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St. Bartholomew Buonpedoni: Leprosy Strikes the Parish Priest

12/14/2015

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By No machine-readable author provided. Cnyborg assumed (based on copyright claims). [GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html), CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/) or CC BY-SA 2.5 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.5)], via Wikimedia Commons
His face disfigured beyond recognition, the leper begged, clanging his bell and pleading for food.  The kindly priest, Bartholomew Buonpedoni, always gave what he could, day after day, as he walked through the streets of his parish of Peccioli, Italy.
In the Middle Ages, lepers were considered extremely contagious, declared legally dead and forced to live apart from others, whether in special hospitals for lepers or in leper colonies.  When advanced, leprosy causes the hands and feet to swell, lumps of discolored flesh to form on the surface of the skin, nerves are damaged, limbs are weakened, and hair is lost.  Feeling may be lost in the skin, leading to numb areas that can result in severe injury if the leper is burnt or scalded.  While relatively less contagious in the earlier stages, it becomes more contagious as the disease progresses.  Furthermore, leprosy has a very long incubation period of 3-5 years and sometimes up to 20 years after exposure before symptoms of the disease appear.  Treated today with antibiotics, there was no effective treatment in medieval times.
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By B.jehle (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons
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St. Bartholomew Buonpedoni. http://www.catholic.org/saints/saint.php?saint_id=1686
No one knows when Don Bartholomew contracted leprosy.  However, it was likely in the course of his duties serving the lepers of the parish.  The disease is passed by infected water droplets during coughing or sneezing.
It must have come as a shock when the middle aged priest noticed a whitened patch on his skin.  He no doubt tried to treat the patch, but it grew worse.  He was forced to admit to his superior that he had been stricken with leprosy.
No longer able to minister as a priest, Bartholomew had to take up residence with the other lepers outside the village.  The change would have been devastating for most, but for this holy man, he continued to minister to those he could.  Rather than waste the rest of his life in bitterness and anger, he spent his remaining twenty years serving and caring for the other lepers of Peccioli.  St. Bartholomew Buonpedoni is a beautiful example of humble submission to the will of God and trust in God’s plan even when things seem hopeless.
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Saint Lucy and the Mystery Ships on Lake Vänern

