Friday evening, after a full workday, Marc and I stepped into a different kind of shift. The kind that involves mud on your boots, a good pair of gloves if you’re lucky, and a whole lot of determination.
We had help from a really great friend and thank goodness for that, because what followed was part rodeo, part relay race, part comedy of errors.
Six goats. Three sheep. Countless steps, quick turns, near misses, and the occasional “you’ve got to be kidding me.”
We herded, chased, caught (and yes, sometimes missed), tagged, and finally loaded them into the trailer. By the end, relief settled in like a deep exhale. They were safe, settled, and ready for the night.
After we sent our friend home, thoroughly worn out (and probably questioning his life choices just a little), Marc and I turned to phase two.
Sixteen cages, prepped throughout the week. Thirty-one chickens, tucked in after roosting.
That part? Almost peaceful. Quiet. Methodical. Choosing who would go where felt calm in a way the goat wrangling never could.
By 11:00 PM, everything outside was done.
And just like that, we were staring down a 3:30 AM departure.
The Loudest Place on the Farm Isn’t the Barn
It’s your own head.
Because somewhere between loading trailers and making coffee before dawn, the internal dialogue starts up… and it doesn’t whisper.
It argues.
“I love this life.” “I hate this life.” “I’d give anything to sleep in.” “But look at that sunrise.” “You can do this.” “What are you even doing?”
It’s a full cast of characters in there, and not all of them are kind.
This winter pushed me in ways I wasn’t prepared for. There were moments I felt completely leveled. Brought right down to my knees.
But here’s the quiet truth that showed up alongside that struggle:
Every time I got back up… I stood up a little steadier. A little wiser.
But no amount of wisdom would ease the weight of the hardest list I ever had to make. Making the sale list with Marc might have been the hardest part of all.
Because if I try hard enough, I can make a case to keep every single animal.
Especially the goats.
Chickens are wonderful, but goats… they have a way of looking at you like they know you. Like they’ve been part of your story longer than they have.
But reality has its own voice too.
We only have so much space. So much time. So much energy.
And at the heart of it, this isn’t just a hobby. We’re building something. Raising animals well… and letting them go well.
That’s the deal.
Understanding that didn’t make the decision easy. It just made it possible.
The Sale Day I Couldn’t Face
When morning came, I stayed home.
Marc and our friend went to the sale together, and I knew that was the right call. Some days you can carry it. Some days you can’t.
This was a “faucets would not turn off” kind of day. I was weepy.
When Marc got home, he told me everything went smoothly. The animals did well. Things felt right.
And then he told me a story I’ll keep tucked away for a long time.
Our little Button stepped into the ring.
People noticed her blue eyes right away, commenting on how beautiful she was.
And then, from somewhere in the bleachers, a woman said:
“Well, look at her… she’s cute as a button.”
No one there knew her name.
And somehow… they still got it exactly right.
Some things don’t need explaining. They just are. 💛
The Quiet After
The past few days have felt… different.
Quieter. Calmer. Like the whole farm took a deep breath.
Because of you, there were tears. And laughter. And lessons I couldn’t have learned any other way.
Thank you for being part of this wild, beautiful chapter.
Moving Forward (Even When It’s Hard)
I keep coming back to a quote from Walt Disney:
“Around here, however, we don’t look backwards for very long. We keep moving forward, opening up new doors and doing new things, because we’re curious… and curiosity keeps leading us down new paths.“
And so we keep going… a little lighter, a little wiser, and still willing to follow this beautifully messy road wherever it leads next. 🍋
One response to “The Sale List, the Loading, and the Letting Go”
Kimberly
This was so tender and beautifully told. I smiled at the “part rodeo, part relay race, part comedy of errors,” because anyone who has ever tried to convince an animal to go where it does not wish to go knows there is usually a whole lot of comedy mixed in with the exhaustion.
But beneath the humor, this really touched me. Letting go is such a strange kind of love. It doesn’t mean something mattered less. Sometimes it proves just how much it mattered. Those little hoofprints clearly went deeper than the ground, and I think that is why this piece feels so honest.
Button’s story especially got me. The fact that someone unknowingly called her “cute as a button” feels like one of those small mercies God sometimes tucks into hard days, just enough to remind the heart that He sees the details too.
