Lemon Squeezy Farms

🌿 A Spring Arrival at Lemon Squeezy Farms: Welcome Peaches & Rosie

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Marc and I had been watching Fiona closely, keeping a quiet eye on her from our little “birthing ward.” This past Thursday night, just before bed, I checked the cameras one more time. Fiona was lying there looking… uncomfortable. Not distressed, but not settled either. The kind of feeling that makes you pause and pay attention.

I told Marc, “If you wake up in the night, check the cameras.”
I promised I’d do the same.

Sometime after 2:00 a.m., I woke up and, after a quick trip to the bathroom, I pulled up the camera feed.

What I saw—and heard—had me immediately reaching over and waking Marc:

“Marc! Fiona had her babies! I see two babies!”

In a flurry of layers and rubber boots, I rushed out into the night, the kind of cold that wakes you up fast but doesn’t touch the adrenaline.

And oh… what joy!

There they were. Two tiny, perfect little lives. My first close look stopped me in my tracks—because there was no mistaking it. Their dad was Chunk. It was like looking at little versions of him, right down to their coloring.

Both girls were already being cleaned. Both alert. Both working through that brand-new, wobbly determination to figure out how to stand, how to nurse, how to exist in this big, bright world.

I climbed right into the stall with them.

Fiona had done an incredible job. Calm, steady, and completely at ease—even with me sitting right there beside her. I stayed close, watching her as she finished delivering the afterbirth. And then, in one of those raw and natural moments that still manages to feel sacred, she ate it—instinctively giving her body exactly what it needed.

Life has a way of reminding you who’s really in charge of things.

And it’s beautiful.

This winter at Lemon Squeezy Farms was heavy. The kind of season that lingers longer than it should and asks more of you than you feel ready to give. It was emotionally draining. There were moments of doubt, moments of questioning, and more than a few days where everything felt like an uphill climb through snow that just wouldn’t let go.

But we stayed.

Marc and I kept going—determined… or maybe just a little stubborn. It’s hard to tell the difference sometimes.

And then, in the quiet hours of an early April morning, something shifted.

Standing in that stall, watching two tiny goats wobble into life, it felt like the weight of winter loosened its grip just a little. Like something cracked open and let the light back in.

There is something deeply humbling about watching new life begin.

The first uncertain steps.
The instinct to search for nourishment.
The tiny hops that seem to come out of nowhere, like joy bubbling up from the inside.

It’s impossible not to feel it. That quiet, steady reminder that life continues. That growth happens. That hope doesn’t ask for perfect conditions—it just shows up anyway.

By the time the girls were a day old, I noticed Fiona looked a little… lopsided.

Her babies had clearly chosen a favorite side, leaving one side emptied out and the other edging toward engorged. And if you’ve ever nursed babies—human or otherwise—you know exactly what that can turn into if it’s not addressed.

The warmth.
The pressure.
The very real risk of mastitis.

So, we stepped in.

Fiona has been getting what I’ve started calling her farm-style spa treatments—warm compresses, cool compresses, gentle massage, and a bit of hand-milking to relieve the pressure. It’s not glamorous, but it’s necessary.

At the same time, I’ve been working with Peaches and Rosie, trying to convince them that there is more than one option when it comes to the milk bar. They, like most of us, are creatures of habit. Once they found what worked, they stuck with it.

But we’re making progress.

Fiona has been nothing short of incredible through it all. Patient. Trusting. Steady. She allows me to help without stress, without resistance, as if she knows we’re working toward the same goal.

And after her “spa sessions,” she gets a few animal crackers—because every good mama deserves a little treat.

I know how lucky I am to witness this. To sit in the quiet of that stall and watch the bond between a mother and her babies unfold in real time.

I’ve named the girls Peaches and Rosie.

I don’t know which one was born first, and truthfully, it doesn’t matter. I also couldn’t tell you which one is cuter—because that feels like an impossible decision.

What I do know is this: Fiona has given this farm a gift.

Not just the gift of new life—but the gift of thriving life.

Strong, alert, curious little girls who are already beginning to explore the world around them.

Spring, by the calendar, arrived on March 20th.
(It also happens to be the birthday of my oldest child, which has always made it feel meaningful in its own way.)