12/13/2015

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St. Lucy See page for author [CC BY 4.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0)], via Wikimedia Commons
Very little is known for certain about the earthly life of the Sicilian martyr, St. Lucia--called St. Lucy in English-speaking lands.  Legends suggest she had dedicated herself to the service of God, took a vow of virginity, and was unwilling to marry despite pressure to do so for three years.  At that time the Great Persecution of Emperor Diocletian was in full grip, so many Christians were in hiding or imprisoned.  St. Lucy was said to carry food to the hungry and wore a crown with candles on her head to free up her hands to hold her tray of food.  
Whatever the facts, we know for certain that Lucy loved her Lord enough to give up her life rather than take the relatively easy path of offering a sacrifice to an image of the emperor, and for refusing this act of worship, she was martyred around the year 304.
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Martyrdom of St. Lucy. Domenico Veneziano [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
A curious thing about Christian saints is that some may continue performing acts of virtue in the land of the living even after they have died, if allowed by God.  So it is believed to have been with the martyr, Lucy.  The following legend about St. Lucy is one held dear by the Swedish people.
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Lake Vanern. By Karrock (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons
Many years ago, when the Swedes depended on good harvests each year for their food, there came a severe famine.  The southern part of Sweden is flat, heavily forested land dotted with lakes similar in vegetation and appearance to northern Minnesota, Wisconsin and Michigan.  And like the northern Great Lakes region, the soil is poor, making agriculture a chancy venture at best.  Still, the Swedes chose to farm and raised cattle too.  Located in this region, Lake Vänern (about one-fifth the size of Lake Erie) is Sweden’s largest lake and the largest lake in the European Union.  The lake shelters a variety of fish species, including salmon, smelt, five types of whitefish, trout, zander and stickleback.  To supplement the meager amount of food they were able to wrest from the unwilling land, the Swedes also harvested fish.
Once the devastating famine settled in and the cattle died, people grew desperate.  They baked their bread with flour mixed with bark and roots, called ‘bark bread’.  The cold became so severe, people could no longer strip bark off the trees to eat, since the bark was frozen, and had to resort to eating chaff and grass roots.  In that bitterly cold December, ice covered portions of the lake nearest the shore, making fishing a hazardous affair.  A student, P. Gyllenius, wrote in his diary of one such famine: “people are lying dead in heaps on the roads and elsewhere due to hunger.”  A full third of the Finnish population (then part of Sweden) perished from hunger during the famine of 1696.
The night of December 13, a ship lit with an unearthly light appeared on wide Lake Vänern.  As the ship neared, weaving slowly through the open water, a woman dressed in white was seen, her head aglow with holiness.  Soon they could just make out a second ship, following behind.  They had heard legends about St. Lucy bringing ships full of grain to end a famine in her native Sicily on the 13th of December, and so they identified Lucy as their mysterious benefactress.  In the hulls of the two ships she carried wheat--enough for all the starving.  How they rejoiced when the ships made landfall and they were invited to partake of the feast!  
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Carl Larsson. Lucia Morning in Sweden. National Museum, Stockholm
The Swedes still honor St. Lucy by baking traditional pastries made with wheat and sharing them with family and neighbors on December 13.  A tradition is to have the eldest daughter dress in white, for purity, with a red sash tied around her waist, symbolizing martyrdom.  The girl representing St. Lucy wears a crown of lit candles on her head as she distributes food house to house or within her own house.  And this is why St. Lucy is one of the very few Catholic saints still remembered and honored in Sweden, even though it is no longer a Catholic nation.
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By Claudia Gründer (Claudia Gründer) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons
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The Story of Juan Diego and Our Lady of Guadalupe

12/12/2015

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The First Appearance

Long ago in Mexico, a laborer named Juan Diego was running to chapel where he received religious instruction and helped with the upkeep of the building.  In those days and in that place, if one were poor, he couldn’t catch a bus or train if he wanted to get somewhere, he had to walk or run.  At age 57, Juan was physically strong, and running several miles through the hill country to visit the chapel was as walking down the block to the store would be to us today.
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"Virgen de Guadalupe". Licensed under Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons - https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Virgen_de_Guadalupe.jpg#/ media/File:Virgen_de_Guadalupe.jpg
But that dawn in December, Juan’s run would not proceed as usual.  As he rounded a bend, a blinding ball of light as bright as the sun startled him in mid-stride, accompanied by the shape of a woman with black hair, dressed in a pink robe and draped in a blue mantle covered with gold stars.
The woman smiled and spoke to him in his native tongue.  “My smallest son,” she addressed him, “I love you.”  She told the startled man that she was Mary, the mother of Jesus, and that she wanted a church built on the spot so that all could come to pray, to have their prayers heard, to experience consolation and peace.  She told him to present himself to the bishop in Tenochtitlan and tell him all that Juan had seen and heard.
Now I expect if you were out for a stroll and a beautiful woman in a dazzling ball of light appeared to you, and gave you a mission, you might think you were going a bit crazy.  You might check your vital signs or your vision, or both.  But Juan Diego was a simple man.  If a beautiful woman appeared to him out of nowhere and told him to go to a place he had never gone before and tell the bishop, whom he had never met, to build a church--well, he would.

Juan Meets the Bishop

Juan Diego immediately turned and set out for Tenochtitlan.  When he finally arrived at his destination, he had to hurry up and wait.  Bishop Fray de Zumarraga was then (as bishops are today) a busy man with many appointments.  And his servants thought the laborer who burst in, sweaty and dusty from the road demanding an appointment with the bishop immediately, a crazy fool.  They told him he should wait outside and promptly forgot all about him.
Juan waited and waited.  After hours, when someone noticed he was still there, still demanding to see the bishop, they grudgingly allowed him in.  Juan shared his astounding tale, his voice shaking with emotion as he recounted the amazing vision he had seen.
When he finished the tale, the bishop paused.  He could tell the simple man before him was being sincere, but was he sincerely crazy?  The bishop told Juan he would consider what he had told him, that Juan could visit again if he wished, and the interview was over.