I love the thought of the farm taking a deep breath. Sometimes moving forward does make us a little lighter and a little wiser, even when it costs us a few tears along the way. This was a beautiful tribute to a wild, meaningful chapter.
I can’t be the only one who sometimes feels like life just blends together from one day to the next and nothing really happens.
Wake up. Go to work. Come home. Feed animals. Water something. Collect eggs. Do chores. Go to bed. Repeat.
And then I stop and look back over an entire month and realize, Good grief. A LOT happened.
This past month brought some pretty amazing moments to Lemon Squeezy Farms, along with one especially wonderful celebration that happened a few hours away from the farm.
Celebrating 85 Years
My family and I threw an 85th birthday party for my dad!
Marc and I left the farm for a couple of days to spend the weekend celebrating with family. Moments like these have a way of making me stop and really drink in the day.
My three sisters and I don’t get together nearly enough, but we worked together to make Dad’s celebration special. Everyone had a wonderful time, but most importantly, Dad had a wonderful time.
At the end of the evening, one of my sisters asked him what he thought of his party.
His response?
“It was better than I could have ever imagined.”
Even writing those words gives me chills.
What a gift to have the opportunity to celebrate 85 years of someone’s life while they’re sitting right there, surrounded by the people who love them. It was one of those days I hope I never forget.
Then Marc and I headed home, back to Lemon Squeezy Farms, where apparently everyone had been busy while we were gone.
My dad, 85 years YOUNG!
One Goodbye and One Very Pregnant Cat
When we returned home, two things were confirmed.
First, Walter was no longer around Lemon Squeezy Farms.
Second, there was absolutely no question that Clementine was pregnant.
I’m so sad that Walter is gone. He was the larger of our two kitten brothers. I even went back through their veterinary records and confirmed that Walter consistently weighed about half a pound more than Jesse.
But Walter was also always more independent. He was a bit of a loner and more likely to strike out on his own, while Jesse tended to stay close to his mama and would come running to us when we were outside.
I wish I knew what happened to Walter. Farm life sometimes leaves us with questions we don’t get answers to, and this seems to be one of them.
Once Walter was gone, Jesse turned his attention to the only two options he had left: his mama…and us.
Meanwhile, Clementine has obviously been making friends with one of the Toms from across the road.
Initially, I felt a little bad for her. She’s young, and now she looks like a barrel with four little legs sticking out underneath her.
But I would be lying if I said I wasn’t excited.
I think those kittens will be here soon. The other night, I could actually see them moving inside her belly! Watching those little movements brought back memories of carrying my own children and feeling them kick, roll, and move.
What an incredible miracle and privilege that is.
As Clementine’s belly grew, though, she began pushing Jesse away. It was hard to watch, but nature knows what it’s doing. Clementine needed to prepare herself for her new kittens.
And Jesse needed to grow up.
Or…
He needed to find someone with a particularly soft spot for ginger kitties.
Meet Mr. Pom Pom, House Cat
Lucky for Jesse, he picked the right house.
I started noticing him hanging around our front door and then making his way around to the back. He’d jump onto the deck railing and show off his balancing skills. Every now and then, he’d start climbing the sliding screen door before apparently realizing halfway up that he’d made a terrible decision.
Jesse has pluck.
And I love that about him.
One evening, he was sitting outside the back door, so I opened the sliding glass door just a tiny bit to see what he would do.
Bit by bit, Jesse inched his way toward the opening.
One paw.
Then another.
Across the threshold…
And that was it.
Jesse became a house cat.
I gave him a good bath, and he has settled in like an absolute pro.
Even Olive is being won over! Once the two of them figured out their relationship, they started playing together, hanging out together, and even napping together. The transition has been almost unbelievably seamless.
Jesse, or Mr. Pom Pom, as I like to call him, will be neutered in a little more than a week.
Yes. He will lose his pom poms.
And that’s a good thing. 😂
Clementine, meanwhile, is doing wonderfully. She sleeps in the barn and stays close to home. Marc and I have prepared a special space for her in the garage, a feline maternity ward, if you will.
I know we could simply let her have her kittens in the barn, but I worry about the babies disappearing or something happening to them. Once Clementine has finished raising her kittens and is able to be spayed, she will be making a trip to the vet too.
