Making Hay...

     The farmers have been working so hard. The rain stopped, the sun has been shining. And shining! It was over 100 degrees a few times in the last couple of weeks. We got our hay baled--round bales again, though our stores of "square bales" are depleted. The big round ones last about a week each, requiring less work, but there is a bit more flexibility in feeding with the smaller. Children love hay bales. When I was a little girl we spent many hours making "hay forts" in the barn. The bales were heavy to move at the time, but it was a load of fun constructing networks of tunnels. 

     George and Bill, the farmer's sons, worked harder than anyone. Bill had hayfever and I can remember him working behind the bandana tied around his haydust-covered face. At that time there weren't all the big round bales you see dotting fields now. We were thankful for the fifty pound square bales and mechanized hay elevators. Gone were the days of hand raking and putting up loose hay in the barn with a giant hay fork. But there was still the hard work of walking behind the hay wagon after the bales had been formed, throwing them up to someone on the wagon who deftly positioned and stacked them. Thousands of them. For weeks. And then a reverse procedure to unload them all into the barn.

     We are blessed at The Abbey Farm; the farmer who leases the adjacent land from the monks bales our hay when he does his. He makes the large round bales and lines them up for us near each pasture.  He says it's "no trouble." We have a fraction of the land he does, and he says it's easy to open the gate and come through. His sons do the work and it takes a few hours over a period of a couple of days. Such goodwill!

     These are hardworking young men. Brad and Andy are big and strong and have smiles about the size of Kansas. Looking down from their huge tractors, backlit by the blazing sun, they're like superheroes to our boys. They give the boys rides as they move the bales. The chatter that ensues in our house goes on late into the evening. Gus and Andy made plans for riding the giant combine when it comes time to harvest corn.

     We made sourdough bread and homemade doughnuts to give as thanks. Hopefully, they like sauerkraut--we made that this summer in a big Polish crock. And Goat milk. Marie's goats are in full swing and she milks a couple hours a day. The bread, doughnuts, a can of sauerkraut, some fresh eggs, and a cold Mason jar of goat milk were placed in a basket lined with a floursack cloth. Brad smiled and graciously accepted the gift. Good lad! He said, "This is worth more than anything!" I'm not sure about that. But his smile and gratitude, and Superhero Haymaking sure were to us! Thank you, Brad and Andy! God bless you.

God bless all of you,

Suzy

The Abbey Farm

Saint Who?

    
     I never used to pay attention to why cities like St. Paul, San Francisco, St. Augustine and St. Joseph were named after saints.  I was raised Episcopalian and was used to the surname; I guess I realized these people were remembered for something. People of all Christian faiths acknowlege certain early Church Fathers such as Augustine of Hippo and early martyrs like Stephen. When Marie and Susanna were homeschooled we used a great history text that detailed the European settling of the New World, and the different styles of the Spanish and French and others. I had not studied in such detail in public school.

     We can all acknowledge documented historical events. Of course we may interpret them somewhat differently, but it is fascinating study. Sometimes I've felt that my own geneological research, while interesting, is moderately futile. Twenty generations back and we all have close to a million ancestors--so why would one thin line of them mean anything more than another? I lost my drive for geneology, but not for history in general. As I studied them, I realized what incredible, spiritually inspiring people the saints were.

      Each city named after a saint has a good reason for it. I do not understand how people deny the Christian foundations of our country. There was tragedy involved in some cases of "religious" settling. There was horror in the case of many Native American Tribes. Man is fallible. Good intentions may not always produce the results that I think God would have wanted. Man, throughout history,  is sadly inhumane to man. So instead of focusing on the evil, I find it better to focus on what was learned and most especially what was good. The lives of saints are such stuff. Recently up for sainthood is Mother Teresa. No one would deny that hers was a heroic life. Try Googling some lesser names like these: Maximilian Kolbe and Edith Stein, both of whom died in concentration camps in the Holocaust. Just incredible people.