The Second Appearance

Juan walked sadly home, pondering what had happened.  “Why would he have believed me?” he kicked himself.  “I am a poor man, telling a fantastical tale.  Of course he doubted.”  On his way, he returned to the hill, and a little surprised, he found Mary there still!
“Dearest mother, I told the bishop, but he didn’t believe me,” he recounted, despondent.  “You must ask another man to go to the bishop--an important man.”
Mary smiled lovingly at Juan.  “No; my little son, YOU are the man I want to give my message to the bishop.  Tomorrow you will return to him and tell him that you have seen me, and tell him to build a church--here.”
It was now late, and Juan returned home where he lived with his uncle, an older man for whom Juan was a caregiver.  The two ate a simple meal, and then Juan helped his uncle to bed, noticing that the older man seemed a bit more frail than usual.  Perhaps he was becoming ill?

Juan's Second Visit with the Bishop

The next day was Sunday, and when he awoke, Juan remembered immediately the beautiful woman who had given him a job to do.  Dutifully, he arose and after checking on his uncle, who was still sleeping, and after attending Mass, Juan set off at once for the bishop’s house.
When he arrived, everyone was hurrying and scurrying, preparing the mid-day meal.  Though he told the servant at the door that he again wanted to see the bishop, you can imagine him sighing and rolling his eyes at this pesky visitor.  “The bishop is terribly busy,” he was told, “but you may wait and if his schedule opens up, we can squeeze you in.”
Juan waited in the courtyard.  The sun baked down on him as he waited.  When he was finally allowed an interview, the bishop listened to Juan’s tale, puzzled at the man’s appearing sincerity and humility, but perplexed by his unusual story.
Juan stood nervously before the bishop, feeling small and unimportant, but as he told the tale, he was caught up in the amazement of what he had now experienced twice.  Bishop Zumarraga again paused when Juan had finished and told him, “It is quite a story you tell.  I tell you what, I would like you to return to the lady and ask her for a sign to prove she really is Mary, the mother of our Lord.  Then I will build the church of which you speak.”

The Third Appearance

Juan felt his spirits soar as he raced back to the hill of Tepeyac.  There, the lady was waiting for him again at the top of the hill.  Juan burst with excitement as he told the lady the bishop’s request.  She smiled and said that Juan should not be afraid, that she was his loving mother, and that Juan should return the next day, and she would provide the sign as requested.

Juan's Uncle

When Juan returned home, he was shocked to find his uncle gravely ill.  Juan was filled with fear as he spent the night and all the next day tending to his uncle.  His uncle’s condition worsened, and by Tuesday morning, his uncle’s breathing had grown shallow and ragged, he had lost consciousness, and Juan realized that there was no more he could do for him.  He left to call for a priest to administer the last rites.
The closest priest was located at the chapel where Juan went for prayer and instruction, so the route went directly past the hill of Tepeyac where Juan had three times encountered Mary.  Though he knew that he had been right to care for his uncle, he was a little embarrassed that he had not returned the previous day for the sign as the lady had instructed him.  So he chose a slightly different path in order to avoid seeing her.  But suddenly, she was there before him, on the path, instead of at the top of the hill.

