Posted in Raised by a village

It’s Good for Rheumatism

Daddy’s text this afternoon indicated that he found a possible beehive swarm. In my phone call to him as I left the office he requested a brood box, a hive top and bottom, and instructions to pick him up after dark. Cryptic at least, fully instructed at best.

Jim and I arrived after dark with an empty brood box on the back of the truck, and veils and gloves. Oh sure, some beekeepers go into boxes barehanded, without veils, but to me, that is just asking bee stings to the face.

We discovered a new swarm of honeybees, completely moved into an abandoned pair of supers; the section of a standard hive where bees make honey, not where the queen lays eggs or brood (baby bees). Not bad, a swarm in a box was easier than convincing a swarm to move out of a tree. However, a chain had been laid on the abandoned boxes and the bees were beginning to incorporate the chain into the structure of their new residence.

My job at 9:45 pm: move the tractor chain from the bee abode, and add a temporary cover so they can be moved to a permanent location. Oh, and make sure that 10,000 bees stay calm.

I donned my gloves and veil over my long-sleeved collar shirt. Jim and Daddy provided instructions from a distance, “move the chain slowly” … “just move it quickly and drop it behind the box” … “don’t rile them, the bottom box is full” … “put the top on with the vent down.”

Did I mention it was 9:30 at night, in the dark and that I fought a migraine off and on all day? Truth be told, Jim worked a 12-hour shift, then pulled the box supplies from our inventory, and Daddy had been out working most of the day as well. So we were a bit tired.

Then a bee stung my knee, and the hive activity kicked-up a notch. Slowly moving the chain was not an option. I grabbed what appeared to be the other end of the chain and slung it on the ground. Buzzing amplified round my bonnet and they crawled on my arms and pants. “Now put the cover liner on and leave them until tomorrow .” I ducked away to clear the trailing bees. After a minute or so, I went back to them, put the cover on the new hive and ran.

As I removed my red chicken sloggers to rid my sock of a wayward bee, I asked daddy, “Did Papaw ever get stung?” Daddy replied, “Oh sure. ‘Good for the rheumatism’. At least that’s what Dad used to say.”

I guess that’s better than, “suck it up buttercup.”

Posted in Raised by a village


Between feral dogs attacking daddy’s steers, hawks stealing chickens, and a donkey who lost his mind and injured 3 goats, the past few weeks have been interesting on the farm. With the spring kidding season, we welcomed 14 kids, plus daddy’s pygmy goats bore 10 (Yes, we have goats available). Now, as summer officially begins in a few weeks, we watch for the paragliders who loop low over the fields and buzz the animals from the air. These motorized gliders started out a few years ago high in the sky. Tonight, two of them buzzed the hay field lower than the power lines swooping in and around the terraces. One of them saw me and had to increase speed to raise above the power lines (generally poles are 40 feet tall). Another had blinking flashes, so I am guessing that they were recording video.

Daddy asked if I knew who they were or what they wanted. No, I do not know who they are or where they land and take-off. They are annoying and creepy. Last year, they buzzed the pasture and made the goats run. That infuriated me.

What to do? For the dogs, we are working with animal control to trap the feral dogs. And now, I have to watch for paragliders who circle the farm. They saw me tonight, making a large X symbol with my arms and waving them out of the air. They were low enough for me to see their sunglasses and helmets. If you know anything about the motorized paragliders in western Lincoln County, NC, let me know.

Posted in Raised by a village

Princess Buttercup

What’s in a Name? I wonder why Shakespeare never compared names to goats. Imagine it: Juliet standing on her  balcony, Romeo hiding in the bushes, and Juliet sniffs the air. Instead of comparing surnames to a rose, she would have said, “dude, did you come from the goat field?” The play just would not have been the same. Yet I digress. 

