--who really are all very sweet tempered--endured our Christmas caprice with a mixture of scorn, trepidation, patience, resignation—and refusal.  The younger Westie, Iris, was patient at first but later refused to have any part of the festivities, fleeing upstairs at the very sight of the red Christmas outfits.  Gus, our big red male border collie, was the real refusnik—he headed outside and never got near the costumes, which were really too small for him anyway.

 

I know it’s kind of perverse for a holiday celebration, but we really had fun with the dogs this Christmas day. They are so clean and soft from their baths, and they looked so droll in their outfits.  All are now peacefully sleeping on the sofa or floor now—with no clothes on at all. Dog heaven.

 

There are so many Christmas stories that focus on animals. One of my favorites is that the farm animals are magically able to speak when midnight strikes on Christmas eve.  What would our dogs say?  Maybe something like “Well, our people are strange, but let’s indulge them. After all, it’s Christmas.”
 

It is a bare 3 degrees this morning in Osage County, the morning after the Winter Solstice.  Yesterday Hank and I put up (well, HE put up and I watched) a bird feeder right outside our kitchen window. A 12” x12” pavilion-like affair with a slate roof. On the platform we offer up our very best bird food—peanuts and black sunflower seeds.
 
In the true spirit of the solstice, the bird feeder was resurrected from last year when it met an untimely “end” –blown down in the Osage County winter wind time and time again until finally the slate popped off one side of the roof.  Hank then buried it in the garage until we could repair it and bring it back this winter to feed the birds.
 
It’s fitting that we resuscitated and repaired it on the winter solstice. It was 12 degrees yesterday, not balmy, but Hank’s favorite weather for the vigorous work of cutting trees and digging postholes.
 
So we replaced the original square wooden post and stand with an Osage Orange post we found in the hedgerow.  Was it straight? No.  It is gently curved with a “Y” at the top. Hank sunk it in the ground more than 2 feet so it would NOT blow down again. We screwed the house platform firmly to the two prongs of the “y” and immediately stocked it with piles of peanuts and sunflower seeds.  

We headed straight in to the house to the kitchen window and almost immediately had our first visitor--a chickadee headed down to the platform from the hackberry branch nearby, snatched a seed, and headed back to the branch to work it over.  Quickly the house had visits from the big colorful birds who remind us so much of Christmas ornaments—blue jays, cardinals and finally the king of our bird-feeding buffet (three feeders, a suet cage…and growing), the red-bellied woodpecker.  Heaven!  There they were just 3 feet away from us, gobbling peanuts and sunflower seeds in the frigid winter weather. We get such pleasure watching these visitors and thinking of the sustenance they get from the seeds and peanuts.

 
Reviving our birdfeeder recalls elements of the many traditions and stories surrounding the winter solstice.  Rebirth, renewal, food and light to celebrate the great turning point when the nights cease to get longer and the days begin to lengthen. Most cultures have some form of winter solstice commemorations, legends and rituals. Practically speaking, folks really needed to keep track of how to meter out their winter stores to be sure they would make it through the winter (the famine months) until a new crop could be planted in the spring. Psychologically and spiritually speaking, we want and need to know that the longest night has passed and that spring and light and life truly will come again.

 
Arthurian legend tells of a fisher king—a wounded or maimed (and thus made impotent) king who is healed by the holy grail.  The fisher king’s body is injured or even lost, but his head still lives and speaks (spooky, eh?).  The fisher king is sometimes conceived of as a mandrake root, a root that has limbs or branches that resemble a human shape. The root goes dormant in the winter, but comes to life again in the spring.  In some cultures, it is known as the a plant that represents love and fertility:
 
Mandrake in Hebrew is ?????? (dûdã'im), meaning “love plant”. Among certain Asian cultures, it is believed to ensure conception…… Most interpreters hold Mandragora officinarum to be the plant intended in Genesis 30:14 ("love plant") and Song of Songs 7:13 ("the mandrakes send out their fragrance.   --Wikipedia
 
Our mandrake root of an Osage orange tree now supports our bird feeder. Head and body reunited, our feeder firmly planted in the frozen ground now sustains the birds in the famine days of winter, until the spring comes again.

Last April, my husband, Hank, mentioned that we needed to burn off the dead standing grass in 60 acres of CRP (Conservation Reserve Program) on our Osage County farm. According to Hank, the department of agriculture, or whoever manages the CRP program requires that you burn your native grass plantings once every three years. I suspect there are other things you can do, like mow, to be in compliance, but what fun is mowing, when you can make a 60-acre bonfire?

