This is Reese, the matriarch of our flock. I took this picture because she was looking “fluffy.” Mind you, it’s not a word I use often when describing my sheep, but it seemed as though her coat had changed, almost overnight. She was sheared six weeks before so she already has over an inch of coat growth.

Inner Coat - Wool

Outer Coat - Hair

The Navajo-Churro fleece consists of both wool and hair. The inner coat of wool is the closest growth to the skin and is a separate layer from the “hair”, which are the longer locks you see draping the sheep later in the season. The inner coat can grow to three to six inches and represents roughly 80 percent of the fleece. The hair, or outer coat, comprises 10 to 20 percent of the fleece and can have a staple length of six to 12 inches.

Reese is my girl (remember in the blog post about the pasture gate—she “called out” that it was open)!! She’ll always walk to me to get a back scratch or shoulder rub but doesn’t like the camera. So for me to be able to snap a quick photo of her fleece was a pretty special occurrence. It’s easiest to see the wool-hair variation on her because of her coloring and markings.

She’s definitely pregnant, too—I can tell—so I’ll make time for lots of back-scratches and shoulder rubs in these coming months.

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Chickens are an endless source of entertainment.

I was late one morning getting to the barn and opening the coop so everyone came charging at me when the doors were finally opened.

They know exactly which galvanized can houses the feed corn (a staple which we feed) and which has the chick feed or “crumbles.”

I always feed the chicks first and then move on to the mature birds. When the bag of crumbles rattles, mature hens hop on top of the can and plop themselves into the feed bag as fast as they can.

We have so much hay in the barn. There’s a mound of loose hay David picked up and it rests next to the bales. The chickens LOVE to pick through it!  They’ll scratch and hunt all day long in that pile, I’ll sweep it back up at the end of the day, and the next morning it’s scattered.

And one of these days I’ll video some of the action that goes on between two hens arguing over the same nesting box (again, we’ve plenty of laying boxes to go around but many choose the same one). Hens can be quite vocal with one another when it comes time to lay.

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When I was young, Dad would bring home our Christmas tree from a hunting trip.

Red Cedar Woodland in Virginia

In those days, he’d hunt on the large farms of friends. It would be rare to see him except at dinnertime (after dark, of course). No doubt, he’d eye-up the trees as he made his way to his deer stand and cut it down on the way out.

It was always exciting seeing him pull into the driveway with the tree in the pickup!  Now, we were no ordinary family…no fir for us…nor balsam…not even a spruce….the Johnson family always had a CEDAR! 

I didn’t realize until I was older that we were the only family on the block (possibly in town) to have a cedar Christmas tree. Let’s face it, by the time a tree is lit and decorated, you have no clue what kind it is OR how “perfect” it is.

By the time we were teenagers, we were begging Dad for another kind of tree!  Our forearms were so red and scratched from hanging ornaments and stringing lights in the cedar that we looked like we’d been in a fight with a feral cat. And the needles?  It was like a trip to the phlebotomist—all over your hands. Each year, the ornaments made it further and further out to the end of the limbs (who says wisdom doesn’t come with age?).

Like I said in the Tree Farm Webisode:  I’m totally hooked on the Concolor Fir now — its scent is so wonderful. Come to think of it, that’s exactly what mom and dad would say of the Cedar.

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We make an annual pilgrimage to South Carolina for our family reunion. That means a solid week of family-, beach-, and vacation-time. It also means BOILED PEANUTS!

Peanuts after two weeks of drying.

Boiled peanut history is a bit sketchy. Apparently, boiled peanuts were a direct result of Sherman’s march to the sea that split the Confederacy in half and deprived soldiers of food supplies. Peanuts were available and were either roasted or boiled. Someone added salt to a batch (maybe from fatback?? salt, during those times, was hard to come by) and discovered, not only was it tasty, it preserved the legume for up to a week in the soldier’s knapsack.

Our boiled peanuts rarely last an afternoon at the reunion. Over the years, we’ve reached an understanding: if anyone is headed out for a newspaper or sundries, you’d best not return without a bag of boiled peanuts.

Last summer, I asked the lady who runs the stand in Garden City, S.C. how to boil peanuts. It was July, in South Carolina, her store is barely air-conditioned and she said the peanuts boil in a kettle full of salted water for about five to six hours!

I’ll stick with the roasting for now…and count down the days to the reunion this year.

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“Now, I don’t want you to bring anything….”

What to bring?

That’s what mom said this morning when we were discussing what I would bring to Virginia for Thanksgiving. Now, we both know I’m going to bring something. I can’t not bring anything. It’s not how I was raised. You never come empty-handed – anywhere – especially to a family gathering. And not because you’d be looked down upon, made fun of, or, goodness forbid, not invited back, but because it’s an extension of your heart.

Everything!

It’s such a good feeling showing up with an armload of covered dishes that you’ve created – be it casseroles (done that) desserts (had to make three trips back to the car one year) or a fresh turkey (you don’t even want to know what the bird last year dressed out at). This year, I didn’t have much time in the kitchen in the days leading up to Turkey Day, so I was afraid I wouldn’t have much to give.

“Don’t bring anything” (i.e. – ‘I’m your mother and I know you’ve been terribly busy lately so please don’t go to any trouble. I’ve got everything covered this year’). Okay, Momma….

To all on this happy occasion: Have a loving and lovely Thanksgiving!

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