The Fourth Appearance

“Where are you going, my smallest son?” she asked gently.
“I am sorry, dear lady, but my uncle is ill and I am going to find a priest to give him the last rites.”
“Do not be afraid,” she replied, “your uncle will not die.  Even now, he is healed!  Now go to the top of the hill and cut some of the flowers you will find there and bring them to me.”
Juan believed her words and climbed the hill, rejoicing.  To his amazement, he found roses in full bloom, in December!, on a place where only cactus and mesquite usually grew.  He cut the flowers and laid them in his tilma, a traditional cloak tied round the back of his neck.  He brought them as requested to Mary, who was waiting for him at the bottom of the hill.  She took the flowers, and arranged them in his tilma, and warned him to show them to none but the bishop.

The Last Interview with the Bishop & Miracles

Setting off with joy, he returned to the bishop’s house.  He was greeted no more warmly than before, but his mysterious burden became a source of great curiosity for the servants, who gave him no little trouble over it, trying to entice or threaten him to show what he carried.  Juan stoutly refused.
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"Our Lady of Guadalupe" by No machine-readable author provided. Janothird~commonswiki assumed (based on copyright claims). - No machine-readable source provided. Own work assumed (based on copyright claims).. Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons - https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Our_Lady_of_Guadalupe.JPG#/ media/File:Our_Lady_of_Guadalupe.JPG
Arriving for this last uninvited interview, Juan recounted his most recent encounter with the lady and let go of the bottom of his cloak to display the roses as the sign of the truth of his words, allowing them to cascade to the floor.  Everyone gasped--and not because of the rare flowers.  For on his cloak there was now a beautiful image of the lady!  Juan noticed them all looking at his chest and not at the roses, so he quickly glanced down--had he spilled food on his tilma?--and found himself gazing down at an image of the lady from the hill of Tepeyac!
With a shout of amazement, the bishop removed the tilma and examined it.  He immediately apologized to Juan for not believing him and doing as he asked right away.
Juan’s uncle was found completely cured, and at the very moment when Mary had spoken to Juan at the bottom of the hill.  The lady had also appeared to the desperately ill man at his bedside at the time he was cured.  She wanted Juan’s uncle to tell the bishop about her appearance to him and she wished to be known as Our Lady of Guadalupe.
Hastily, a church was built on the hill of Tepeyac, and in time, a permanent church was built.  You may visit the church and see the tilma yourself!  And there you will find consolation and peace.
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The Recklessness of Openness to Life

11/7/2015

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When people think about life on a farm, they think of life.  Sunrises over the eastern horizon bringing the life-giving light upon which all depends.  Calves suckling.  Lambs--who couldn’t adore the face of a lamb?  Spirited bucklings bounding with joy.  Seedlings bursting from fertile soil.
But openness to life means openness to death.  Because life is guaranteed to fail.  In this world, no matter how careful you are, life doesn’t last.  There is a reason new farmers are warned not to name their animals.  Because when you name something it becomes real to you--you are now attached.  Connected.  God made Adam's first job to name the animals.  He wanted Adam to connect with creation.  To connect with the creatures around him.  To invest himself.
After sin entered the world, the first death also entered.  God Himself killed a created life to make skins to cover the nascent shame that Adam and Eve felt so keenly.  No doubt this was a creature that Adam had named.  Every time he looked down at himself, he could see the skin of the animal, the trusting life he had once loved, now snuffed out by his sin.  A bitter lesson.
In marriage, husband and wife are called to be open to life.  To welcome new life that may spring from their union.  It may well be the greatest adventure of their union.  The couple’s willingness to accept new life is a daring, one might even say, reckless trust.  When you welcome new life, you have no idea what this new child may be--boy or girl; healthy or suffering defects; joyful or sullen; a helper or someone who will require years of patient help.  Even openness to the possibility that the new life--the new child--will die, leaving the parents with nothing but memories and painful unfulfilled dreams.  The mother herself may suffer, struggle, even give up her own life for the life inside her.  Is it any wonder many couples try to wrest control from the hands of God?  To close themselves to this reckless abandon?
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November is the month of dying.  Leaves have mostly fallen.  The joyfulness that caused them to burst out in that lovely yellowish-green hue that makes my heart sing has long since faded to dry, crackling bland tan brittleness that is only fit for burning.  The widowed branches scratch the cold sky, looking forlorn and heart-breakingly empty.  The reality of the long winter ahead is inescapable now, making one pause and shudder.
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Yet the Earth is merely waiting.  Taking a moment to pause and rest.  Taking a season to rest from its labors of creation so that it is strengthened to do it all once again.  Resist the temptation to yield to despair.  Endure the Sabbath rest of Winter in order to rejoice anew in the loveliness of Spring.  This is the ultimate test of Hope.  Hope is believing that good things will come, though there be pain and toil and loss and dying in the meanwhile.  Be not afraid.
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When an Egg is not just an Egg