Those eight goats that Jim brought home a few weeks ago, they’ve all been named, except for one. Honestly, I thought she (the last one) was a boy, because one of the four kids kept escaping when we did vacccines, I couldn’t remember which white goat was which! My coworkers named the others: Madea, Sheri, Wanda Sykes, Wendy Williams, Lady Gaga, Ashy Larry and Tyrone Bigums; the last two were characters on the Dave Chappell Show. Wendy Williams was chosen because we realized that she’s a fainting goat and my co-workers insisted that we name our fainting goat after Wendy Williams. Still no name for the escapee. With 25 goats, and because I have no idea whether Madea, Wendy, Wanda or Sheri is the mother of “Skittish Brown-headed Girl”, we decided that we could name her anything. I just need something to put on her paperwork so that I know which goat received which vaccine. Yes, celebrity names make it fun when I talk about my goats and less awkward when one of them gets the worms. I named two animals after my lifelong friend LeslieR. It was a little odd telling my life-long friend Leslie that she didn’t make it as a chicken or a guinea pig. That text message was something like “had to bury Leslie today, she was attacked by a hawk.”

New Year’s Day, I texted my friend Lisa to say we were running late to lunch because, “we had to move Ashy Larry and Tyrone Bigums to the bachelor pad. Lady Gaga had the scours, so she got goat dewormer. ”  Lady Gaga was identified as “the little one with the poopy-butt”.  

Tonight, in the 15-degree evening temperature,  I still could not come up with a name. I moved Bert, Ernie, Tex and Clara back to the main pasture and decided to ask the social media masses for name suggestions.  With Jim as the final decision-maker, multiple entries and several laughs, we settled on (as you wish)  “Princess Buttercup“. 


Wanda and Wendy

Princess Buttercup

Bert and Clara
Bert, Ernie, Clara and Tex

Posted in Raised by a village

Somewhere Along the Way

At some point, two years ago, I became known as the “crazy chicken lady”. Last year,  when we added goats to the menagerie,  I gained the title of “Crazy Goat Lady”, and set about naming our herd after celebrities.  Friends and coworkers helped name a few. I’ve studied breeding schedules, feeding schedules, goat health, nutrition, and I’ve helped deliver a few new kids. 

Breeding season is in full swing. In my mind, I’m calculating the number of bales of hay required to feed them through the winter, watching for signs of illness and Jim is planning catch pen systems for herd checks and vaccinations.   We’re considering retail sale of packaged meats (processed at an inspected facility) and visioning business strategies to make the farm profitable.  

It’s common for me to sit in an operations meeting during the day at the office transforming notes and processes into requirements for developers, then hours later, I’m standing in a barn wearing overalls and shoveling manure or chasing a wayward goat by moonlight. On weekends, I’ve stood in pulpits and in front of groups of women listening to ideas for mission projects or facilitating small group discussions.  At home, I have Gantt charts on the kitchen whiteboard for farm and house projects. 

More than once, people have asked, “how do you do it?” And my response is often a shrug and a joke that I don’t sleep much.   Honestly, I don’t know the answer.  I take phone calls by blue-tooth / hands-free while commuting and send emails at times when others are sleeping. Yesterday, I realized that my blog hadn’t been updated in months, actually, since the week before mom had surgery then went into hospice. Funny how illness, death and grief will rearrange schedules and priorities. Life gets in the way. Years ago, I started blogging when we were primary caregivers for my late mother-in-law during during her end stages of life.  Blogging provided an outlet and opened doors for me to join a virtual community of caregivers. 

More recently, when I became the farmer-professional-extraordinaire, I had bandwidth and space for sharing about the funny things that happen on the farm and how “city-folk” find my antics amusing. When Mom had surgery a few months ago,  I didn’t have the bandwidth to share with others outside of my inner circle the daily routine of home-work-hospice/hospital-farm-volunteer-commute. Some days, it was all I could do to feed the dog and cat, make coffee,  shower, commute somewhere (hospice,  work, church, home), and repeat. 

Coordinating  mom’s care and being there for daddy became my number one priority.  My husband,  my dad, my brothers, my inner circle, my tribe (those close family and friends) … they are what mattered.  They’re still what matters. They’re my world. When someone told me that I needed to remember that other-people-somewhere-unrelated cared about mom and they thought she should get “this or that”, I simply responded,  “I know they are interested. They don’t get a vote. My role is to make sure that she gets the best care, and I will do that to the best of my ability until my last breath.”  