She’s such a sweet cat. She follows us around the farm supervising whatever we’re doing and is perfectly happy sitting beside us at the fire pit.
Clementine is definitely a keeper.
Jesse settling enjoying the comforts of home.
We Finally Let the Broody Hens Do Their Thing!
For the first time at Lemon Squeezy Farms, we let a broody hen complete the job from beginning to end.
Not once.
Twice!
We’ve incubated eggs and hatched chicks ourselves, but we’d never stepped back and let one of our hens handle the entire process.
Our first mama chose an unused doghouse as her maternity ward.
And then one day…
Poof!
There were ELEVEN tiny chicks around her, underneath her, climbing over her, and seemingly everywhere at once.
It was precious.
Initially, we thought we’d gather the chicks and put them into a brooder.
That plan lasted approximately until we discovered just how FAST free-range baby chicks are.
We decided to leave well enough alone and let Mama do her job.
And she did.
For the next few weeks, those chicks stayed close to their mother. Two other hens even helped out, and Buckeye, our beautiful rooster, served as bodyguard and protector.
Then one day we came home from work and saw feathers.
Feathers scattered around the farm are rarely something you want to see.
We immediately started trying to figure out who was missing.
Most of the flock was bunched together, and then we noticed the gray shading of the feathers. We also noticed there were fewer chicks, and Buckeye was protecting those who remained.
The next day, Marc found the remains of the mama hen.
She was gone.
And suddenly Buckeye wasn’t just the protector.
He became Mama Hen.
For about a week, he did a pretty remarkable job looking after those chicks.
Then we came home one evening to another heartbreaking scene.
Only two of the original eleven chicks remained, and Buckeye was gone.
We followed a trail of his beautiful feathers through the shelterbelt and toward the cornfield to the south.
Buckeye had been taken too.
He was such a beautiful rooster, and when the situation demanded it, he stepped up and did a pretty darn good job of being a mama hen.
Today, only one chick from that original group of eleven remains.
I’ve named it Eleven.
And you can bet I’m rooting for that little chick.
Thankfully, our second broody-hen story has been much happier.
Mama Number Two chose a particular bush that apparently met all of her nesting requirements and successfully hatched nine chicks.
I’m very happy to report that Mama and all nine babies are alive, well, and accounted for!
She seems to have a wonderful instinct for keeping her babies close and safe.
Bravo, Mama Hen!
Mama hen and a few of her chicks.
Heat, Wind and a Struggling Garden
This summer has been a hot one.
It has also been WINDY.
So windy, in fact, that I haven’t spent nearly as much time as I’d like in one of my favorite places on the farm: our fire pit.
Between the heat, wind, and stretches without rain, my garden has struggled.
The season isn’t over yet, but I’ll admit I’m disappointed.
That’s okay.
This winter I’ll have plenty of time to plan, rethink things, move things around, and decide what I want to do differently next year.
Gardens are good teachers that way. Sometimes you get abundance. Sometimes you get lessons.
For now, we’ll keep watering, tending, picking whatever decides to produce, and doing our best to close out the season strong.
And if all else fails?
We’ll limp across the finish line.
That still counts.
Six Good Girls Head Off on a New Adventure
And then came another big change at Lemon Squeezy Farms.
Last Friday evening, Marc and I did one final hoof trimming for six of our goats.
We had found a somewhat local farmer who was looking to expand his herd, and six of our girls would be going to live with him.
One by one, each girl got some extra attention as we trimmed her hooves.
And while I worked, I talked to them.
I told them what good girls they were.
I told them they were about to go on an adventure.
I told them they’d be okay.
Do goats understand any of that?
I’m not going to debate it either way.
What I do know is that it makes me feel better.
When each girl’s pedicure was finished, she got a few animal crackers, their favorite treat.
The next morning, the farmer arrived with his trailer.
I had already told Marc that I wasn’t going outside to help load them.
I’m always grateful that he understands me well enough to understand why sometimes I need to sit these things out.
So I watched from the kitchen window.
And I cried.
But then…
I put on my favorite goat-roping hat.
I slipped into my muck boots.
And I went outside.
There were three girls left to round up, and I decided I needed to be there.
The farmer had brought his five-year-old son along, and that little boy was so excited about bringing the goats home.
He talked to them.
He fed them leaves.
He was absolutely delighted with them.