I was a little skeptical, but Hank rounded up a crew of like-minded pyromaniacs … and several of their family members and significant others … and we made a long afternoon of it. I will admit that the event was quite breathtaking … even scary at times. My job was to keep the crew hydrated and to take pictures. Since my then-new digital camera had a video function, I experimented with that. Last weekend, I finally got around to playing with some of the photos and movie clips in iMovie, Apple’s video editing program. I hope you like how I put it all together.

Next year, we have fewer acres to burn, but I am sure it will be just as exciting. This time, I will document lighting the backfires and other quirky processes that help keep this fairly out of control event seem like it is under control. In the meantime, I will put together some other movies of the farm to share with you here.

Homer Zuckerman: “Well, what can I say about this pig that hasn't already been said? I know a lot of you folks have come out to the farm and you've seen the words, and a lot of you have asked me, 'How could this have happened?' I don't know, but it has happened... at a time when we really don't see many miraculous things. Maybe we do. Maybe they're all right there around us everyday, we just don't know where to look. There's no denying that our own little Wilbur... he's part of something that's bigger than all of us. And life on that farm's just a whole lot better with him in it. He really is some pig.” – E. B. White, Charlotte’s Web

This must be one of the last warm days of the year in Osage County. Or so I keep telling myself when a sunny day rolls around this late in October – and then we go and have another!  The warm golden days are so welcome, especially after chilling rains and the dark skies that push autumn on to its inevitable conclusion.

There is a lot going on at our farm this October. We have finally populated our farm with more than the 26 chickens we have raised since last May (the eggs should be coming soon!).  Hank and I have recently become fascinated by rare and heritage breeds, and after some searching, we have found ourselves five Highland Cattle and four Mulefoot Hogs.  I will write about the cattle later, but suffice it to say that they are gorgeous, peaceful, shaggy beasts, and we are so glad to have them grazing on our beautiful meadows.

I had heard of Highland Cattle, but “Mulefoot Hogs”?  No way.  They sound outlandish. “Pigs are pigs, right?” I thought (ignorantly).  Never had I heard of Mulefoot hogs until my husband began reading to me about heritage breeds out of Storey’s Illustrated Breed Guide to Sheep, Goats, Cattle and Pigs one morning in bed – he’s so romantic, you know.

Okay, so what are Mulefoot pigs? We like their history because it links to ours in some way. My father’s people came from Pike County in Missouri, which is north of St. Louis along the Mississippi river. Mark Twain’s Hannibal is not far away. Mulefoot hogs were raised by farmers along the Mississippi who would put the pigs out on the river islands in the spring, and pick them and their offspring up in the fall.  Ingenious, yes?  The pigs would be safe, could graze, root and fatten all summer – and be retrieved in the fall.  This model depends, however, on the self reliance and resilience of the breed.  These are no antibiotic-dependent, over-bred pigs forced to live on concrete floors and have their food provided for them.  They prefer to forage and live on their own.

Mulefoot hogs are unique in having syndactyl feet – just one toe rather than a divided hoof.  Thus, “mulefooted” hogs.  They are known as “lard” animals – a commodity formerly much in demand on the frontier – and they also produce beautiful pink flavorful meat. And amazing hams.

Because of their history, and because helping to save a rare breed is compelling, we fell in love with the idea of Mulefoot swine.  And now that we have them, we are truly in love. Really! Right now, it’s like having puppies. (Yes, I KNOW they will get huge.)  But they are intriguing given this is our first experience with pigs at all. We have three young females (gilts) and one male (boar). The youngest female is just 6 weeks old. She has a yellow tag and thus is named Daffodil. The second female is a bit larger and is named Tulip (orange tag). The third and largest female is Lily (white tag). And much the largest, the young boar (green tag) well, I don’t have a name for him. Ideas?

We learned from the breeder, Arie McFarlen, in South Dakota, who has been instrumental in preserving and propagating the breed, that these hogs are very social and gentle, and like treats like bananas, apples, even cinnamon toast. I have Lily, at least, eating from my hand (having spent an inordinate time on the grass [carefully chosen spot] in their pen offering chunks of banana and apple, raisins and even ginger snaps).  Okay, I’m in love with these darling piglets (I am told the correct term is “baby pigs” – don’t care).

Like Wilbur in Charlotte’s Web, these are rare pigs indeed. Miraculous pigs. A unique, historic breed. They are “mulefooted hogs” (don’t you love the specificity of it?!). Just 200 in the world. A valuable breed that should not be lost from the earth. It’s an honor to help in that mission. Will we propagate them? With dedication. Will we eat them? Yes. With respect, and honor, and appreciation. Will we assure that they enjoy their lives? Absolutely.

As Homer Zuckerman said in Charlotte’s Web: "[these pigs are] part of something that's bigger than all of us. And life on that farm's just a whole lot better with … [them] in it."