     Four years ago on July 20th,  an obscure saint became known to me. Mary Pat was prep'd in the OR, ready to have a gastrostomy tube, or "GT" inserted at five months old. A GT enters directly into the stomach through a stoma created in the abdomen, and is used for feeding. Mary Pat could not nurse. She could not suck from a bottle. All those months since she was out of the NICU we'd been managing a Nasogastric tube or "NG". That's the feeding tube that goes up into the nose and curves down the back of the pharynx, through the throat and espophagus and into the stomach. The mucous membranes are very sensitive and tender, especially in the pharynx. Insertion is at best uncomfortable to a cognizant adult. Most people describe it as intensely irritating or painful. During insertion there is a good chance of putting the tube into the lungs, rather than the stomach. As a nurse I'd inserted NG tubes so I felt at an advantage. But those were adults. And this was my tiny baby struggling for life. I prayed so hard to God to let her suck from a bottle. I pumped for six months to provide her with the best nutrition possible. I ached to nurse her, but the chance of her taking a bottle would be a miracle to me. It wasn't to be. Every time she needed the NG reinserted she screamed and cried and turned blue. I prayed and tried to be so cool and clinical. Being an RN did not make it any easier.

      Mary Pat additionally needed a procedure to tighten the top of her stomach.  She had such bad gastric reflux that one day she stopped breathing and had to be life-flighted back to the hospital. She had an apnea monitor at night which I needed to attach to leads on her chest. False alarms in the middle of the night were not uncommon.  I prayed that Mary Pat would not need any of this, but the answer I wanted did not come. We checked into the hospital and dressed Mary Pat in her tiny gown. The nurse took her and I cried as I had before her other surgeries. Mary Pat had additional difficulty with each of her surgeries when intubated, because of her cleft palate, jaw surgery and anatomy.         Dr. St. Peter was her surgeon. He was very kind and comforting. He spoke with us before the surgery and was just the confident, calming presence that I needed. Bruce and I settled in for the wait. My reading led me to the "Saint of the Day." A Feast Day is usually celebrated on the date of death of the saint...the day they entered the hereafter with Christ. This day was the feast day of St. Apollinaris.

     St. Apollinaris was the first bishop of Ravenna in the first to second century. He was a great preacher and many came to know Christ because of him. He was brutally beaten and tortured more than once by the Roman officials but he kept evangelizing and was eventually martyred. St. Apollinaris had been ordained and sent to Ravenna by St. Peter himself. St. Peter! This fact may seem in no way to be connected to Mary Pat, but I knew that in God's great love, He knew about what would happen to Mary Pat, and when St. Peter did ordain St. Apollinaris He knew that centuries later it would give comfort to a frightened mother. Mary Pat was indeed in His hands.

     Dr. St. Peter came out after the surgery to tell us that it had gone well. As we began to breathe a sigh of relief, he informed us that he encountered something serious. Because of the need for that surgery, Dr. St. Peter found a life threatening condition called a diaphragmatic hernia and expertly fixed it. He also found that her large intestine was not where it should be. Part of it was basically unattached and could have led, undetected, to a fatal condition of twisting and strangulation of the bowel. He fixed it. If God had answered my prayer and allowed her to nurse, or even to be fed from the bottle--to be spared of the NG tube and later the G-tube--these conditions could very well have killed her. I learned the beauty in unanswered prayer.

     I have a thirst for wisdom, knowledge and history that will never be quenched in this lifetime. Though eternity may be incomprehensible, thinking about getting to know all those who have gone before us--is a taste of paradise to me...

...as is Mary Pat.


God bless you,

Suzy

The Abbey Farm

Ora et Labora

     Marie attended an Agribusiness/Entrepreneurship course at a local community college. She was worried about the days away from her Nubian milk goats but Susanna jumped right in to take-over farm chores and Marie was able to make the break. About a dozen students from three or four counties participated. Marie said the course was quite informative and inspiring. Each student had an idea for his or her own business and was required to present a business plan at the end of the week to a panel of judges.

     Marie’s business plan was entitled “The Abbey Girl Goat Farm” and detailed the first few years of a small-scale dairy farm. To our surprise and pride, she won first place. She’s been buzzing ever since. Marie is aware of her time constraints and the difficulty involved with starting and running a small business. She knows that college has to be factored into the plan in two years. Nonetheless, she has a realistic, yet hopeful excitement. She has been working like a horse and praying a lot about her plans.

