In just over a week “Bessie the Cow” was born. You can see her just inside of the door of the barn at Westfalcon Farm.
Farm Stories
Sweet Clover, Summer Memories, and a Wildflower Bouquet
As the kids and I took a walk down our road to the lake, the intoxicating smell of sweet clover, vanilla mixed with fresh-cut hay, permeated the air. Late June in Minnesota is when the summer wildflowers awaken and adorn the sides of the roads, prairies, and edges of our 10,000+ lakes. On this particular day, my daughter started collecting wildflowers on the side of the road as we walked toward the lake. “Mom, I’m going to make you the most beautiful wildflower bouquet today.” As my daughter waded through the tall grass and wildflowers, she gathered: Black-eyed Susans, Prairie Fleabane, Tufted Vetch, Virginia Waterleaf, Yellow and White Sweet Clover, Ox-eye Daisies, Queen Anne’s Lace, and Red Clover. Once we arrived at the lake, my son picked an exquisite American White Water Lily, also known as the Fragrant Water Lily, to add to the bouquet. Before long we had a beautiful wildflower bouquet of all different colors, textures, and scents waiting to adorn our kitchen table. My family has been picking wildflowers along the roadside on our walks for year. One thing that always comes to mind, when reminiscing of these ventures, is the smell of sweet clover. In fact, my children have learned to identify sweet clover when it emerges from the soil in the early spring. First, there is excitement at finding the plant itself, but then a serious race ensues to see who can pick and smell the first sweet clover leaves of the year. There is nothing like the smell of sweet clover, especially on a warm summer day like today. Years ago, as a teenager, I remember helping my boyfriend (who is now my husband) with his summer lawn mowing jobs. There was this particular spot in a yard that smelled especially sweet every time we would mow. Determined to identify the plant, I would stop and search high and low for the plant that smelled so sweet. Finally I found a plant that appeared to be a type of clover (three finely-toothed leaflets). After my job, I remember going home and telling my mother about this clover plant that had the most wonderful smell. She said “Oh, sweet clover! That was your great-grandpa’s favorite smell as well.” Little did my mother know, that my great-grandfather had actually written a journal entry about his memories of clover. What I remember was that mother laid me in the shade at the edge of the field and cocked the hay as my father raked it. The smell of the Red Clover drying and the humming of the bees comes back vividly now as I write of this happening. ~Roy Falk My mother’s aunt (who typed up my great-grandfather, Roy Falk’s, journals) noted how incredible my great-grandfather’s memory must have been to remember incidents that happened before he could even sit up on his own. I was also surprised, but I know it’s not unheard of. In fact, I remember one incident that happened when I was a baby in a walker. I was at a family friend’s house, and as I was wheeling around, the dog who lived at that house accidentally pushed me down the stairs in my walker. I was amazingly unharmed, but the memory of tumbling down those stairs and being terrified is still sharp in my mind. The sweet smell of the Red Clover and the buzzing of the bees must have had quite an impact on Great-Grandpa for him to recall this memory so well. After reading Great-Grandpa’s journal entry, I was interested to see if there was a purpose of the clover being in the hay field. According the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources (DNR), clover was brought over to the United States from Europe in the 1600’s. It was used as a forage crop (to feed livestock) and as a cover crop (where it is used to keep weeds down and enrich the soil). Clover plants have very long tap roots that extend several feet below the top soil. This tap root brings nutrients such as nitrogen up to the top soil, nourishing nearby shallow-rooted plants. I wish I could have been sitting next to the field with Great-Grandpa, listening to the bees and smelling the hay and clover as it dried in the fields. As I’m writing this, my husband and children are imploring me to accompany them on our daily walk. I think I’m ready to go out and smell the sweet clover again after sharing this story. I urge you to make your way outside and embark on a journey to look for some summer wildflowers. You may just come home with a beautiful bouquet, and if you’re lucky, you’ll catch the scent of vanilla and fresh-cut hay drifting the air.
- Animals
- ...