I struggled to sift through grief, anger, doubt, and fear, just as others demanded to know why I didn’t pay attention to them. I recognized that I needed to stay connected, but I sought resources to help me deal with the day-to-day crap. There’s a great book by Megan Devine called “It’s OK that You’re Not OK“. I highly recommend it for anyone in the wake of death or for the caregiver sitting in hospice awaiting the last hours, days and weeks. 

In the midst of it all, I posted random pictures on social media,  listened to the news, went to work, and somewhere in there, I kept the clothes washed and gas in the car. Thank goodness for Jim… he washed dishes and made lots of meals. 

I’m still that crazy chicken/goat lady. Life on the farm still happens, and I’m still amusing city-folk with normal things like having a goat-naming contest for the newest second-hand goats that Jim brokered. At some point in the next few weeks, I’ll finish year-end reports and maybe start sewing tote bags from chicken feed sacks again. 

Working on a puzzle at Hospice.

As the goats turn….

We replaced a floor that had been held together by old carpet and the Grace of God.
An elephant to remind me of my tribe.
Posted in Raised by a village

A Pile of Rocks and Harvey

“What do you want for our 15th anniversary?” Jim asked in July. 

“Rocks.” I replied while shoveling stalls.

“Like in a necklace?” He asked with a puzzled expression. 

“Rocks for the driveway. Gravel…stone…just not crusher run or rip rap.” 

“That’s what I want too!” Jim replied.

Thus began the search for our anniversary gift to each other. We made multiple phone calls, internet searches and I even had a  conversation with a guy who told me, “you’re my kind of woman for wanting gravel.” Finally, we found Kerns Trucking in Kings Mountain who scheduled the delivery. 

I remember that as a child playing in the sandbox, I drove my miniature metal Tonka truck over to my Barbie doll’s dirt house and dumped a load of grass, twigs and sand.  Flashing to reality, on the delivery day, the driver deftly backed toward the house, tilted the dump truck bed and poured a stream of gravel as he slowly exited.

Now, I’m preparing to manually distribute that small remaining pile of 17 tons of gravel to fill a few water washed pot holes. As I shovel the wheelbarrow full, I think of the devastation left this week in Houston in the wake of Hurricane Harvey and the potential devastation to come with Hurricane Irma. Filling a few washed-out places in the driveway is nothing compared to families in the great state of Texas who are ripping out sheetrock, throwing away furniture, photos and mourning the loss of pets, livestock and people. I see the images of piles of ruined possessions on lawns and remember that pile of ruined stuff as a child when my family home was engulfed in flames. Loss of possessions by fire and flood devastate us. But the comraderie, the outpouring of support, of rescuing animals, infants, and livestock, of feeding and providing shelter to strangers…these are the examples of hope, love, courage and endurance. 

I’ve posted on Facebook several reputable charities through which to donate. From UMCORRed CrossHouston SPCA and food banks, there are multiple reputable organizations through which you can donate supplies, diapers, formula, food and money. There are ways to volunteer to help clean-up and begin rebuilding.  It is a matter of you taking the initiative to help.

Posted in Off the Farm, Raised by a village

Interplanet Janet and Jim at the Eclipse 2017

We helped chase the great frog away from eating the sun.  At least that’s how I understood the Cherokee legend of the eclipse.  

In May, we heard the first news reminder about the “Great Americian Eclipse 2017“. The last total solar eclipse was in February 1979. There was an annular eclipse in 1984. I remember teachers telling us, “the next great eclipse will be in the year 2017!” We all gasped at how  old we would be. 

With the childhood memory of not being allowed to go outside because of a fear of burning our retinas,  I bought eclipse glasses. Jim and I discussed the event and we studied the path. At the realization that the path of totality would be near St Louis,  Jim said, “Let’s go visit Jessie.” I jumped at the opportunity. My appreciation of being married to someone who embraces my nerdiness blossomed. 