2/22/2015

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Our hens have very unique reproductive habits.  This winter, in the bitter cold, they are laying eggs like mad!  Last summer, when the weather was balmy and food a plenty, they Just. Weren’t. Laying.  You can bring a hen to the nest, but you can't make her lay.
PictureOrganic egg on top; Claret Farm egg on the bottom
We’ve only had our own chickens since 2012, but for years before we started on this whole crazy chicken-and-egg adventure, we bought eggs from our farming friends, the Dowells of Little Flower Farm.  The Great Summer Egg Famine of 2014 caused us to actually have to (gasp!) buy eggs at a store for the first time in years.  This was an eye-opening experience.  Being choosy customers, we bought organically certified eggs.  Not to name names, but their yolks were a pale yellow and a lot smaller than the eggs we have become accustomed to eating.  Why are orange yolks more nutritious?  You can read this to find out more.

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Somehow when we think of chickens, we imagine them as seed eaters, probably from all those images of buxom farm wives scattering grain before their flocks of chickens.  In real life, chickens are more omnivorous than most humans.  Our flock is truly free-range, eating all the ticks, insects and little worms they wish, helping to keep our bug population down, and making productive use of critters we would just waste on our farm.  We also provide our chickens with store-bought feed, but we are working on transitioning to growing or harvesting all of our flock’s feed from the bounty of Claret Farm.  Here’s a practice we started at the advice of Farmer Dowell that is probably the secret to our amazing eggs: we also give them our kitchen and table scraps, another reuse of items that we would likely compost otherwise, or could just as easily throw out.  Our chickens are such little piggies that several bookstore employees, my parents, and even a kindly benefactor all bring their own table scraps for the chooks from time to time.  This diet regularly includes high quality protein, as well as vegetables and greens.
A high quality diet, including protein, means high-quality eggs.  This summer (inadvertently I hope) Chris bought eggs that proudly declared their hens were fed a 100% vegetarian diet.  This feeding strategy does not seem to be for the hens’ benefit, but more of a marketing ploy.  I was so shocked at the difference from the "vegetarian" eggs and our one humble farm egg that I photographed the eggs for comparison!
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Egg Carton from which came seven eggs pictured in the adjacent photo
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Can you spot the yolk from the Claret Farm egg?
So what’s up?  Why all these eggs all of a sudden?  Sometime in the late summer to early fall, we decided to clean out the old chicken coop and turn it into a milking parlor for our dairy goat.  Consequently, we moved our chickens into the barn for nights; they need this to protect them from nocturnal predators.  We continued our previous practice of raising them on deep bedding, which is regularly refreshed by our children with dried oak leaves that we gather each fall.  The oak leaf bedding is a sustainable system.  After gathering the sunlight all spring, summer and into fall, and feeding the oak trees that give us pleasant shade, the leaves eventually fall.  We gather what falls from the many oak trees here at Claret Farm--and since we don't spray our lawn with chemicals, the leaves are as natural as can be.  We store them, and spread them on the floor of the barn as bedding for the animals.  The oak leaf bedding absorbs the smell of animal waste which most of us can appreciate!  Eventually we add this composted leaf bedding to our garden, which nourishes our vegetables, which we enjoy; and the vegetable peelings and wastes become food for the chickens, which they enjoy; which they turn into the eggs which we enjoy.  Yes; we love and appreciate oak leaves around here.
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One of our hens soaking up the sunlight under the oaks
Most of the chickens' waking hours are spent outdoors.  Every morning, except on a few days when the weather is truly dangerously cold, our barn door is opened (no; the real barn door) and our hens are free to wander about wherever they like throughout the entire day until our kids shut them in at night.  Chickens really don’t like snow, so on cold days like the ones we have had lately, they are more apt to stick close to the barn, but the point is, they are truly free.  I too am more apt to stick close to home on these cold days!
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Double yolk egg on the left; normal chicken egg on the right!
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Twins? Double yolked eggs that came from the egg on the left
Our hens seem to really like their new crash pad.  They have been laying more and more eggs as time goes by, even during this recent cold snap!  And the size is great.  One of our recent customers mentioned that our eggs were “bigger even than other farm eggs” she has purchased at other farms in the past.  It is now a regular occurrence to crack amazingly extra large eggs (they are the length of duck eggs!) and find double yolks inside!
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Double yolked Claret Farm eggs on the bottom; single yolk egg on the top
Even our two ducks, which stopped laying probably a year and a half ago, have started laying eggs again recently.  It's avian heaven around here!  We are hoping all this productivity continues into the spring and some of our hens get broody and raise up some nice home-grown, mama-incubated chicks!
What about taste?  We can’t say it any better than a brand new customer, who told me that our eggs were the “best eggs I’ve ever tasted.”  Drop by and treat yourself to Claret Farm’s delicious, nutritious eggs!  There are dozens available for purchase at our Booktique!
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The Mystery of the Missing Eggs