     “Ora et Labora.” Pray and Work. Today is the Feast Day of St. Benedict of Nursia.  He is considered the Father of Western Monasticism. As a young man in the fifth century he was educated in Rome and became offended by the worldliness he witnessed. He retreated to a remote place. For a few years he lived a hermit’s life in which he prayed and fasted and grew closer to God. Later, he founded the Order of St. Benedict and a code or “Rule” to live by. That “Rule of St. Benedict” is followed to this day by thousands of men living a Monastic life.

     In the mid-1800’s, Benedictine Monks came to the United States from Germany. By the late-1800’a a group of them made their way to Kansas. They built a Monastery and founded a college. The Abbey Farm was started by these same Monks and Brothers. Farm Managers were later hired and lived here with their families. Our children are certainly not the first to be raised here, to pick dandelions, to turn over rocks in search of night crawlers, to wade in the pond, to raise livestock.

     Whether or not we know it, we are all called to a life of prayer and work. In an age where the created is celebrated in absence of its Creator, many are offended by the worldliness and self-centeredness of our culture--where people are treated like things and things are valued more than people. We don’t have to become hermits, or to move to a farm to reverse the trend. Wherever we are, in whatever occupation we can make a difference. There is dignity in the most menial of work. There is sanctity in the weakest of lives.

Seek God. Love His creation as He does. Ora et Labora.

Suzy

The Abbey Farm



High Ground

     The Abbey Farm sits about a mile west of the Missouri River Bluff. Over the last couple of weeks the river has risen and there is extensive flooding, primarily on the Missouri (East) side. The children are in awe of the swollen river, it's beauty--and the devastation of it's flooding. Beauty, yes. If I said that the pictures were of a giant lake, one would think they were gorgeous. The sight is humbling on many counts. Nature can only be "controlled" so much. Loss can occur in a matter of moments.

     Charlie Wagner grew up on the Abbey Farm in the 1930s and '40s. I have mentioned him before. Strong and stocky, lined and tanned, his blue eyes sparkle when he recalls memories from his childhood. His grandson has his eyes. He is in his twenties and is lean and strong from farming his other grandmother's land across the Missouri beside the levee. He moved his young family to the farm and has been taking care of his grandmother. We saw him recently.  He told us that the farm is flooded since the levee broke, but they had time enough to move the family into the house they still own in town. Despite great loss, he was thankful that they were all safe. He had neither an angry nor complaining tone in his voice. I felt great respect for the man.

   

     Marie and I drove around town again today. She had seen pictures, but when she stood on the bluff and looked out over the miles of flooded land she was speechless. Back in the car we prayed together as Jim played games happily on the "BabiPod." Life is just like that: there is a contrast of tragedy with ignorance, of suffering with love.  This flood has been devastating for some. Let's remember to pray for all those who are suffering or challenged by it, and for all tragedies occurring in the world. It may not halt a flood or stop an earthquake, but it can give strength, hope and grace.

 

          Think it doesn't make a difference? Well, what could it hurt? Prayer is good for the soul and for the world. I believe it makes all the difference.

God bless you,

Suzy

The Abbey Farm

    
      I have mentioned my friend, Christy, a few times. When we first moved to the Abbey Farm, we met and became immediate friends. She has a large family and homeschools her children. She and her family live on Providence Hill Farm and they raise chickens, goats, pigs, dogs, cats, and the occasional stray or injured wild animal. She is an amazing person and I'm blessed to know her. She is wise and capable, Godly and loving. She recently started a blog called Artisan Farmstead Living. It is fascinating. It has just begun to tap her knowledge of so many arts and skills.

     Christy recently was given "The Stylish Blogger" award by another blogger. When received, you are to post seven things that you haven't posted before about yourself, and pass the award on to 15 other bloggers. Christy has passed this award on to The Abbey Farm and I am honored. Those to whom I pass the award are all much farther along than I. I hope they are touched, at least. New to the blogging world I'm blown away by the numbers of bloggers, their writing abilites, their experiences. I first heard of blogging when a friend of ours in a big "Think Tank" in DC started one a few years ago. Then I saw the "Julie and Julia" movie. I was intrigued. But until I started this and surfed around, I did not know how big the blogging world was.

     I'm probably more an open book than most, but here goes:

1) It's probably no surprise that I loved the show, "The Walton's" when it first came out. But I also loved it when it was syndicated for reruns, and then when it came out on DVD...

