Something just didn't feel right this past fall. Deer hunting season came and went and I felt a void. Then it dawned on me. We didn’t have any pigs in the barn this winter.

I love pigs. I adore them. I love to feed them. And they love to eat. Jams, jellies, yogurt. Yogurt is their favorite. And breads. And pizza.

Thinking about the void of pigs this fall made me think back to a very special little guy named Weebles. Here is his story:

Several seasons ago, on the opening day of deer season, our young gilt, Polly, was about ready to become a sow.  She was in the beginning stages of farrowing, or giving birth.

We had bought Polly at an early age, along with Bacon the boar, and a bred gilt Molly. Turns out Molly never did have a litter, and when we went back to the original owner, he refused to make it right. We had paid a hefty sum for a bred pig and it was not to be. Rustic Russ and I were naive and were easily duped by that pig farmer.

However, Polly more than made up for it in our minds. She was an awesome, terrific pig. And good looking. She was a beautiful solid red, with a long slender frame, but nice hams. Her face was perfect, with a personality to match.

Molly, not so much. In fact, Molly was the most homely pig I had ever seen in my life.

When it came time for our perfect Polly to finally deliver, we knew, as she was showing signs of having milk. Rustic Russ got right in with her and assisted with the delivery. He knelt by her head and rubbed and caressed her, telling her it would be alright. She would look at him with those small pig eyes and then look straight ahead. Her body would ripple and shake in contractions.

Knowing what she was experiencing, I felt doubled over as I stood with towel and blow dryer in hand. As she delivered a piglet, Rustic Russ would hand it off to me so I could rub it down and dry it off before putting it on her teat. After one attempt with the hair dryer, that was tossed to the wood floor. Who needs such frivalities, especially in a barn.

I was so scared I was almost shaking. I had read too many books about pigs getting nervous, especially their first time farrowing, and eating their young – alive. I couldn't bear the thought.

As she systematically delivered each little one, we got into a good rhythm. They were all colors. Bright red, red with black spots, red with a white stripe around it's middle, white with black spots, blonde. So tiny, but so tough. I could hardly hold them as they squirmed. I was shocked by their strength. As they screamed for their mother, she started looking up and taking her focus off her birthing, so I had to act fast.

One little piglet didn't seem right. He was breathing funny, shallow. He acted like he would be sleeping and then snap out of it, only to do so again. We put him on her for milk, but kept an eye out.

Once the birthing was done, Rustic Russ and I were so proud. Proud of our wonderful mother, Polly. I was relieved she didn't get nervous and attack her young. We, too, were both exhausted by the process.

Rustic Russ and I like to do things natural, so we had a big pile of straw for bedding and Polly had made a nest. However, there is a good chance of the sow laying on her piglets and suffocating them in the first couple days before the piglets are strong. Polly was being careful as she had her "post labor" meal. However, I was grateful that Rustic Russ had made a little shelter at the end of the stall, like a dog house with a tiny little door that the piglets could enter and get away from their mother. Within the house, there was a heat lamp shining down on the corner bed of straw. We could peek in the removable top and see the ten of them as they lay in a heap, grunting and groaning, toasty under the heat lamp. Polly would lay with her head by the opening, breathing her hot air into the enclosure, reminding the piglets of her presence. Upon feeding time, when Polly called them with a single low grunt, they would slowly amble out and make their way to her side. Of course, as days went on, they would scramble out and race to their milk source, Polly, upon her first call.

The first night, we were worried about the little runt. He just wasn't looking the same as the others. We had given him a small dose of Pen G antibiotic to help fight off any bacterial infection that might be the cause of his lethargy.

I had retreated to the loft in our cabin for the night when Rustic Russ appeared on the vertical loft ladder with a tall Rubbermaid container. "Here, grab this please."

"What is it?"

"That little guy, Weebles. I think he needs to be in where we can keep an eye on him."

So up in the loft he went. Until now, he hadn't had a name. But Rustic Russ thought Weebles was a good one. And it fit.

He seemed OK in the tall container, tucked next to us. We talked a bit about the day's events and then drifted off to sleep, hoping the best for Weebles in the morning. At least he was toasty in the cabin loft in this mid-November northern Michigan weather.

I awoke sometime later with a start. I had heard some shuffling/scooting/crinkling in my sleep. Darn mice! I thought! It took me a minute to focus and realize Weebles had gotten out of the container and was wandering around the 12" perimeter of our bed in the loft. I screamed for Rustic Russ to wake up and help me find him! I frantically searched in the dark, trying not to think of the horrible outcome that may take place – a long 7' drop onto the floor below – surely he would not survive the fall. Plus, the house dogs would be shocked to see a guest appear in that fashion, in the middle of the night.

Quietly, Rustic Russ gently lifted him from near the side of our bed and put him back into the container. Time for Weebles to go outside and join his 9 other siblings and mother. Nice try, but Nature needed to be in charge this time.

Down the loft ladder they went. Rustic Russ bundled up and carried Weebles tucked down in his Carhartt jacket, close to his chest, as left the cabin and made his way through the dark woods and back into the barn.

To be continued...