And somewhere in watching that little boy love on those goats, my heart settled.
I could smile.
These six girls were staying together.
They were wanted.
And they were heading somewhere they would be loved.
So, from Lemon Squeezy Farms, thank you for the memories:
Ruby. Moondance. Angelina. Poppy. Peaches. Rosie.
You were six very good girls.
And Then There Were Five
With their departure, our goat herd has become considerably smaller.
We now have one gentleman, Ward, and his four ladies:
June, Fiona, Mabel, and Jill.
Five goats.
That’s it.
Well…
For now.
If Ward understands his upcoming job description, we’re hoping for a busy kidding season next spring!
And maybe that’s the perfect place to end this month’s update.
At the beginning of this post, I said that sometimes it feels like nothing really happens. The days roll into one another, chores repeat themselves, and life can feel wonderfully, frustratingly ordinary.
But then I look back.
We celebrated 85 years of my dad’s life.
We wondered where Walter went.
We watched kittens moving inside Clementine.
Jesse crossed a threshold and became Mr. Pom Pom, House Cat.
Two hens became mothers.
Buckeye became a mama hen when he needed to.
We lost some.
We welcomed others.
The garden struggled.
Six goats left our farm.
And somewhere in the middle of all of it, Marc and I just kept getting up every morning and doing the next thing.
Maybe that’s what life really looks like.
Not one enormous moment after another, but hundreds of ordinary little moments that become something extraordinary when you put them all together.
So here we are at Lemon Squeezy Farms, heading toward the end of another summer.
A smaller herd.
A pregnant barn cat.
A new house cat.
Chicks running everywhere.
A garden we’re trying not to give up on.
And two people continuing forward…
One day. One chore. One animal cracker. One step at a time.
“To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.” Ecclesiastes 3:1 (KJV)
And around here, every season seems to come with a little manure on its boots.
“Let us not grow weary of doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.” Galatians 6:9
…….
Whew… this heat!
The past several days have been hot… hotter… and hottest. Extreme Heat Warnings seem to have become routine. If you have a garden, flower beds, livestock, or really anything living that depends on you, you know just how relentless this kind of weather can be. Water hoses seem permanently attached to our hands, and every afternoon begins with checking on animals, gardens, and flower beds to make sure everyone is making it through another scorching day.
Despite the heat, summer is beginning to reward all those spring hours.
Our garden is just starting to produce tomatoes, cucumbers, zucchini, and yellow squash, with the rest of the vegetables not far behind. My herb garden is the best one I’ve ever grown, and I’ve found myself stopping more than once just to admire it. The flower beds have been especially meaningful this year. In honor of our nation’s 250th birthday, every flower I planted is red, white, or blue.
Every time I walk past them, I can’t help but think of our two sons who are serving this great country. Their service fills me with tremendous pride, and somehow those patriotic blooms make me feel just a little closer to them while they’re away.
One evening, while I was looking out the kitchen window, I noticed Marc had several of the goats sectioned off together. I had a pretty good feeling I knew what was about to happen.
“Are you moving the goats? Changing their fencing?”
“I am.”
“Need any help?”
“I think I’ve got it.”
“Lemme put on some shoes. I’ll be out in five minutes.”
With that, I set the walkie-talkie on the counter and headed outside.
I had been looking forward to BLTs for supper, but they would have to wait.
If you’ve followed Lemon Squeezy Farms for any length of time, you already know that every project has a funny way of becoming much bigger than we originally planned. Thankfully, this was one of those rare golden moments where everything actually worked!
We reconfigured the perimeter of the electric fence, even routing part of it through one of our shelter belts. Somewhere along the way I found myself using a scrap 2×4 as a hammer.
Forget Thor and his mighty hammer. I was Thor in a baseball cap wielding a 2×4.
It may not have been glamorous, but it got the job done.
The best part came when we finally opened the gate.
Watching the goats explore their new pasture was pure entertainment. Rosie, Peaches, and Poppy have never had this much room before. They bounced, explored, and investigated every inch. Rosie and Peaches would stop every so often to call out to Fiona, making sure Mom hadn’t disappeared somewhere in all that extra space.
Mable may have been the happiest of them all. She immediately made a beeline for the leafy branches. Goats simply cannot resist browsing leaves, and now they have a wooded area where they can snack, find shade from the summer sun, and even climb over the fallen trees. I’d say goat paradise is somewhere between a forest and an all-you-can-eat salad bar.