2) My favorite activity as a kid, besides anything with horses, was swimming in the Gunpowder River. There was a huge rock we dove off of that we called the "Petrified Tree" because it had markings like the bark of a tree.

3) The Gunpowder also lent itself to great "Floatdowns." We would drive a few miles north, and with tractor innertubes floatdown the river to a spot closer to home.

4) When I was ten I asked Jesus to be the Lord of my life. I may not have always lived up to His standards but I love Him dearly and will persevere to do just that.

5) My first pony's name was Misty. She was two and had not been broken and so I trained her myself the summer after sixth grade.

6) I've had an ACL repair from years of misdiagnosed injuries including tripping while backing up for a flyball, playing on the Hereford Bulls Varsity Softball team. I stepped into an unfilled soccer goal hole. And then jumping down from a post and rail fence, and finally, skiing on a Double Black Diamond run when Susanna was only seven weeks old (nuts!).

7) I am a Registered Nurse and it will always be a part of my identity. I will work again outside of the home...one day.

     Right now, my focus is this big, beautiful family, and where God has put us.

God bless you!

Suzy,

The Abbey Farm

I will add to this list as I become more blogger-savvy, but here are my favorite sites to check out, and who I feel deserve the award. I'm sure they don't need me plugging them, they may be way to busy to even notice. I began this blog for family and friends, and that circle of friends has gained a new layer of inspiring e-friends. I am thankful for them.

http://smittenkitchen.com/
http://thepioneerwoman.com/
http://freedomismychoice.blogspot.com/
http://irishcatholichumanist.blogspot.com/
http://www.mothersruleoflife.com/
http://testosterhome.net/
http://www.patheos.com/community/theanchoress
http://www.102030go.com/
http://littlestayathomemomma.blogspot.com/
http://www.bigredkitchen.com/
http://artisanfarmsteadliving.blogspot.com/
www.planningwithkids.com

What the World Needs Now...

     I've mentioned our tradition of "Highs and Highers" at dinnertime. We go around the table and tell about the best part of our day, and then something that God taught us, or some wisdom we want to share. It works fine for all faiths, those with no religion, even those with no words. Jim usually says, "In my heart!"  Margaret tilts her head when her turn, smiles and just says "Aww!"-- because no matter what she says we always go "Aww!"

     Yesterday, Marie and Susanna had friends over for dinner. The last time one of them was here we had a great lasagne. He'd never, ever had it before. It was actually on the schedule again for dinner and we didn't want him to think it was all we ate. Without too much time to switch gears, Susanna found five frozen pizzas in the freezer, and "Voila"...dinner fit for a Teen! I thought wryly that I'd just posted that morning about homemade pizza on: theabbeyfarmcooks.blogspot.com. Well, there is a place in the world for frozen pizza, too. The block of time which was created by not having to cook was welcome in my busy day. It meant more time for play with the children.

     Dinner was fun. We remarked that we had all skin colors and hair colors at the table...light, Asian, and dark skin...blonde, brunette, red, black and even gray hair. Conversation was fun. I told about my second, chance meeting with the same man outside the Walmart in two weeks. He was taking donations "to decrease heart disease and diabetes." He had books on a table covered with a canopy. Two weeks ago I found out he was from the Seventh Day Adventist Church. We shared aspects of our religions and focused on what we agreed on. We even prayed together before parting. I learned that Seventh Day Adventists believe strongly in taking care of the body and they eat a macrobiotic type of a diet.

     In the last two weeks I learned more about his religion and his way of eating. The latter I incorporated more into my life and have been blown away by the results. I feel so much better eating a diet composed more largely of whole grains, vegetables and legumes. I really don't see myself ever becoming a Vegan, but the simple changes I've made have been very calming (to my usual hyper-anxious state of feeling the need for multiple radars on my head for keeping track of so many little ones). And I have had more energy and less joint pain. I encourage you to read more about a macrobiotic type of diet, as it makes so much sense. The American diet is more and more in the media as to its adverse effects on our bodies and lives. I'm living proof that you don't need to go hog-wild to see positive changes.