By August and September, my basil plants are finally big and bushy enough to supply enough green leaves for making pesto.  From May on, I hoard my basil and “mow” it occasionally to keep it from flowering and going to seed.  I want to keep it herbaceous for as long as possible.  I’ll steal a few leaves for  chopping with fresh tomatoes and mozzarella, or for making my pasta fragrant and tasty, but I am building up my crop to make pesto.
 
Even now in Osage County Kansas in the middle of October, my basil plants are flourishing, and its time again to make pesto to save for the “fresh basil-deprived” cold winter months.
 
The scent of basil is intoxicating. Surprisingly peppery, intense, intoxicating.  I don’t think any fresh scent is as strong or enlivening except possibly that of freshly squeezed lemon juice and zest.  Both these fragrances just wake me up and make me happy.  Now citrus one can have most times of the year, but basil, fresh basil, last only a few months. EXCEPT if you make pesto and freeze it.
 
In making pesto, great as it is, you face some slow food dilemmas. If you like to use local food, you aren’t going to find any pine nuts in Kansas. My husband points out dourly that our pine nuts come from… China.  But hey, they are the classic ingredient. If you want to use something more local, use walnuts.   But then again, you don’t find any olive groves in Kansas either. And you cannot make pesto without good olive oil.
 
So here is the recipe that I like (adapted from a recipe I found at www.elise.com), and have used already for several batches of “green sunshine”.
 
Fresh Basil Pesto 

Ingredients:
2 cups fresh basil leaves, packed
1/2 cup freshly grated Parmesan-Reggiano or Romano cheese
1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil
1/3 cup pine nuts or walnuts
3 medium sized garlic cloves, minced
Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

 
1. Combine the basil in with the pine nuts, pulse a few times in a food processor. (If you are using walnuts instead of pine nuts and they are not already chopped, pulse them a few times first, before adding the basil.) Add the garlic, pulse a few times more.
2 Slowly add the olive oil in a constant stream while the food processor is on. Stop to scrape down the sides of the food processor with a rubber spatula. Add the grated cheese and pulse again until blended. Add a pinch of salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste.
Makes 1 cup.

Serve with pasta, or over baked potatoes, or spread over toasted baguette slices.
 
Place in freezer-safe containers and freeze.
 
Then all winter long you’ll have stored in your freezer little time capsules of the long, lazy, basil-green, fragrant summer!

My husband and I belong to a pack of dogs. Really! We think we are the alphas, but it’s always up for grabs who is really in charge, especially, and ironically enough, as far as the small dogs are concerned. We find the bigger they are (at least in our pack) the gentler and more docile. The smaller – the more feisty and independent.

Above is Gus, the Border Collie (with the bandana) and Woodrow (a Cairn Terrier, like “Toto”)  in front. Both were born a year ago, Gus on the 4^th of July; Woodrow on July 27. Lucy is half hidden in back.

These are the two Westies (West Highland White Terriers): Iris, in front, who is 2, and Lucy, who is 3.

Our fifth dog is Gus’s sister Clover (as in Red Clover).  She was the runt of the littler, and was left behind by her mother several times as she moved the litter.  Luckily our friends Bryan and Carolyn restored her to the pack each time. She’s a great dog, but much smaller than Gus (August). She’s loving and sweet but very much a loner.  In this picture, she looks like a dog from the spirit world.

The biggest of our dogs Gus the Border Collie, is really the softest hearted.  He’s gangly and goofy, and he often reminds me of Scooby Do.  What do you think?

When we go for a walk, Iris (who was also a runt – we always go for the “underdogs”), follows quietly at my heels most of the time.  Occasionally, she clicks abruptly into a rowdy mood and chases Gus, who gamely ambles beside her as she chases him full speed.  A swift runner, and a nimble one, she is still no match for Gus and his long legs.  Here she is pivoting at full speed.

Our pack loves to take long walks on our farm.  They range ahead of us often, but always check back to see that we are coming, especially Woodrow – that's Gus way up by the gate.

This farm is dog heaven.  They love the ritual of the walk: so many things to explore, sniff, harass and experience.  Today, Gus emerged from the CRP with a box turtle in his mouth. I extracted it gently – he looked so proud – and led the dogs away so the poor turtle could have some peace.

Other times, the dogs all catch a whiff of something and must pause to decipher the scent.

By the time I have walked the circuit around our farm this morning, the dogs have easily covered twice the ground I have – they meander and run and frolic and detour.  They are happy and tired – and hot.  So they take a dip in their very elegant swimming pool to cool off.

It was a beautiful breezy morning in Osage County this August 28^th.  It will be a hot day, but we beat the scorching heat and had a lovely long walk together, just me and my pack.   