We called my sister-in-law to exclaim,  “you’re just north of the path of totality of the eclipse! If we book our plane tickets,  can we come and visit?”  Jessie replied, “of course you can visit, there’s a what? Is this a joke?” 

We assured her that our quest to see the eclipse in totality was no joke. I booked the flights that night, requested a day off from work and my inner geek bubbled to the surface. I embraced my inner nerdy, little girl, excited to see the event we’ve anticipated for 38 years. The memory of Ray Bradbury’s short story, “All Summer in a Day” came to memory, and I cast away doubts of missing the spectacular event. 

I became practically giddy with anticipation of visiting family and such a momentous event. As others made plans to go to various points in South Carolina, we prepared to fly 600 miles to Saint Louis, Missouri. 

It was a weekend of silliness and catching-up. 

I wore my eclipse glasses to grill tilapia, and made references to songs like “Total Eclipse of the Heart“, “Here Comes the Sun“, And “Staring at the Sun

Carbondale, Illinois was our first choice, because Carbondale is the point where the eclipse will also be in 2024. Alas, travel to that location, combined with the throngs of people anticipated in that apex spurred us to St. Clair, Missouri.  

We arrived to find a town normally populated with 4,700 people overflowing with nearly 10,000 people. As we entered the town, undecided where to stop,  I said, “let me see if there’s a Methodist church nearby.” Sure enough, United Methodist Church of St. Clair was there on the right, complete with a tree in the back field. The perfect spot.  

We spread out our blankets under the tree, and decided to explore town before the eclipse started. 

Local t-shirt shops sold out of mugs and shirts. We spoke with a local screen printer who had shirts on the press and could not get merchandise out fast enough to meet demand. We met other Methodists from Texas, Chicago,  Indiana and Arkansas. We all had similar ideas: we didn’t know where exactly we would go, but figured that we would find sisters and brothers from the connectional table near the flame and cross.  

We chatted with strangers of all different faith walks, and we enjoyed a picnic lunch under the tree.  Folks played frisbee, talked about the educational experience, and one group used a mirror, binoculars and white board to project the eclipse in low-tech. It was brilliant. 

We laughed, and I danced in the shadows of the crescent-shaped leaves. At one point, my sister-in-law just shook her head when I ran bare-footed on the old basketball court singing, “St Clair is alive with the solar eclipse” to the tune of “The Sound of Music”.  

Then, the magic happened, after 38 years, we saw totality. For 2 minutes and 40 seconds, we saw the corona, solar flares and divine beauty. Photos on my phone could not capture the splendor of the moment. I decided that I wanted to bask in the moment, to see the stars, listen to the cicadas, and laugh at the street lights that glowed at 1:18 pm. The world went dark, and the area grew quiet. We all cheered. There was cheering among strangers! Not at a sporting event, but at the beauty and wonder of the universe. We cheered at the amazing gift of clear skies and low humidity. Suddenly, it was light again. The temperature rose, the cicadas stopped, and people began dispersing. We walked through town again, and mde our way into traffic. It snarled on the interstate, and we used google maps to find alternate routes to avoid accident. We made it to the airport in plenty of time. 

At the airport, we met others who flew in the previous day and went to various places like Festus, DeSoto and Herculeneum. 

I thanked my sister-in-law profusely for the hospitality. I thanked Lisa for dog-sitting Scooby, we thanked Cynthia, Erma Deen and my brother for taking care of the animals at home.  We thanked our bosses for the time off from work. It’s a group effort to fly 600 miles for a 2 minute event. 

I’ll be sending a donation to St Clair UMC tomorrow to thank them for their hospitality. 

We thanked the pilot and attendants for their efforts to get us home safely. The airport at Charlotte was a madhouse.

It was worth it. In fact, we’ve already started planning for the 2024 eclipse. 

Posted in Raised by a village

What about Uncle Ollie?

My aunt Anne asked, “So, since you’re here, do you want to take Uncle Ollie’s portrait with you?”  

Turning, I replied, “You’ve got uncle Ollie? Where?” 

“He’s been hanging in my spare bedroom for the last 7 or 8 years. He’s creepy.”  

