Lemon Squeezy Farms

Tag: Goats

  • The Sale List, the Loading, and the Letting Go

    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.

    Maybe we all needed it… humans and animals alike.

    To the Ones Who Moved On

    Gandolph.
    Tulip.
    Nubbie.
    Bandit.
    Jack.
    Ma.
    John.
    Cheryl.
    Button.

    You left hoofprints on more than just the ground.

    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. 🍋

  • Still Here, Just Catching Our Breath – Refocusing Life at Lemon Squeezy Farms

    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.

    We make it through winter. We’re still here.

    And right now, that feels like more than enough.

  • 🌿 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 💛

  • 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)