But this year, spring didn’t arrive on a date.

It arrived in the early hours of April 10th.
On tiny hooves.
In soft bleats that cut through the quiet dark.
In the steady strength of a good mother and the bright spark of two new lives.

This is when spring began for us.

Not when the snow melted.
Not when the calendar said so.
But when life returned in a way we could see, touch, and feel.

Welcome to this beautiful, chaotic world, Peaches and Rosie. 💛🐐
You are already so loved.

And Fiona… you’ve reminded me, once again, just how strong and good a mother can be.

“See! The winter is past; the rains are over and gone. Flowers appear on the earth; the season of singing has come.”
— Song of Songs 2:11–12

At 2AM… everything changed 💛

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  • 🌿 A Spring Arrival at Lemon Squeezy Farms: Welcome Peaches & Rosie

    Marc and I had been watching Fiona closely, keeping a quiet eye on her from our little “birthing ward.” This past Thursday night, just before bed, I checked the cameras one more time. Fiona was lying there looking… uncomfortable. Not distressed, but not settled either. The kind of feeling that makes you pause and pay attention.

    I told Marc, “If you wake up in the night, check the cameras.”
    I promised I’d do the same.

    Sometime after 2:00 a.m., I woke up and, after a quick trip to the bathroom, I pulled up the camera feed.

    What I saw—and heard—had me immediately reaching over and waking Marc:

    “Marc! Fiona had her babies! I see two babies!”

    In a flurry of layers and rubber boots, I rushed out into the night, the kind of cold that wakes you up fast but doesn’t touch the adrenaline.

    And oh… what joy!

    There they were. Two tiny, perfect little lives. My first close look stopped me in my tracks—because there was no mistaking it. Their dad was Chunk. It was like looking at little versions of him, right down to their coloring.

    Both girls were already being cleaned. Both alert. Both working through that brand-new, wobbly determination to figure out how to stand, how to nurse, how to exist in this big, bright world.

    I climbed right into the stall with them.

    Fiona had done an incredible job. Calm, steady, and completely at ease—even with me sitting right there beside her. I stayed close, watching her as she finished delivering the afterbirth. And then, in one of those raw and natural moments that still manages to feel sacred, she ate it—instinctively giving her body exactly what it needed.

    Life has a way of reminding you who’s really in charge of things.

    And it’s beautiful.

    This winter at Lemon Squeezy Farms was heavy. The kind of season that lingers longer than it should and asks more of you than you feel ready to give. It was emotionally draining. There were moments of doubt, moments of questioning, and more than a few days where everything felt like an uphill climb through snow that just wouldn’t let go.

    But we stayed.

    Marc and I kept going—determined… or maybe just a little stubborn. It’s hard to tell the difference sometimes.

    And then, in the quiet hours of an early April morning, something shifted.

    Standing in that stall, watching two tiny goats wobble into life, it felt like the weight of winter loosened its grip just a little. Like something cracked open and let the light back in.

    There is something deeply humbling about watching new life begin.

    The first uncertain steps.
    The instinct to search for nourishment.
    The tiny hops that seem to come out of nowhere, like joy bubbling up from the inside.

    It’s impossible not to feel it. That quiet, steady reminder that life continues. That growth happens. That hope doesn’t ask for perfect conditions—it just shows up anyway.

    By the time the girls were a day old, I noticed Fiona looked a little… lopsided.

    Her babies had clearly chosen a favorite side, leaving one side emptied out and the other edging toward engorged. And if you’ve ever nursed babies—human or otherwise—you know exactly what that can turn into if it’s not addressed.

    The warmth.
    The pressure.
    The very real risk of mastitis.

    So, we stepped in.

    Fiona has been getting what I’ve started calling her farm-style spa treatments—warm compresses, cool compresses, gentle massage, and a bit of hand-milking to relieve the pressure. It’s not glamorous, but it’s necessary.

    At the same time, I’ve been working with Peaches and Rosie, trying to convince them that there is more than one option when it comes to the milk bar. They, like most of us, are creatures of habit. Once they found what worked, they stuck with it.

    But we’re making progress.