“I wondered where he had been hanging out. Sure, I’ll take him home with me.” 

A few moments later, Aunt Anne brought a large ornate, guilded frame, approximately 20″ x 24″ from 1909 with Uncle Ollie’s cherub face. Painted with soft clouds in the background and exquisite details, his blue eyes seem to follow you. It takes a moment for someone to ask, “wait, is he dead in that photo?” 

Why yes, yes he is. 

Uncle Ollie, my maternal grandfather’s older brother lived for 3 years, 3 months and 29 days from 1906 to 1909. He died of scarlet fever; his post-mortem infant portrait hung around much longer to become something of family lore. In the late 19th century and early 20th century (think Victorian Era), photos were expensive to produce as digital would not arrive in the scene for another century. Childhood and infant deaths were common during that time. People did not own cameras like we do today in the form of mobile phones. Often, families only gathered at deaths, thus the photos memorializing a child would be post-mortem.

Visiting my grandparents’ house as a child, I remember seeing the Uncle Ollie (his portrait) hanging in the living room. Granddaddy said that he liked having him nearby (even though granddaddy was born 5 years after Uncle Ollie died). When granddaddy died in 1980, Uncle Ollie’s portrait came home with my mother and hung in our basement until 2011 when he went to my Uncle Jeff. Now, the portrait’s with me. 

That afternoon, I loaded Uncle Ollie face-up in the trunk of my car. My logic was that he lived long before the horse-less carriage, and interstate traffic would probably frighten him. 

On my way home, I stopped and stood in the cemetery looking at my grandparents’ grave markers.  Alone, behind the church, I asked, “Alright, where’s Uncle Ollie buried?” There came no response. 

Birds chirped and cars passed on the highway. I spoke again to the ground, “Okay, now what am I supposed to do with Uncle Ollie?” 

Yet again, no answers came from any of my deceased maternal relatives. I could imagine them saying something like, “We don’t have a use for his portrait anymore. He’s your problem now.” 

I searched the markers for Uncle Ollie’s name. None found, I sighed and drove the 75 miles home, Uncle Ollie still in the trunk. Jim and I agreed not to bring Uncle Ollie in the house. For now, he’s on a shelf in the storage shed, Jim officially creeped-out. 

Jim asked, “Where is he buried?” 

I said, “Grandaddy was quiet when I asked.” 

Jim asked, “Did you expect him to answer?” 

I said, “Of course not. I was hoping for a sky-written note by an aerial pilot.” 

I tried Google; there’s a site for just about anything. Thanks to,  I found Uncle Ollie buried 3 miles from my grandparents and great-grandparents at Jersey Baptist church. Somewhere between 1909 and 1934, my family became Methodists, and everyone else is buried at Cotton Grove. I guess the reason for the switch will remain a mystery. 

On a more recent trip back to Lexington my brother Kelly and I stopped at the Jersey Baptist Church cemetery.  

It became a game of “Where’s Ollie” as we searched for Uncle Ollie’s grave. I asked Kelly if we should split up and search. He replied, “not unless it gets dark.” In his competitive spirit, he silently said to himself, “I don’t want her to find it. I want to find it first.”

We walked to a section that I thought was too new, and turned right. Kelly methodically searched each headstone and said that he heard a voice say, “turn around” and asked, “who’s talking to me?” As I started back through the section dating from the late 1700s and early 1800s, Kelly spotted the small worn marker that I missed, and he circled around a second time. Third row from the trees, near the edge of a cornfield, he found the headstone of Ollie Lee Hedrick, oldest son of my great-grandparents. There it was, much smaller than I imagined, near two other infant markers. We began to feel a great sense of loss and peace at the same time. An almost delighted energy filled the area, and we said to no one in particular, “He’s not been forgotten.” 

Recently, we found a family photograph from Christmas before my first birthday. There, in the background behind me laughing and wriggling in my mother’s arms, hung Uncle Ollie’s portrait.  He’s been with me my whole life, waiting for us to play a game of hide and seek in the graveyard. 

*****Photo of Uncle Ollie’s portrait below******