Heartache in the Chicken Run
Last night the kids went outside with their flashlight after dark to look for night crawlers since it had rained earlier in the day. They collect night crawlers throughout the summer so they can use them for fishing. While the kids were out, they went back to check on the chickens and the chicks (we keep our 2 1/2 month old chicks in the run right now to keep them separated from the older chickens in the coop until the chicks grow to be about the same size as the older ones) to make sure all the chickens were accounted for. When my son and daughter went past the run, they counted only five chicks, not the six that were supposed to be in there. They searched throughout the run, but couldn’t find Dahlia, the missing chick. Both of the kids came running into the house yelling that Dahlia was missing. How can that be? Our run is very predator proof. We used 1/2″ hardware cloth on every opening from roof to below ground throughout the run. Yes, we even installed hardware cloth a few inches under the top soil to prevent predators from digging up into the run. My husband and I asked the kids if they had accidentally let Dahlia out of the run when they were going in and out of the run. They insisted that they had not. My husband grabbed the large flashlight and we all hurried out to the run. The kids and I waited outside of the run while my husband went in to inspect. He checked all the places that the kids had checked before he noticed that the screw-on lid to the five-gallon waterer was sitting cockeyed on the bucket. My husband lifted the lid and I heard him mutter “Oh geez.” He reached into the bucket, and slowly pulled out little Dahlia, wet, limp, and lifeless. My husband gently set Dahlia on the ground while he securely screwed the top back onto the waterer before returning to pick her up. I felt sick to my stomach, my daughter immediately cried out in terror as big crocodile tears fell down her cheeks, and my son walked away in a sort of skip, not knowing exactly what to do as he put his hands up on his head. The whole scene was heartbreaking. Quite a few people have given me that smile with a short shake of the head after I tell them that all of our layers have names. I can’t help it. I love animals, and if they live with us, they are a part of our family. You see, each chicken has his or her own personality. Goldy (Golden Rod) is my gardening pal. She stays right by my side as I pull weeds, dig holes, or till up the soil in hopes that a big, juicy worm or bug will surface. Rose is the boss of all of the hens, well, and sometimes the rooster too. She is also one of the first chickens to run to me at full speed when I call the flock. Thistle was given her name by my husband when she started to peck at our hands and run away from us when she was just a few days old. These days, she seems to be an old soul who likes to sit by us on the deck when we relax at the end of the day. Dahlia, sweet Dahlia, calm, quiet, and easy to hold. As my husband held Dahlia, I ran into the house to get a towel and was back out in less than a minute. My husband notified me that Dahlia was still alive, but barely. I wrapped her in the towel and held her close to me as I carried her inside. She would move her head every once in awhile, but the breaths she was taking were short, shallow, and occurring every ten seconds or so. Close to death. One thing that struck me was how cold she was. Usually the chickens are like large heat packs when you hold them. As I felt her cold body in my arms, I was reminded of a story my mom had told me a couple of years ago. Bud, the owner of the family farm prior to when my parents had bought it, had woken up early one morning to start on the farm chores when he noticed that a lamb had been born during the night. That particular night was one of those frigid Minnesota winter nights where the temperatures had dropped well below zero. The lamb was frozen solid by the time Bud had reached the little one. He wrapped the lamb up and gently held her under a heat lamp. Miraculously, the lamb had thawed, awoken, and went on to live a full life. Can you imagine? If this lamb survived, maybe Dahlia could survive. By the time I walked inside with Dahlia, both of the kids had asked me a dozen times if she would be okay. As I looked down at her with her head drooping down, eyes closed, and barely breathing, I replied “You probably should start praying because we need a miracle.” Within this short time, my husband had gathered a large storage bin, put a few inches of pine shavings in it, and attached a heat lamp to the side. I gently laid Dahlia down in the bucket under the lamp and went to get a blow dryer. With the setting on low and cool (which is a lukewarm temperature), I began drying Dahlia’s feathers. We used the blow dryer for about a half an hour, making sure to dry around her neck, chest, under her wings, and back. Soon after, we noticed that Dahlia was trying to move her head a little more often, and she started to open her eyes sporadically. I warmed up a heat pack, wrapped it in a towel, and gently slipped it underneath Dahlia for additional warmth. After an hour of continuous