Thankfully, the forecast looks much kinder this week. Mid to upper 80s will actually feel cool compared to the triple-digit temperatures we’ve been enduring.
One confession…
I did all that fence work wearing shorts and flip-flops.
What was I thinking?
The mosquitoes and flies wasted absolutely no time reminding me why I almost always wear jeans while doing farm work. This isn’t city landscaping. Around here, the bugs consider exposed skin an open invitation.
No project at Lemon Squeezy Farms would be complete without plenty of supervisors.
Naturally, the goats kept a close eye on every fence post we drove. But my number one supervisor is still Clementine. She watched every move we made and now seems to be training Walter and Jesse to do the same.
If there was one distraction during the project, it was Jesse.
He’s the kind of cat you simply want to scoop up and snuggle, even when it’s nearly a hundred degrees outside. Both Jesse and Walter are growing so quickly, and all three of our farm cats have become wonderful additions to life here on the farm.
As I look ahead over the next few weeks, I know what’s coming.
Tomatoes.
Cucumbers.
Zucchini.
Yellow squash.
Lots and lots of them.
We’ll soon be knee-deep in fresh produce, enjoying the rewards of all the work that began months ago. Even better, my pumpkin patch is looking far better than it did this time last year. I already find myself imagining our animals enjoying pumpkins this fall.
It’s funny how farming teaches patience. You spend countless hours preparing soil, planting seeds, pulling weeds, fixing fences, feeding animals, and wondering if all your effort will pay off.
Then one day, without much fanfare, you look around and realize…
It already is.
Mid-July has arrived at Lemon Squeezy Farms, and as always, we just keep plugging along. One hot day, one project, one harvest, and one blessing at a time.
Screenshot
Mabel (center) and Jill (left) are eating what they can before the others beat them to it!
Jesse – one of my supervisors. You can’t beat a ginger cat!!!
“You crown the year with Your bounty, and Your paths overflow with abundance.” Psalm 65:11 (NIV)
It’s hard to believe we’ve already turned the calendar to July. Every year, this month feels a little extra special to me. Maybe it’s because I was born in July, but I’ve always felt July to be the very heart of summer. The days seem endless, the grass is impossibly green, and life feels just a little slower, even when we’re busier than ever.
Marc and I have been keeping ourselves plenty occupied around the farm. June blessed us with a lot of rain, and while we’re certainly not complaining, it has left us with lush, fast-growing pastures and a lawn that seems determined to outgrow us!
mowing one of our goat enclosures
Just last night I finished trimming along our entire property fence line with our DR Trimmer. My shoulders are reminding me of every minute I spent behind that machine today! Even so, there is something deeply satisfying about finishing a job, stepping back, and seeing the difference your hard work made. Every sore muscle feels a little more worthwhile when you can admire the results.
One thing we’ve noticed this year is how much more mowing and maintenance we have compared to last summer. With fewer goats and sheep, the change is not so surprisingly noticeable. It’s funny how you notice details like that once they’re gone. While we certainly miss some of the personalities that have moved on to new homes, this season has its own rhythm, and we’re enjoying it.
Of course, summer on the prairie comes with its own set of challenges. Despite practically bathing in bug spray, I’ve still managed to collect enough mosquito bites to test my self-control! Meanwhile, we’re doing everything we can to help our animals battle the flies and mosquitoes too. Happy livestock make happy farmers.
The animals continue to thrive. Poppy has officially graduated from bottle baby status and has been fully weaned for a month now. Rosie and Peaches have grown like weeds and are nearly as tall as their mama, Fiona. Watching those girls race around the pasture reminds us just how quickly the seasons change.
Our barn cats have settled in beautifully as well. Clementine and her two boys, Walter and Jessie, have made themselves right at home exploring every corner of the farm. Clementine has become my little mowing companion and often follows me as I trim along the perimeter fence, supervising every step as only a farm cat can.
One of my favorite things about North Dakota summers is the daylight. Last night Marc and I worked outside until after 9:30, and it never once felt rushed. Those long evenings are a gift. They allow us to finish one more project, take one more walk through the pasture, or simply stand quietly and admire the animals before calling it a day.