Until tomorrow – dreaming of spring piglets – God willing,

Woodswoman

Yep, it's less than two months until our little pint-sized TV goes black.

Truth be told...I can't wait.

We have been using floppy “rabbit ears” for over 8 years now.

We get the "major" channels and that's it. ABC, CBS, NBC and, although fuzzy, FOX 33.

Those 4 channels are too much already.

Too much advertising, too much sex, too much blood, too much comedic sin.

Sure, I'll miss some shows.

Don’t get me wrong, there are some great shows out there, as Jean Teller, Senior Associate Editor of GRIT points out…NCIS, LOST, etc., but we'll get by.  NETFLIX can take care of that need. 

Who knows, perhaps we will revert back to the days of the Waltons, where everyone sat around the radio and listened at night. It certainly didn't limit John Boy's creativity.

Or the days of Andy of Mayberry, where Andy took his guitar out to the porch after dinner and strummed for Aunt Bee and cousin Barney. Didn't hurt Opie's creativity.

Or up in the furthest reaches of the Alaskan wilderness, listening to "Trapline Chatter" on the battery-powered radio in their tiny cabin. It didn't bother Heimo Korth. Or his wife Edna. It didn't hurt daughter's Rhonda or Krin's creativity.

My sons won't be surprised. They may think they were the only kids who didn't have MTV growing up in the '90s. I called the cable company and actually had to pay to have it pulled from my service many years ago.

My oldest son became a filmmaker, even with the void of MTV.  Imagine that.

I was from the generation where Elvis was photographed from the waist up.

Where the word "pregnant" couldn't be said on the air waves by Lucy and Ricky.

Where Dick Van Dyke and Mary Tyler Moore had separate beds.

No Victoria's Secret commercials. (What is it they sell anyway?)

Like the Amish, we will structure our day around the sun. Go to bed when tired and get up early, actually before the rising sun.

TV won't factor into the equation. We control our lives. TV doesn't control our lives.

If that sounds odd, think about it for a moment. How many times have you watched TV instead of reading to your child, talking to your spouse about their day, taking that walk in the woods, or simply going to bed when tired?

On June 12th, we will be ready to pull the plug. Those 4 little channels won't impact our lives any longer.

It feels good knowing we are going further into the Bush...

Will you?

Until tomorrow ~ God willing,

Woodswoman

Tonight, as I walked from the main cabin to the Wee House, the wind was howling.

Hard.

It sounded like a freight train, circling around our “40.”

I stopped along my spring snow trail, secured my winter hat and listened.

Closing my eyes in the dark, I relied on one of my five senses to capture the full moment.

My two canine companions also stopped.

I have no doubt our trilogy of horses also had their eyes fixed on us, in the dark cloudy night.

The wind made me think back to my former life, 40 miles north on Little Traverse Bay, in Petoskey.

As a child, I was always a stone’s throw from the Bay, and the mouth of the Bear River.

In my later years, as I raised my filmmaker and golfer sons, we also lived near the Bay. The first thing I did in the morning was look out our front window and view the water, sprinkled with various boats, visible from the hill we lived upon.

It was as if I was drawn to it – from my childhood – from many, many days spent near the water and on the water.

My mind would always go back. Back to my childhood ... when my Dad, who was so dear to me, was still alive.

I was a fisherwoman. A lover of the sport.

A lover of Nature.

Following in my father’s footsteps.

While my other teenage friends were hanging posters of Rod Stewart and The Who, I hung full page pictures carefully torn from Field & Stream or Outdoor Life. Coho’s, Dolly Vardens, Brookies, Steelhead.

My favorite, the Steelhead.

I took pride in stumping the high school boys with the question, “What’s the difference between a Steelhead and a Rainbow trout?” Only the purists knew ...

I also knew a Swedish Pimple wasn’t something that appeared on your face one morning.

Yes, I was a fisherwoman.

And then things began to change. Slowly, it became more difficult for me.

The loss of life.

The Catch.

He would not give up. From the instant he felt the prick of the lure sink in the side of his pink fleshy mouth, he displayed unbelievable strength. He startled me as my pole suddenly doubled over and began a spasmodic jerking. At this, my Dad cut the boat’s motor and raised his pipe in a toast of his approval. The battle with my most respected fish, the Steelhead Trout, had begun.

The morning sun crept above the horizon moments earlier, displaying to us a sample of the beautiful day that lay ahead. This morning, as always when on the Bay, I relished the early morning stillness. The only interruption was the sound of the tiny beads of water dripping from my line as I pumped my Shakespeare “Back Country Special” (with my coveted #2052 reel), bringing the trout closer. The rocky bottom was visible as the cold water rippled off the sides of the aluminum boat while gliding to a standstill within sight of the shoreline of Lake Michigan.

Across the boat, I could see the steam rise from my Dad’s old red plaid fishing thermos as he poured himself a second cup of strong black coffee. The sun now reflected off the lures imbedded within my father’s old, well worn fishing hat that sat firmly on his head in the cool morning breeze. Only hours earlier he knocked softly on my bedroom door signaling it was time to substitute my warm flannel sheets for the long underwear I had laid out the night before. I now regretted that I chose to sacrifice a hearty breakfast for a few scant moments of sleep, as the blend of the aroma of my father’s pipe and the stench of the fish he had previously caught were causing my empty stomach to turn. We remained in silence, as if not to allow spoken words to disturb the communion we shared with our surroundings.