11/9/2014

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Today's Find!
When you hear the words "free-range chickens" what comes to mind?  A feathered creature roaming free eating ticks and bugs to her heart's content?  Yes! 
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...But you probably don't think of what that means for the egg collector.  Yes; it's a perpetual Easter Egg Hunt around here.  Free ranging means...eggs could be ANYWHERE.  We only have around a couple dozen hens, and some of them are definitely past their prime egg-laying years, so whenever the egg production drops it's always a bit of a mystery.   ...Are the hens just too old?  The fact that they free range means we're never really sure which ones are laying and which aren't.  No one wants to be the one to cull the chicken that lays the golden eggs (although ours are brown)!  ...Is it the approach of winter?  Shorter hours of sunlight result in many of our hens ceasing to produce eggs.  So we attach a timer to the lamp in their coop.  How long will it take before the timed light results in eggs again?  (Insert twiddling fingers here.)  ...Are they moulting?  When the temperatures drop, the hens get their "winter feathers," and (you guessed it) stop making eggs.  Are they done moulting yet?  (More twiddling fingers.)  ...Or it could be all of the above!  Or...maybe they have just chosen a new spot to hide their eggs!
So here is where I found today's clutch of eight eggs: inside the barn, on top of our leaf pile, behind a wall of hay.  The hens had scooped a little bowl-shaped hole out of the leaves so that the eggs were hard to see if you just glance at the leaf pile.  But since none of our hens are broody, the eggs did not have a chance to develop.  A hen has to sit on the eggs for a number of days before they can grow and hatch into chicks.  (Since broodiness has been bred out of a lot of chickens, this is not very common.)  Since we moved here, we have only had one naturally hatched chick, which we named Little Shadow.
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When we first moved to the farm, we had couple of "old birds" who used to like to sit on eggs.  We had read that we should discourage such "nonsense" as they couldn't possibly sit long enough for the eggs to properly develop, and that would waste good eggs.  As good novice farmers, we would pull them from their sitting and toss them outside.
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Little Shadow under her mother's wing. Flair, a rare Chantecler hen, hatched Little Shadow all on her own, concealing herself behind the compost pile.
Then one day in the spring of 2013, one of our five rare Chantecler hens, Flair, disappeared.  Was she eaten by a predator?  Struck by a car?  Nope...after 21 days she reappeared, with her one chick in tow.  Little Shadow doesn't look much like her mother (in fact she takes after her dad, our Cuckoo Maran rooster), but that didn't interfere with the bond between Flair and Little Shadow.  Even when she was really too big to fit, Little Shadow still liked to sleep under her mother's wing.  And her mother seemed to like this closeness as well.  Little Shadow was the first animal "born" (well, hatched) at Claret Farm, so she'll always be special to us.  ...There were other eggs in her clutch that didn't hatch.  But Little Shadow has produced far more eggs than the ones we didn't get a chance to eat.
Will there ever be another hatchling?  We certainly hope so!  In the meantime, we will continue on with our Easter egg hunts.  But if we find a hen sitting on a clutch of eggs...well, we'll let her sit there as long as she wants.
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Apple Cider Time at Claret Farm!