    Fiona has been nothing short of incredible through it all. Patient. Trusting. Steady. She allows me to help without stress, without resistance, as if she knows we’re working toward the same goal.

    And after her “spa sessions,” she gets a few animal crackers—because every good mama deserves a little treat.

    I know how lucky I am to witness this. To sit in the quiet of that stall and watch the bond between a mother and her babies unfold in real time.

    I’ve named the girls Peaches and Rosie.

    I don’t know which one was born first, and truthfully, it doesn’t matter. I also couldn’t tell you which one is cuter—because that feels like an impossible decision.

    What I do know is this: Fiona has given this farm a gift.

    Not just the gift of new life—but the gift of thriving life.

    Strong, alert, curious little girls who are already beginning to explore the world around them.

    Spring, by the calendar, arrived on March 20th.
    (It also happens to be the birthday of my oldest child, which has always made it feel meaningful in its own way.)

    But this year, spring didn’t arrive on a date.

    It arrived in the early hours of April 10th.
    On tiny hooves.
    In soft bleats that cut through the quiet dark.
    In the steady strength of a good mother and the bright spark of two new lives.

    This is when spring began for us.

    Not when the snow melted.
    Not when the calendar said so.
    But when life returned in a way we could see, touch, and feel.

    Welcome to this beautiful, chaotic world, Peaches and Rosie. 💛🐐
    You are already so loved.

    And Fiona… you’ve reminded me, once again, just how strong and good a mother can be.

    “See! The winter is past; the rains are over and gone. Flowers appear on the earth; the season of singing has come.”
    — Song of Songs 2:11–12

    At 2AM… everything changed 💛

  • When the Storm Doesn’t Come (but something else does)

    We were ready for it.

    The forecasts had us bracing, watching the skies, preparing for another round of winter’s grip. You know the kind… where you settle in, plan around it, maybe even mentally prepare for a long, slow stretch of white and cold.

    But this time… it didn’t really come.

    The snow fell, yes. Just enough to cover things, just enough to make it feel like winter still had something to say. But by this afternoon, it was already melting. Slipping away. Turning into puddles and rivulets that ran through the ditches like little rivers.

    And just like that, what could have been a storm turned into mud.

    That feels about right for this season.

    Nothing is quite what you expect. Not fully winter, not fully spring. Just this in-between space… messy, shifting, a little uncertain under your boots. You step outside and don’t quite know what you’re walking into. Ice? Mud? Water? All three?

    Lately, life has felt a bit like that too.

    Plans don’t always unfold the way we think they will. Things we brace for don’t arrive with the force we imagined. And sometimes, in the middle of all that uncertainty… something completely unexpected finds its way in.

    Like a quick trip to town.

    Marc and I ran up to Grafton, just a simple errand, the kind you don’t think much about. But if you’ve lived this life long enough, you know those “quick trips” have a way of turning into something more.

    Because somehow… we came home with two Turkens and four turkey chicks.

    As one does.

    There’s something about spring that makes it hard to resist new life. Even when the ground is still muddy. Even when the skies are gray. Even when winter hasn’t fully let go. Maybe especially then.

    Because these in-between seasons, as uncertain as they feel, are also where the beginnings happen.

    The quiet ones.

    The ones that don’t always make sense on paper.

    The ones that remind you that life keeps moving forward, even when everything around you feels a little unsettled.

    Tonight, the snow is mostly gone. The yard is soft and wet. The chickens are still out, doing their thing, unbothered by the gray skies. And in the brooder, there’s the soft peeping of new little lives adjusting to their new home.

    It’s not picture-perfect spring.

    But it’s real.

    And maybe that’s what this season is meant to teach us…
    That growth doesn’t wait for perfect conditions.
    That joy can show up in the middle of the mess.
    And that sometimes, the storms we prepare for turn into something entirely different… making room for something we didn’t even know we needed.

    Even if it comes with feathers.

  • Mud, Melt, & Miracles

    There’s something about a northern winter that doesn’t just settle into the landscape… it settles into you. It lingers. It stretches. It asks for endurance.

    Just a week ago, we were buried under more than a foot of fresh snow. The kind that muffles sound and presses everything into stillness. The kind that feels less like weather and more like a season laying its full weight across your shoulders.