     I saw the man again yesterday and I had to stop and thank him for his role in my research and changes in my diet. We talked more about our faiths, and I had to point out that what he believes my Church teaches is not what it actually teaches. I hope he listened. I told him that it's my belief that Satan does exist, and so his prime target is all that God holds dear...Christ, faith in Him, the Sanctity of Life, the family, Christians, the Church. For my friends who disagree, I urge you to read "The Screwtape Letters," by C.S. Lewis. You may not be convinced, but you will understand other Christians better.

     What did Burt Bacharach write? "What the world needs now, is Love, Sweet Love..." So true. Love will come better with understanding. In the end, God will be the judge. I do believe there is an ultimate truth; it is not relative. Circumstances may be relative, but truth is not. Mercy is relative...and that's where God will be just. In the meantime, we're called to be like Him. We may not agree in this life--but we certainly will in the next. Christ's desire is that we are all with Him in eternity. We are called to "...make a defense to any one who calls you to account for the hope that is in you, yet do it with gentleness and reverence..." 1 Peter 3:15.
We do it not out of pride, but love. Sweet love.

God Bless you,

Suzy

The Abbey Farm

And Summer Vacation Begins...

The end of the school year brings joy and readjustment. More children are at home all day and I have to draw on skills learned from my homeschooling days to construct a schedule. If I didn't, it would be chaotic. Teens cannot sleep all day, boys cannot watch TV and play video games all day, toddlers need structure. We all need structure. We first got the idea from theFlyLady.net who called it "Camp GonnaWannaFly." The kids now call it "Camp Abbey Farm".

Essential is the monthly calendar. We put holidays, birthdays, events, feast days, appointments and planned dinners on it. I do plan meals at the beginning of the month. Each week or every few days has a theme. Oregon Trail, Pony Express, Dairy Day, Aerospace Day, Everything About Goats Day, Pond Ecosystem, Pirate Day, are but a few. Today was Birdwatching Day. We didn't see as many as I thought we would, but we had a great hike, took notes, and ate GORP.



Great Blue Heron flew to the top of the tree!





Mom got a workout, Two-year-old got a ride. She started out with a hat...



Ben's rendition of the Heron on the Tree

On the way back to the house, Max stated, "I shall cherish this day for the rest of my life."

I will too, Max. Can't beat that for the first week of summer vacation.


God Bless you,

Suzy

The Abbey Farm

Henry The Bull

    
     Growing up on a cattle farm, I spent hours and hours in the pasture. My mother warned me to stay away from "Henry" the Black Angus Bull, and I did. His progeny were a different matter. Over those years I perfected a method of befriending the steer and the calves. Cattle are shy creatures. I patiently gained their trust. I'd get closer and closer to them over a few days and then sit and wait. Their curiosity piqued, they would inch closer, necks outstretched, nostrils snorting and breathing deeply. I would offer an apple then, and bristle-y tongues would dart and arc out of their mouths to chance a taste. The group would move as one, but there was always a leader a little more bold than the others. He'd get the first contact and back up, the whole group backing away with him. He'd come again and again. Finally, he'd get a bite of apple.

     I considered it a success if I managed to get a touch or a pet in. They were cute. The mothers were remarkably trusting. Henry pretty much stayed away, and ate to fuel his giant body. Years later as an adult, I'd still enjoy watching the Black Angus herds on neighboring farms. Susanna was two or three when she asked to go see the "Black Mangoes." Took me a minute, but with a laugh we jumped in the car and did just that.

     A well-known method of relaxation is to imagine yourself in a peaceful place, maybe on the beach or at a park or beside a bubbling brook. To this day, my place of refuge is in the pasture, under the trees on the farm where I was a child. We had no PC's, no videos, no cell phones. No, but we did have hours and hours of play, adventure, exercise, creativity and make-believe. I want to be sure that my children have that.

     Old Henry? He really was calm--except when a neighboring Hereford Bull broke out one day. Henry cracked out of the post-and-rail fence as though it were chopsticks, and faced off. He'd be sure that no other bull would get to his cows. Mr. Mayo, Henry's owner, saw it all and raced to the scene. With courageous effort he managed to scare off the other bull. Henry, however, would not budge. The story goes that Mr. Mayo had to grab a 2 X 4 to "convince" angry Henry to go back through the broken fence.  It was about the only Henry drama we ever knew.

