making (farm) friends

When we came to this place, our intention was to create a simple little farm where our show horses could retire and live out the rest of their days grazing on green acres — it was our precious Merlin who originally inspired that dream. But what we didn’t anticipate (well, let’s just say I didn’t anticipate; ever-practical Mike, of course, knew better) was how long it would take us to get the property ready for horses again. Restoring the barn, seeding pastures and building new fencing alone took us two years. And during that time I went searching for some farm friends — people we could go to for advice and support…neighbors, vets, a great farrier, hay and shavings suppliers, riding buddies and others. Here we are today, almost five years later, and all the puzzle pieces have come together to form a beautiful picture of country life and friendship. We met Michelle, a young horse whisperer, who’s become one of the most special people in our lives; Scott, the country doctor who used to practice equine medicine in metro Atlanta, though we had never met, and now has a thriving practice in Alabama; Danny, our farrier, who tends to all the horses’ feet, most especially Merlin’s…he made our most special horse more comfortable with his old racing injuries and prolonged his life; Randy, who despite his policy of only delivering full truckloads of shavings to local farms, made concessions and now delivers half-loads to us due to our small barn’s storage (he most likely does this because we’re Auburn alum); David and his family, who own a beautiful farm in the valley — he was one of the first friends we made and showed us simple pleasures (like how to size a rattlesnake “9 buttons and a rattle,” the meaning of “going loafing” and took us to our first Trade Day); Mike H., a farmer friend from Hokes Bluff, who owns cattle, llamas and lots of really big trucks – he helped build the riding ring and has since become our go-to guy whenever we’re faced with a job too overwhelming to handle on our own — like creating Merlin’s final resting place; Barbara, who grew up here, has traveled the world, and now lives on her “Funny Farm” down the road where she raises goats and chickens, gardens (she’s a master gardener), and keeps bees which make the most delicious honey, caused us to fall in love with Great Pyrenees after meeting her Lily, and oh, she’s a massage therapist, too; Mr. Wigley, the retired high school principal…he tends to our lawns and orchard and keeps us stocked all summer long with garden delights, most especially his perfect peaches; Allen (aka Buster), the very first person we met — he cuts and bales the hay twice a year, was attached to this land before we were, and probably knows it better than anyone…you might say we inherited him and we’re the luckier for it; neighbors Byron and Carol, who both graciously allow us to ride horses on their land; Glenda, one of the loveliest southern ladies you’ll ever meet, who at 19 married her sweetheart and together they bought 57 acres of pastureland and over decades turned it into a beautiful horse farm (she’s now been there over 40 years and still going strong); sweet little Taylor, the barrel racer…she  came into our lives just this year; so did Rebecca, an extraordinarily talented dressage rider — who reached Prix St. Georges level with her beloved Chase — and here she is practically in our own back yard.

So many friends, so many memories already. We are humbled and sometimes a bit overwhelmed by all the kindness we’ve found along the way. And every time we get here it feels like home.

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green, green grass

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greengreengrass The grass is so green right now it’s almost blinding in the sun.

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ark time

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So, it’s probably a good thing we don’t keep horses in the back pasture, right?

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keeping the flame alive

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All the snow and winter mayhem this week had us thinking a lot about warmth. When we bought the farm there was no working heater or AC. Mike spent that first long winter living in the empty house by himself, stripping walls and floors and ceilings and painting just about everything he could touch for weeks on end. In the end, we estimate about 70 gallons of primer and paint was used (and that’s just on the inside) before the old place started to come alive again.

There was no furniture at the time — nor heat — so Mike spent each winter evening huddled by a 40-year-old Buck Stove for company. That, along with an air mattress and a plastic laundry basket turned upside down for a dinner table, was about all he had. And I think he loved every minute of his solitude that winter, especially the nights by the fire.

Truth be told, I hated that hunk of wood-burning cast iron at first. Tacky. Rusty. Too country. Boy was I wrong. Not only did it keep our man warm, but it has come to serve as the centerpiece of the great room where we gather to eat, watch movies, play board games, gaze out the windows at the horses, the dogs, the pond, the deer who tiptoe into the open when they think no one’s watching, an occasional hawk, crane, even coyote, and the comical parade of wild turkeys and their babies. The old stove anchors the room — and our home — and we’ve come to cherish it. So much so that we burn fires in it almost year-round now, and when we built the little pool cabana outside we found another Buck Stove in a store’s back lot in Kennesaw and hauled that baby all the way to Alabama.

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In “The Joys of a Wood-Burning Stove” (Wall Street Journal), Ruth Graham shares her own appreciation after a long winter in rural New Hampshire. “Tending to the stove has turned out to be a deeply satisfying daily ritual. Before bed, we fill up the stove; each morning, we load new logs onto the smoldering embers; in between, we stoke it every couple of hours. As long as we tend to it, the fire never dies—a nice metaphor for life….” Amen.

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winter on the farm

We must admit, summer is usually our favorite time on the farm — when pastures are lush, horses are fat, dogs run wild, hens lay eggs, the garden explodes and the house stays filled with friends and family. The place is just abuzz with life. But when winter comes, a hushed stillness falls over everything and you somehow come to feel an even deeper connection with the land, where simple quiet is all around.

 

 

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