As I eyed the frigid, clear water, I half expected to see the fish lash the surface and face another element unknown to him. My ungloved fingers were growing numb from the cold as I reeled him closer. Sixteen-year-old girls who rise at dawn to sit out on an open body of water should not worry themselves with wardrobe, only warmth.

I was now getting anxious to land the fish, as I had waited all morning for this moment. As the fish neared the boat, I could sense his loss of stamina as the line grew slack. I knew I must keep the line taut, as by now he had most likely worn a hole in the side of his mouth and the lure could slip from its hold. Suddenly, without warning, my line peeled out as the Steelhead made a final effort of retrieval and displayed to us the acrobatic tendencies for which he is famous. I let him use all his strength, then brought him in, to the side of the boat. The net was poised in the water, waiting. I spied him gliding on his side as I drew him near. Straining my eyes to get a better look, I could see a companion fish was with him, very near, as if sensing his fate. It dashed off with a flick of the tail as the hooked fish was scooped into the net and placed on the floor of the boat. I watched, mesmerized, in awe of his beauty. My Dad casually dealt the fish a solid blow from a small wooden club, my silver lure was removed, and the fish was gently lifted from the net. He lay still, next to me on the cold seat of the boat. His wet, silver side glistened in the sun that now warmed the morning air. His gills opened and closed, frantically gasping the air for life. Then, as if in final defiance, he gave one last flip, landing in the dirty leaves and rainwater that covered the boat’s floor. There he lay, bending and flipping as if he were free to swim away. My fascination was broken as my Dad shouted, “Good job, Kiddo!” before starting the boat’s engine to begin trolling again.

The magnificent trout, left to die this way. I turned my eyes away as the boat began its course, but not before rainwater splashed on my face and mingled with my tears.

Until tomorrow ~ wishing my fisherman Dad were here ~ God willing,

Woodswoman

Skip to my Lu, my darlin'.

Fly’s in the buttermilk.
Shoo, fly, shoo.

We always enjoy having young adults come to Russ-Stick Acres.

As with adults, we enjoy it when they share our excitement.

Excitement about the animals.

And living simply.

LuLu is no exception.

She works hard.

She plays hard.

But it’s more than working and playing.

It’s about being an individual.

It’s about the excitement of being in nature.

Not being afraid to connect.

To be on the cusp of childlike wonder…

…and not be afraid to live life fully.

Something we adults forget at times.

Thank you, LuLu.

For reminding those around you of the wonder of being a kid again.

Until tomorrow ~ God willing,

Woodswoman

This story is about my best friend. My husband. A dreamer and a doer.

Rustic Russ and I were married six years ago, New Year’s Day, by this sign on our property.

We had met three years prior – our first date was sitting at the Big Boy restaurant in Petoskey, Michigan, looking over maps and planning our dog sled outing for the next day in the beautiful, pristine Jordan Valley.

Rustic Russ provided the dogs, sled, and enthusiasm.

I provided awe, wonder, and amazement of this incredible way of life.

After a day with an 8-dog team, I was hooked. On the dogs, and also on Rustic Russ.

From the beginning, Rustic Russ’s mantra has been “less is more”.

He was a master at living within his means – very simply.

However, when you blend two people who love animals and love to fill their farm and kennel to the brim, “less is more” sometimes takes a back seat.

Horses were purchased and procured. Saddles, tack, and … another vet on our speed dial.

“Hogs and Dogz Piggery” was established.

We began processing our own pork.

Dexter cows were selected. We began processing our own beef.

Berries were picked and frozen.

Goats were purchased, bred, and milked.

Sheep sheared and processed for lamb.

Heritage rabbits were purchased and released, to graze freely.

Maple syrup was bottled.

Heritage chickens began their task of providing daily eggs.

Our kennel grew to 50 dogs. Fast. We began to carefully re-home the rescues we had taken into our care.

In addition, our clear land began to take shape.

The main cabin, the Wee House, the Bear’s Den, the “new” Mill, the “old” Mill, the Barn, the Feed Shed, the Round Pen, the Kennel and the Chicken Coop were all made lovingly by Rustic Russ – and Rustic Russ alone.

Fencing for the animals was put up.

In addition, “Russ-Stick Furniture” was born.

Trails were put in, campsites were fashioned.

Lessons were given. Chaps became daily wear.

Horses were trained.

Rustic Russ has a life that now revolves around our forty acres.

His one departure from home ~ Cow Camp.

He’s my moral compass. He believes in lifting up others. No gossip from those lips.

No drama. Most everything is black and white.

Days are filled with chores, hard work, sore backs, and satisfaction.

The next day, it all starts again. I thank God I’m along for the ride.

“Make it your ambition to lead a quiet life, to mind your own business and to work with your hands, just as we told you, so that your daily life may win the respect of outsiders and so that you will not be dependent on anybody.”

– 1 Thessalonians 4:11-12

See you tomorrow ~ God willing,

Woodswoman