    And then, almost quietly, something shifted.

    The temperatures softened. The sun lingered a little longer in the sky. The hard, frozen edges of everything began to loosen. What once was white and pristine has given way to muddy muck, puddles, and rivulets of meltwater carving their way through the land. It’s messy. It’s imperfect. It’s beautiful.

    Because it smells like spring.

    You can’t always see it at first—but you can smell it. That damp, earthy scent that whispers, “We made it.”

    The Canadian geese seem to know it too. Their calls overhead feel like a declaration: keep going, keep going… north is calling. There’s something deeply comforting in their return, like a promise kept year after year.

    And then there are the animals.

    Maybe I’m placing too much of my own emotion onto them—but it feels like they know. The chickens, who have spent weeks tucked in and waiting, are venturing out again. Watching them free range, scratching and exploring with renewed curiosity, feels like witnessing small celebrations scattered across the yard.

    Even more, they’ve started laying again. Quiet, steady signs of life returning.

    And our goats… oh, the goats. One is due any day now, with others not far behind. There’s an expectancy in the air, a kind of sacred anticipation. New life is just around the corner, and you can almost feel it pressing in, ready to arrive.

    All of it together—the thaw, the geese, the eggs, the soon-to-be babies—feels like hope unfolding in real time.

    Because if I’m honest, it has been a long winter. Cold. Dark. Heavy in ways that go beyond the temperature. The kind of season that asks a lot from your spirit.

    And yet here we are.

    Mud on our boots. Water pooling in the low spots. The air carrying that unmistakable promise.

    Spring doesn’t arrive all at once—it seeps in. It melts in. It calls things back to life one small moment at a time.

    And with it, something in me is coming back to life too.

    “See! The winter is past; the rains are over and gone. Flowers appear on the earth; the season of singing has come.” — Song of Solomon 2:11–12

    These herbs on my kitchen window sill brighten my spirits.

    It’s free ranging season again.

  • Understanding ‘If You Have Livestock, You Have Dead Stock’

    Owning and caring for livestock is not for the fainthearted. A couple weeks ago our farm suffered a couple losses. It made me think of something our farrier said awhile back, “If you have livestock, you’ll have dead stock.” At the time I thought the statement was rather harsh. Our farrier is a no-nonsense type of person. She wouldn’t know how to sugar coat something if her life depended on it. I understood the main idea of the saying but I hadn’t fully digested the words. Unfortunately, I am learning this and developing a much larger understanding of the phrase… much more than I want to.

    I plugged the phrase into ChatGPT and got some useful information. The saying “If you have livestock, you have dead stock” comes from long-standing agricultural wisdom rather than a single author or moment. It reflects a hard truth farmers and ranchers have known for centuries: animal loss is an inevitable part of raising livestock.

    The story and meaning behind it:

    • Historically, people who depended on animals for food, labor, or income faced unavoidable risks—disease, injury, harsh weather, predators, birthing complications, and simple old age.
    • Before modern veterinary care, vaccines, and controlled feeding, losses were even more common, so farmers learned to expect some mortality, not see it as failure.
    • The phrase became a blunt but practical reminder that livestock ownership carries inherent risk and emotional weight alongside its rewards.

    Why the saying stuck:

    • It helped set realistic expectations for new farmers.
    • It encouraged resilience—acknowledging loss while continuing the work.
    • It underscored that good animal husbandry reduces losses but can never eliminate them entirely.

    Today, the saying is still used in various contexts. It is applied literally in agriculture. Sometimes, it is used metaphorically to mean that any worthwhile endeavor involving living systems comes with unavoidable loss. It’s not cynical; it’s pragmatic and grounded in lived experience.