8/21/2014

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John-Paul, Fall 2012
John-Paul was just a baby when we moved to Claret Farm, but one thing he loved about our new home was THE APPLES!  Though they had odd marks, were misshapen, and many grew far too high for us to harvest, due to the orchard trees not having been pruned in a number of years, they still tasted good--and John-Paul ate them whole.  


This year's harvest is already under way.  The southwest tree ripens earlier than the others--its apples are not that great for eating, being somewhat mealy ("foamy" my daughter says), but our theory is that perhaps it is a cider tree.  So we are going to test that theory this weekend.
Last fall we borrowed a cider press from a friend.  It was fast and worked very well.  But this weekend we are going to try to make cider without a press.  In case you want to try too, here is a set of instructions we found.  Happy cider-making!
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Cider Pressing, Fall 2013
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Claret Farm Hosts Perilous 1st Annual Fatherhood Farm Day!

7/24/2014

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~Christelle
PictureBefore
We hosted a Claret Farm Day of Paint, Prowess, and Peril this past Saturday, July 19.  The day began with farm work, which in this case was transforming the Little House in the Annex into a classroom for Claret Farm Academy's preschoolers.  Thanks to fellow CFA mom, Tracy Zieman (who graciously helped us take care of our little ones) the older girls, Chris, and I were able to get the vast majority of the painting done.  What is left is to paint a farm-themed mural on the walls!

Thank you, Tracy!!

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AFTER!
After cleaning up, we had our usual potluck dinner and then the real fun began!  Claret Farm's First Annual Dad Olympics began not so promptly around 7:30 pm.  By the end, four contestants vied for the coveted prize of a plate of exclusive Claret Farm chocolate chip cookies!  With their eyes on the prize, our four brave athletes shot free throws, kicked a soccer ball, ran around a pasture at full speed...
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...tried to slay a dragon with bow and arrow...

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...and then it came time for the final event...a test of strength that participants are not likely to forget anytime soon.  It was time for all four fathers to prove once and for all (well...at least for this year) that they could bear the weight of all their children (and then some).  The perilous contest resulted in one gasp-inducing fall, but thankfully, no injuries.  The victors of the fifth and final contest were able to lift not one, two, or even three children...but a grand total of SEVEN children, all at once.
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After the Test of Ultimate Dad Strength, it was time to tally the votes.  Points had been given for differing levels of achievement in each event.  Despite winning none of the individual events, somehow one tortoise-like contestant accumulated enough points overall to put him over the top!  Yes, folks; the victor of the 2014 Dad Olympics was none other than our very own Christopher Hagen.  (Some suggested it was the "home court" advantage...I will leave the final judgment to history.)
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Christopher Hagen: the Ultimate Dad at the 2014 Claret Farm Dad Olympics

Will he manage to keep the crown?  Join us next year to find out.
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Unless a Seed Falls (Fear Not to Sow, Part 2)

4/13/2014

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PictureChristelle at Claret Farm early fall 2013
Spring at Claret Farm.  So much has happened since last spring, which was our first spring on the farm.  The most significant event, in every sense of the word, was the death and birth of our son.  In that order.  While most of our friends and family heard the story, I still encounter acquaintances who have not heard his story, so I will share it again.  Since I have written his complete birth story elsewhere, I will simply write a summary.