And then… today happened.
I came home from work expecting an ordinary evening of chores. Instead, I wandered over to an old dog house where one of our hens, affectionately known as Broody Judy, has been faithfully sitting on a nest she made herself.
As I peeked inside, I was greeted by the sweetest sight… five tiny little chicks peeking out from beneath their mama’s feathers!
Our very first naturally hatched chicks!
I’ll watch for more but wouldn’t put my hand in there right now!
What an incredible surprise! There’s something extra special about watching nature do exactly what God designed it to do. No incubator. No brooder. Just a determined mama hen who patiently sat on her eggs for weeks and was rewarded with five fluffy little miracles.
Needless to say, chores came to a complete stop while Marc and I admired our newest additions. Moments like these are why we love farm life. You can plan your day from sunrise to sunset, and then God delights you with something you never saw coming.
After the long winter months, when chores felt endless and the cold settled into our bones, summer has a remarkable way of healing those memories. The green grass, warm sunshine, birds singing, healthy animals, and now five tiny chicks remind us that every difficult season eventually gives way to something beautiful.
For now, we’ll gladly accept the sore shoulders, the mosquito bites, and the never-ending mowing. They’re small prices to pay for another July on Lemon Squeezy Farms.
And thanks to Broody Judy, July just became even sweeter.
Friday evening, after a full workday, Marc and I stepped into a different kind of shift. The kind that involves mud on your boots, a good pair of gloves if you’re lucky, and a whole lot of determination.
We had help from a really great friend and thank goodness for that, because what followed was part rodeo, part relay race, part comedy of errors.
Six goats. Three sheep. Countless steps, quick turns, near misses, and the occasional “you’ve got to be kidding me.”
We herded, chased, caught (and yes, sometimes missed), tagged, and finally loaded them into the trailer. By the end, relief settled in like a deep exhale. They were safe, settled, and ready for the night.
After we sent our friend home, thoroughly worn out (and probably questioning his life choices just a little), Marc and I turned to phase two.
Sixteen cages, prepped throughout the week. Thirty-one chickens, tucked in after roosting.
That part? Almost peaceful. Quiet. Methodical. Choosing who would go where felt calm in a way the goat wrangling never could.
By 11:00 PM, everything outside was done.
And just like that, we were staring down a 3:30 AM departure.
The Loudest Place on the Farm Isn’t the Barn
It’s your own head.
Because somewhere between loading trailers and making coffee before dawn, the internal dialogue starts up… and it doesn’t whisper.
It argues.
“I love this life.” “I hate this life.” “I’d give anything to sleep in.” “But look at that sunrise.” “You can do this.” “What are you even doing?”
It’s a full cast of characters in there, and not all of them are kind.
This winter pushed me in ways I wasn’t prepared for. There were moments I felt completely leveled. Brought right down to my knees.
But here’s the quiet truth that showed up alongside that struggle:
Every time I got back up… I stood up a little steadier. A little wiser.
But no amount of wisdom would ease the weight of the hardest list I ever had to make. Making the sale list with Marc might have been the hardest part of all.
Because if I try hard enough, I can make a case to keep every single animal.
Especially the goats.
Chickens are wonderful, but goats… they have a way of looking at you like they know you. Like they’ve been part of your story longer than they have.
But reality has its own voice too.
We only have so much space. So much time. So much energy.
And at the heart of it, this isn’t just a hobby. We’re building something. Raising animals well… and letting them go well.
That’s the deal.
Understanding that didn’t make the decision easy. It just made it possible.
The Sale Day I Couldn’t Face
When morning came, I stayed home.
Marc and our friend went to the sale together, and I knew that was the right call. Some days you can carry it. Some days you can’t.
This was a “faucets would not turn off” kind of day. I was weepy.
When Marc got home, he told me everything went smoothly. The animals did well. Things felt right.
And then he told me a story I’ll keep tucked away for a long time.
Our little Button stepped into the ring.
People noticed her blue eyes right away, commenting on how beautiful she was.
And then, from somewhere in the bleachers, a woman said:
“Well, look at her… she’s cute as a button.”
No one there knew her name.
And somehow… they still got it exactly right.
Some things don’t need explaining. They just are. 💛
The Quiet After
The past few days have felt… different.
Quieter. Calmer. Like the whole farm took a deep breath.