    I hope to embrace this soon. But right now, yet again, I am grasping for the whys and the explanations that I know will never come. On this New Year’s Day, Lemon Squeezy Farms was ready to start fresh and embrace new beginnings. Somehow at the end of the day, I sit here and type this. I am wondering if I am even emotionally capable of processing this loss. I’m done with my ugly cries but then I remember something or look at a photo and I’m just sick. Today we lost one registered Boer male; Chunk. He was a real good looking boy. I hope he will live on in the kid(s) that will come from Moondance in a couple of months. This will happen as long as everything goes smoothly. Losing Lady has been a gut punch. She lives on with the two kids (Jack & Jill) she gave us last February. I would sing her the song Lady… by Lionel Richie, The Little River Band, and Styx. I know she loved it. She was a great mommy. I remember making sure Jack & Jill were latching on properly. During that time, I managed to squirt myself in the eye with her milk. We have more history with Lady because she was with us longer. Chunk was well loved too.

    “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
    — Psalms 34:18

    Tonight our farm feels quieter. Our heart is heavy with their absence. Loving animals means opening your heart fully, even knowing the goodbye will come someday—and today it came too soon.

    In the midst of this loss, I’m holding tight to the truth that God is near to the brokenhearted. I believe He saw Chunk and Lady, knew them, and knows this ache we carry now. We are grateful for the time we were given. We cherish the joy they brought to our days. We appreciate the reminder that all life—great and small—is precious in His care.

    Rest gently, sweet ones. You were deeply loved.

    In loving memory of Chunk and Lady—faithfully cared for, deeply loved, and now resting in God’s care.

  • Goat Life Chronicles: A Sad Goodbye

    💔 A Sad Night on Lemon Squeezy Farms

    Tonight, my heart is heavy. We lost our six-month-old Boer goat buck, and I am absolutely heartbroken. Losing an animal is, without a doubt, the hardest part of life on the farm — and I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.

    We prayed over him after watching him take his last breath, grateful for the short but sweet time we had with him. People often say all dogs go to Heaven, but tonight, I believe all goats do too. 🕊️💛

    Rest easy, sweet boy. You were deeply loved.

    A family photo from back in May, Thorn with his bigger brother and their mom.

  • Goat Life Chronicles: Tales of Love and Loss

    This past weekend my husband drove to an animal sale about two hours from our farm. Unfortunately I couldn’t go along but it sure made my memories start flooding! Last year at that exact sale, we purchased (among other things) our first goats. Frank, Lady, Billy, and Fiona. I never imagined we would own and care for goats much less enjoy it. When we brought them home we didn’t even have a place to put them; we didn’t plan on bringing anything but chickens home. We had three dog kennels in the back of my Subaru Outback. Frank and Lady each had their own kennel and Billy and Fiona shared one. I remember how hard my husband and I were laughing when we stopped off to get a Blizzard at Dairy Queen. The goats were bleating while he ordered in the drive-thru. It still makes me laugh. We got home late, after dark, and didn’t have much time to put our newly made plans into action. We had cattle panels and fastened them together. We were so proud of ourselves for settling up their makeshift pen while using the car’s headlights for a light source. Our son came home after work and commented on the goats. We didn’t realized right away he meant that the goats were in the yard. A couple of them had escaped! After catching a couple goats and getting them back in the enclosure, we wrapped the cattle panels with snow fencing so the goats wouldn’t be able to escape again. From humble beginnings…..

    Baptism by fire is probably the best way I can explain our goat care education. We both did lots of research and still do. One of my favorite things is how we keep learning and improving. I’ve built a couple of our goat structures, built and fashioned various ‘play equipment’ for them, and learned how to trim their hooves. We’ve also learned how and when to vaccinate. What is the most difficult, for me, to learn is dealing with the low, sad times. We’ve learned twice how quickly a goat’s health can go downhill. Billy and Frank are buried on our land, their loss was horrible but not in vain. We learned so much from each one. Frank lives on in his boy, Jack, and girl, Jill, he had with Lady and his daughter he had with Fiona. I’ve written about those sweet bundles.

    The renewal of life is the part that makes me love all the hardest days on our little farm. Heading out to check on Lady in the bitterly cold, wee hours of the morning will always be vivid in my memories.

    One of our goats did not come from a sale. Mabel was given to us. She was born one of three kids and sadly, the momma goat died. When I was asked if I was interested in a 5 week old bottle baby I didn’t even think about it. Mabel was dropped off with us and our lamancha goat education began. More importantly we learned how to feed a kid a bottle. It was so difficult to wean Mabel! She would look right at me and bleat, “MA!” I was such a sucker. Strange fact: goat formula smells just like baby formula. In my opinion; it stinks!