My five dogs and I took a walk this morning on our farm in Osage County Kansas. What with travel and guests, I have not had time to do this in a while, and I wanted to get back in touch with the farm, and discover what late August was revealing. It’s August 26, and I want to know how and if our farm is transitioning into fall.

The dogs are SO excited when I say “Walk???” “Want to go for a WALK???” I tell myself they recognize this word “walk,” but I must confess that they respond to any word spoken in an excited voice with rise in pitch at the end to indicate an enticing question:  “food?”; “go??”; “outside??”; “treat???” But I do have my straw hat on, so that is a clue that it is to be a walk, and when I head for the pine grove, you can tell they are delirious because they bark and whine and wrestle and tackle each other, and jump on me – and Woodrow, the smallest, nips my heels to get me going faster. He even lifts his muzzle and yodels/howls a bit:  “Roo roo rooooooo!” Oh we are excited to go for a walk.

We head to the threshold of our yard that leads into the pine grove – it’s the portal to our many adventures. We always take the same circuitous route – east past the First Pond (now dry but well worth stopping by in April for a swim), past the Second Pond (now almost dry but well worth stopping by for a swim in April, May and June). Then we turn south along the eastern edge of our farm and head for the big Kahuna of ponds, which I call “Draw Pond.” It still has lots of water; it’s the biggest, and it’s fed by a long meandering creek that follows the draw. Lily pads and frogs abound – the dogs love this place. They all immediately splash into the water, pursuing leaping frogs as they hurl themselves from lily pad to lily pad. The dogs plunge after the light-footed frogs in vain, but there is no stopping them from their everlasting, joyful quest to snatch a frog in flight.

After the Draw Pond adventure, we head northwest and uphill towards the Picnic Grove, where I have a bench under the shady Osage Orange canopy, and where last spring we unintentionally flushed a covey of quail from the underbrush. We rest for a while there while I count the myriad kinds of burs I have collected on my pants legs—at least four different kinds with four different fastening devices. And of course the dogs are covered in them; on the Westies especially, the burs knit and knot their silky white fur into a dirty web. Oh well.  I don’t have to tell you these are not pampered show dogs.

Now we turn the corner around the barbed wire and hedge post fence that defines the Picnic Grove and turn south again, walking along the CRP, where the big bluestem is now coppery on top rather than green-blue. I’m also seeing clusters of sunflowers, and a whole new generation of wildflowers that must be characteristic of later summer in Kansas: Gone are the daisies, the black-eyed susan, the glorious field of liatris, and in their place I find helianthus, snow on the mountain, goldenrod, various asters, hemp dogbane, partridge pea and several other flowers.

We pause on the high southern edge of our farm to visit Bobcat Pond, scene of a box turtle romance earlier this month, and find water still lingers in its red clay bowl. A quick dip (for the dogs), and we head towards the western boundary of our farm, walking along the rise of one of the terraces – the site of our yearly early August liatris extravaganza. Almost all are spent, replaced by helianthus and goldenrod. As we approach the western tree row, the two big border collies rush in ahead of me.

Suddenly to my right I hear – and almost feel – a percussive beating of the air. I swing my head around and spot … a large wild turkey hoisting itself clumsily but powerfully into the air. She’s either fleeing the dogs or leading them away from her nest. I do hear a “chip, chip chip” coming from the hedgerow, so I do my best to get the dogs on the move down the mown path towards home. I hear no mayhem as they come running, so the turkey young must be safe from my ravaging dogs. They are sweet and friendly, but they are dogs after all.

We head home, closing the wide, meandering circle, moving north towards the house and barn along the tree line that also marks the path of an abandoned road from when the place was homesteaded in 1906. As we finish our journey, the dogs are markedly different from when we began – they are quiet, serene, satisfied, wet, and worn out. Time for a nap in the warm sun. 

I take inventory of our journey and how the landmarks have changed since early August – and since the beginning of summer. I can feel the season slipping away: the air is cooler and less muggy. I can see it slipping away: the light has a different slant and quality; the ponds are mostly dry; the big bluestem glows golden red rather than cool blue. It’s still alive and growing, but turning the first colors of autumn. Everything is yellower, drier. Most of the cool blues of summer (the water, the bluestem, the liatris) have faded (or warmed?) to golden, copper, sienna, and brick. Even the flowers of this season are mostly yellow:  sunflower, goldenrod, partridge pea. The leaves on the hardwood trees are still green – none have turned – but the signs are there in the smaller flora – change is coming. The sumac sports its prehistoric-looking crimson plumage; its leaves are scarlet, a sure sign of fall.

The walk this morning has renewed me and delighted the dogs. We always take the same route, circling clockwise around the 120 acres, from landmark to landmark, but it’s always a unique experience as we track the sun and the seasons in Osage County, Kansas.