On Easter Sunday of last year, God blessed Christopher and me with another pregnancy.  Since my previous pregnancy was high risk, and we had not intended to have another baby due to the likelihood of a repeat of the original condition, I was shocked and honestly very afraid not only for myself but for our new child.  Yet I resolved to be as healthy as possible, and took very good care of myself.

Unknowingly, due to circumstances entirely out of my control, my son's placenta developed with a rare defect that resulted in some of the blood vessels being exposed rather than protected by the umbilical cord or the placenta.  Unfortunately, this type of defect is only detectable with a type of ultrasound that is not commonly used during prenatal care, so the defect went undiagnosed.  Although this placental abnormality put him in constant danger, especially during birth; miraculously, he was safeguarded throughout the pregnancy and up until the very last moments.  Sometime during the last few minutes before birth, his life-giving oxygen supply was cut off, and his heart stopped.  After his body was born, he did not attempt to breathe.  Through the rapid response of our midwives, and the grace of God, he was revived after fifteen minutes of resuscitation.  He spent fifteen days recovering in the NICU.  He is doing marvelously and is a happy and healthy baby boy!

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Our precious Easter bunny!
Today we begin Holy Week.  I am reminded of Jesus' words: "Unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed.  But if it dies, it produces many seeds."  (John 12:24)  Of course Jesus was speaking of His own death and resurrection.  Yet He was also speaking to us, His followers.  We want a cheap harvest.  We want the best of everything without paying anything.  We want wealth without work, pleasure without pain, joy without suffering, eternal life without death.

But Jesus taught us that when we are unwilling to sow, to sacrifice our best, we will not harvest.  In order to yield something worthy of harvesting, something has to die.  To grow in love, sacrifice is required--sacrifices of my time, my schedule, my priorities, my strength, my heart, my hopes and dreams, perhaps even my very life.

For reasons only God knows, to become his mother, my son had to die.  On that sunny December day, on the winter solstice, at noon, God took his spirit.  And then He gave it back.  My head is baffled, and my heart is grateful to the point of tears.  My son's body was the seed that fell lifeless into the fertile ground.  The harvest is still to come.
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It Takes a Dad (to catch fireflies)

8/13/2013

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Dusk in the summer on Claret Farm holds manifold delights and lessons for those outside, as the sun falls into the west.  The observant farmer might catch mist wending upward from the pond to the darkening sky.  On another evening, the quiet farmer, like an interloper, catches the eye of a stock still deer in the orchard, defiant at being caught among the young green apples.  Still another evening, the tired farmer, who is also a Dad (who is also me) finds his feet locked to the ground as the magic waving parade of fireflies rises from the fields and entrances him.

On that evening, marveling at those fireflies, I think, “My kids have got to see this!”

Dashing back into the house, I bound up the stairs two steps at a time, calling to my children already abed.  “Wanna catch some fireflies?” I pleadingly ask.  Pajama clad, four of my children follow me into the dark evening for a nocturnal adventure.

Among the winking yellow fireflies, my ears took in each squeal and exclamation from my children as they chased and reached for the elusive bugs.  One joyful daughter, quick in mind, soon ran to the barn and brought back an empty glass jar.  With the sudden appearance of a place to keep the fireflies, my children dash after and reach for the fireflies with greater vigor.  Firefly gathering, however, proved difficult and discouraging to my children.  Lest the adventure sour, I gave gentle encouragement and pointed out that the fireflies are more easily caught when sitting on blades of grass.  “Look for the firefly lights that aren’t floating through the air, for the lights that are not moving--on the grass!”  That advice did the trick and I listened knowingly to the pride in their voices as they showed me the winking bugs they’d placed in the glass jar.  It was one nocturnal adventure for which bedtime was best ignored and one, I reflected, that wouldn’t have happened without their Dad.

--Chris

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