    I digress…. my main point was wondering how one year could feel so long and go by so quickly. This is the same stuff I wonder about when I think of how quickly my own children grew up and left us empty nesters. Time waits for no one.

    I’m proud of my husband because when he went to this past animal sale, he went to buy one thing and that is the only thing he came home with! Just a little over a year ago we began tending goats. We now have three separate structures and enclosures to house our goats. I never would have thought I’d love them the way I do. Our goats all know I keep animal crackers in my pockets for them, it’s how I make sure I remain their favorite human. Here’s to our continued journey and my continued goat chronicles!

    Our goat herd: Lady, Jill & Jack, Fiona & Button, Mabel, Gandalf, Snow White, Angelina, Bandit, Nubby, Ward, June, Ruby Junior, Thorn, Thistle, Tulip, Chub, Moondance, and Ruby.

    Mabel (she will always be my bottle baby)

  • Cute as a …

    My husband and I planned a spring break getaway long before we knew we’d have an expecting goat! But winters here are long and cold, we needed to get away. We headed south and found warmer temps during our week of vacation. Fiona was close to kidding but we were not sure when the excitement would come. We were on our way home, about one hour away from the farm, when my daughter Face Timed me. She was holding our newest addition. By the time we got home, Fiona and her baby girl were in our ‘recovery unit’ in the garage. Fiona had birthed without anyone knowing and everything went great. I worry needlessly over events like this, I need to work on that. As I write this, I realize it has been two months since that baby was born! Fiona and Lady are both amazing moms. It has been fun watching one mother two and one mother her one and only. I’m glad that Fiona had a single birth, she is such a small girl herself. It will be interesting to see in the future if she continues with single births. Our weather has warmed, we really had a beautiful spring. Fiona and her kid did not stay in the garage as long. Due to the bitter cold, I kept Lady, Jack, and Jill in the garage longer. Fiona’s little girl is quite the jumping bean and boy does she love to play! She is tiny. She is precious. She is cute as a button and that is how she got her name; Button.

    Just hours old, Button is ready for her close-up.

    Button at two months old.

  • Awaiting another Magical Goat Birth on Lemon Squeezy Farms

    Awaiting another Magical Goat Birth on Lemon Squeezy Farms

    This is Jack. Isn’t he precious? His mom, Lady, gave birth to him and his sister (Jill) on an extremely cold night on February 18th. Thanks to them arriving like they did I took a sick day from work….. thanks goats! I will never forget that magical night. On that night, two little lives were added to our farm in Northeastern North Dakota. Lady and her kids are Nigerian dwarf goats. Except for the chickens we’ve hatched, Jack and Jill are the first animals born on Lemon Squeezy Farms.

    Right now we are preparing again for an upcoming birth. This is just as exciting as the first! I don’t feel like an expert and probably never will. I read as much as I can to help with preparations. As a three-time human mom myself, I know that each pregnancy and birth are different.

    Our expecting mama is Fiona. She is a fainting pygmy goat. She is sweet but compared to the other goats, not overly friendly. Our low tonight is supposed to be 12 degrees and the high tomorrow 45. The night feels chilly but nothing compared to the negative temps we had when Jack and Jill were born. Marc built a really nice enclosure in our garage, I call it the recovery pen. It’s a great place for the mama and babies to recover and regain their strength. It’s been cleaned out and staged for our next big event. The next magical event, when will it be? I will only say, “soon.”

  • Lemon Squeezy Farms: A Courageous New Venture

    It has been a little over one year since my husband and I started our farm. Lemon Squeezy Farms developed out of a couple empty-nesters wondering, “what now?” My husband grew up in southwestern Georgia. He has some experience with raising animals and crops, I do not. I grew up in a city. We have been navigating learning curves. We are doing our best researching. Most importantly, we are open to learning from our many mistakes. There are days I love it and there have been days I haven’t, some days I’ve cried while doing chores. I’ve quickly learned that I enjoy providing for our animals. I find satisfaction in feeding, watering, and interacting with them.