     A few years ago we acquired a bull calf. A Jersey. We named him Henry. It didn't take long for us to realize we'd have to either castrate him or sell him (what were we thinking?). Luckily, a local woman who milks her own cow needed a young calf. Her cow's calf had died and she wanted to see if Henry would be accepted by her; that is, if we could part with him. We were happy for Henry to have a better purpose in life than to fulfill a memory or a whim of mine. He didn't need to be paraded over little jumps and ridden one day (cattle do jump!). We certainly would never have been able to send him to slaughter. We had bonded, and he was just too cute.

     There are so many good memories of the old farm that I'm thankful for. It's why I asked Bruce if we could try our hand at small-farming. It's a lot of work. Bruce's co-workers talk about perfect lawns and carpentry workshops and television viewing. Bruce plays with children and cuts grass. Many children and lots of grass. He never complains. I love my suburbian-raised husband for loving me enough to take on this farm. He says he loves our place, too.

     I don't think we'll ever raise beef cattle. I just have too many memories of my friends,
 the Black Mangoes.

Suzy,

The Abbey Farm

Photography by my brother, Chip Greene

Floating

   "On a cloud," "subbing at work" or "like a boat" are more common applications of the word "floating." Lesser-known is "filing of horse teeth." Horses' teeth grow continuously until old age when they begin to wear down. It's a fairly steady process so that a horse's age can be determined by its teeth. Most of us are familiar with scenes in a book or movie when people argue over the age of a horse and someone yanks open the horse's mouth to look inside. Horses are grazing animals and eat for a good part of the day. Their side to side chewing action causes sharp edges to build up on the sides of their teeth. The sharp edges become painful and can interfere with eating. So we need to "float" them.

     I once created quite a problem when I had my horse's teeth floated. It was one of those times where the unfortunate or ridiculous happens, when certain conditions and events fall into place for no reason to annoy us, to confound us, or to get us angry. Though we don't have a choice that it has happened, we do  have a choice as to how we react.  Patience and temperance are virtues. I claim to be no expert, but it is my job to teach them to my children. It makes me feel better to consider that the Olympic coach who can't perfectly execute the "Round-Off, Back Handspring, Back Somersault"-- can teach someone to do it.

     I love the movie, "To Kill A Mockingbird."  I love Gregory Peck as Atticus Finch and Robert Duvall as Boo Radley. There are profound lessons in the movie. Lessons on prejudice, innocence, law, justice, disabilities, and my favorite: self-control. Atticus Finch is my hero. Watch the movie to the end and see why.

     We are called to be good examples to our children. We need to teach them self-control and self-reliance, as well as humility and how to accept help.  A predator picks off a victim and separates it from the herd. When we are separated and alone we are most vulnerable. God knows, we need each other. For help. For inspiration.

     Goodness, what has this to do with horse teeth? Our vet's patience was stretched, I'm sure, when I insisted he come to our farm to float old "George's" teeth. George was an extremely large Thoroughbred, standing 17.1 hands at his withers (base of his neck). That's 69 inches; an average sized man could barely see over his back. I was unable to find a trailer big enough out here in "Quarterhorse Land" to fit him. As much as I wished, I couldn't cut a hole in the top of ours and transport him like the circus animals on the train in "Dumbo." So I asked the vet to please come to us.

    
     Our vet has a great facility. He has the newest equipment. In the "olden days" of my youth we grabbed the horse's tongue, pulled it to the side which forced the mouth open, felt around bravely and somewhat blindly for sharp edges and inserted a rasp (large 1 1/2" X 18" file) to grind down the edges. Inevitably, a finger would get chomped on, scraped or cut. The vet has a much better system. He has a speculum which is inserted into the horse's mouth and secured by a halter. He has an electric burr grinder attached to the end of a two-foot metal pole with a trigger that starts it. And he has a stall-like "stock"  for the horse to be secured in, standing. The owner brings the horse to the facility. The horse is put in the stock, given a mild sedative and the halter/speculum is put in place. Then a lead shank (rope) attached to the halter is thrown over the top of the stock to hold the horse's head up, mouth open wide as the vet burrs away. It is very convenient and efficient.