Because of you, there were tears. And laughter. And lessons I couldn’t have learned any other way.
Thank you for being part of this wild, beautiful chapter.
Moving Forward (Even When It’s Hard)
I keep coming back to a quote from Walt Disney:
“Around here, however, we don’t look backwards for very long. We keep moving forward, opening up new doors and doing new things, because we’re curious… and curiosity keeps leading us down new paths.“
And so we keep going… a little lighter, a little wiser, and still willing to follow this beautifully messy road wherever it leads next. 🍋
There are weekends… and then there are capital – W Weekends. The kind that leave your boots by the door like they’ve retired and your muscles writing strongly worded letters the next morning. Out here at Lemon Squeezy Farms, Marc and I just lived one of those.
First, the great hen house reset… it was time. Time to face the deep litter. If you’ve ever used the deep litter method, you know it’s a bit like a slow-building novel that ends in … a very intense final chapter. All winter long, our chickens do what chickens do, and we layer bedding over it, again and again, letting nature do its warm, composting magic. No heat lamps here, just hardy birds and a system that works with them, not against them.
But spring? Spring calls the bills due. So out came the masks, the rakes, the shovels… and a level of determination that can only be fueled by fresh air and stubbornness. While we were at it, we tackled a pesky leak and reroofed the hen house, because apparently we enjoy adding “construction crew” to our resumes mid-clean out. And let me tell you something: There is nothing quite like that moment when you step back into a freshly cleaned coop. It’s like the whole place exhales… and so do you.
Secondly, we’ve got goats on the move! Our barn residents were more than ready for their own upgrade. Poppy, our bottle baby Boer girl, along with Fiona and her sweet little duo, Peaches and Rosie, officially moved out into their goat space. The timing finally felt right. The air has softened just enough, and the sun has started to feel like it’s working with us again, well, when it decides to come out.
Poppy wasted zero time making herself at home. New platform? Claimed. Big tractor tire? Playground. Open space? Sprint zone. She still shadows like a loyal little sidekick, but now with more room to bounce, leap, and show off.
Fiona, ever the watchful mama, seemed relieved to stretch her legs and let the girls explore something bigger than stall walls. And slowly but surely, she’s softening toward Poppy. It’s not quite sisterhood yet… but we’re getting there.
In about a week, we’ll bring the fainting goats into this enclosure too, turning it into their shared space. And as Poppy grows, she’ll eventually graduate to the larger area with Mabel, our other former bottle baby. These transitions always feel a little like watching chapter turn in real time.
Thirdly, we’ve got fences down and plans up. We’ve stated something bigger… a full chicken restructure. That meant pulling fencing, removing runs, and reimagining how everything fits together. And can we just take a moment to appreciate the humble hero of the weekend? The t-post remover. That thing worked so slick it almost made fence pulling feel… fun. Almost.
Fourthly, and finally, the part we don’t always say out loud. Here’s the truth tucked between all the projects and progress:
This winter was hard.
Not just the cold, not just the chores… but the weight of it all. The kind of season that makes you quietly wonder if you’ll come out the other side still loving what you built. Marc and I had more than a few heart-to-heart talks. The kind where you sit in the middle of it all and admit something isn’t working the way it should. Somewhere along the line, what we meant to build together started pulling us in opposite directions. That’s a hard thing to say out loud. It feels a little like failure. But maybe it’s not.
Maybe it’s just… awareness. Adjustment. Growth with dirt still under your nails. So we’re making changes. Scaling back. Refocusing. Finding a version of this life that lets us not just run the farm… but actually live in it together. Because what’s the point of all this if we never get to sit down, breathe, and watch a North Dakota sunset side by side?
As we look ahead, we’re sore. No question about it. We’re also proud. And a little hopeful. This weekend brings a sale, and with it, the bittersweet part of farm life. Saying goodbye never gets easy. There’s always that pull… wishing we could keep every animal, grow the herd endlessly, hold onto every story. But this isn’t just a hobby. It’s a rhythm of raising, growing, and letting go. And we’re learning to find peace in that too.
For now, we’re catching our breath. Planning gardens. Dreaming up summer projects. Looking forward to evenings by the fire pit and keeping this little corner of the internet updated with all the life happening here.
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
Lemon Squeezy Farms 
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