     Coming to our farm was neither convenient nor efficient, but Dr. McCool graciously consented. Yes, his name is McCool. He is cool. He and his wife are both vets and are fantastic people. We are blessed. Truly. But I don't think he felt blessed that day.  I think we ultimately fell into that "extremely frustrating and annoying event" category for him. George had stood perfectly well all his life to have his teeth floated the old fashioned way. This, I knew, would be a breeze. After parking his truck near the barn, Dr. McCool drew up a smaller than usual dose of tranquilizer, explaining that Thoroughbreds were sensitive and did not need as much as some breeds. George patiently endured the injection, we placed the halter and speculum on him and Dr. McCool threw the rope attached to the halter up and over the rafter just above the stall door. It was tied at just the right height for the doc to peer straight into George's mouth. George was perfect.

     Until he began to sway. To Dr. McCool's "No, no...Oh, no...", George's twelve hundred pounds pitched forward and collapsed. Halter still tied to the rafter, he was suspended by his head.  I froze, wide-eyed, but Dr. McCool deftly pulled a knife from his pocket and sliced the rope. George fell. Thankfully, no broken neck. He lay there and groaned in a drugged stupor, his mouth still open wide.

     Dr. McCool probably wondered why he let this crazy redhead talk him into coming out. He threw all his equipment back into the truck. For me, all at the same time I was amazed, relieved, embarrassed and kind of--fascinated. George was breathing and relaxed and in no pain. He was lying on his side with his head sticking out of the open stall door. I couldn't help but get down on my knees and stare into his gaping mouth. I'd never seen it all so clearly and still. I reached deep inside and found the sharp edges of his teeth. I felt his velvety smooth tongue. A horse's mouth is cavernous. I kept repeating, "Wow!" Slowly and resigned, Dr. McCool came back with his equipment. With a sigh he dropped down beside me. His face was calm. I moved over, and he proceeded to finish the floating job--lying down.

     In the end, George had smooth teeth. I had a bigger than usual bill because of the farm-call. That was understandable.  What made it a little bizarre, was that in hanging George from the rafter, an electric conduit was crushed, cutting off electricity to half the barn and requiring yet another farm-call:  the Electrician. A floating that should have cost $25.00 ratcheted up to $300.00.  There was nothing I could do. On the bright side, George was uninjured and healthy. Dr. McCool went well beyond the call of duty.

     There are certainly tougher things that happen in our lives: serious illness, loss of work, death. The little annoyances are trial runs, so let's not sweat the small stuff. Our character should be shaped, not distorted. The tough stuff will come. I learned that when I lost my husband, Bob, suddenly. What sustained me was God, my family and my friends. People said, "I can't imagine what you're going through." The truth is, I couldn't either. I had no choice but to go through it. One breath at a time, one moment at a time. There was deep pain, but I can say there was no panic, no shock, only a oneness with the Holy Spirit that I cannot describe. I told Him He needed to carry me. He said He would. And He has, so very far.

     Stressful mornings before school, spilled milk, difficult teeth floating and annoying events don't compare with death. I have found myself remarking that I weather the tough stuff better than the small stuff. I need to work on my reactions to the smaller things for the sake of my children. They need good examples of patience and temperance and self-control.  Like Atticus Finch.  And Dr. McCool.


God bless you,

Suzy

The Abbey Farm

New Life

  
     We were surprised this evening by two new baby kids. Bessie did a wonderful job of making her babies fluffy and safe. Marie came running down the stairs and out the door saying, "I hear something!" We thought it was just one of her brothers making noise outside. Gus has a penchant for squeally sounds. We were wrong and Marie's ears proved sharp and right. We rushed out to see them with her. Marie helped them with their first drink.

  
  The boys came out and we all clamored to help and to try to be quiet (impossible--the kids will have to acclimate to four-boy-decibel level). Even Diego poked his head over the door. He made nickering sounds as Marie expressed colostrum for the babies. He watched contentedly over the barn door. He seemed to give Susanna approval as she warmed a furry little body.

    
     And this week our Mary Pat has been learning to walk holding onto only one of our hands. She can't stand on her own yet. She uses a walker at home and school. But I can't express how monumental a step this is. We think she will walk someday, but we never assume nor take for granted. Every step is a miracle. Every life a miracle!

Suzy

The Abbey Farm