HillHouse Farms

Mother Milkers Do it Gently in the Barn

By Karen

I came across this You Tube video about the separation of dairy calves from their mothers and it made me want to post a new blog just to clear up a few things.

When I first decided to have a family cow it was twenty years ago. I was pregnant and the calf was due the same day my daughter was due. To me this meant the whole world was a right as rain, and I needed to buy this very specific cow. Pregnant women can be a tad bit superstitious, as in having super powers to make meaningful connections to serendipitous events; so Ron being the understanding husband that he is, supported my decision to buy a cow when the rest of the world thought it a bit strange. As nature would have it the calf was on time, and I was late, so I spent my virgin milking experience as a nine plus month pregnant woman. If that doesn't qualify me to understand the psyche of a dairy animal, then allow me to indulge further.

I counted once, the years I've spent nursing my children, twelve years total! Home birthed babies that nursed into toddlerhood, all my kids were demand fed and naturally weaned. That means that they nursed when they were hungry, and I never once looked at a clock. I was a walking living breathing mother goddess who took the nursing role far more seriously than most of my peers. Now in a completing of the circle I've acquired an overly developed empathy for my dairy creatures. When Trinity got mastitis, I cringed, remembering the soreness, I, too, had once had to endure.

With this kind of background, my attitude is going to a bit biased toward the cow's experience, than the traditional conventional wisdom of farmers. I was a mother milker. Yet I was also the woman who was on the receiving end of the milk and needed to reconcile the experience of giving and taking. With my first cow, I decided I shouldn't have to milk twice a day since I had my own babies to care for. I placed the mother cow and baby cow in separate stalls at night. I would milk the mother in the morning, and let the calf have the milk all day long. Of course, this lead to the mother wanting to hold back the best cream for when she and her calf were reunited.

Over the years, I have experimented with the family cow relationship several different ways, but my newest experiment is one I am most happy with. Trinity and her baby Kennedy are never separated. They are out at pasture and only come in for Trinity to be milked. At first, Trinity didn't want to come in for fear I might separate her from her calf (she was not born on this farm and this had been done to her in the past.) So I coaxed Kennedy into the milking parlor with me. Once I even carried her, though even at two days old she was quite heavy. Trinity of course would follow us into the parlor quite closely and moo her fear that Kennedy would leave her sight. But as calf and mother got used to the routine a funny thing happened.

Trinity would come to the barn door as soon as she saw me with my milk pail in hand. Kennedy, on the other hand, would nonchalantly watch as her mother went into the barn with hardly a bat of her eyes. "Ho hum, no big deal; mom's going to stand there and be boring. I'd much rather stay out here and play with the goats." This is not unlike the way human children respond when they are demand fed. If they can see mom, and they are only separated by choice and not by trauma; then there will be no grieving, no fear, and, in the case of cows, plenty of milk for all.

When I milk Trinity she doesn't hold back her cream. She is so relaxed, eating her grain the milk flows like… dare I say, honey. Usually the calf has had her fill on one or more teats and Trinity is relieved that I empty the other ones. I am hopeful that as the calf grows and demands more milk, there will still be enough for me, her adopted human calf. Seriously, as a family cow, even with cheese-making, who needs more than a few gallons a day?

Years ago, Frédérick Leboyer revolutionized the natural birthing world with his book, Birth Without Violence. Perhaps one day all family farmers will all be practicing gentle mother milking. We'll see. I may need to make a bumper sticker, Mother Milkers Do it Gently in the Barn. Yes, I am definitely getting crazier and crazier the longer I spend on this hill, but I'm not minding it a bit and neither is Trinity, or her calf.

True Colors: Art reflects the desire for an organic balanced life

The color of our eggs mesmerizes me and the milk from our Jersey cow is so yellow from the fresh green pasture it almost looks artificial. What fairy climbed into the refrigerator at night and replaced the top cream with store-bought, prepackaged, French vanilla pudding? Of course, the only reason this looks odd to me is because I grew up as a supermarket child whose only experience with milk was white. Scientifically this can be reduced to beta carotenes which the Jersey cow does not break down the same way a Holstein does, but as a visual artist (yes, I do art as well as write) there is more to the color than meets the eye. The longer I live on my farm the more I have come to realize that it's less about understanding the individual reductionist chemicals at play, and more about understanding my steps and place in this larger dance of life. In other words, I will leave the beta carotene studies to someone else. I need only look at the richness and depth of the color to know there is value in these foods. There is value that speaks to my soul and it reflects the lifestyle that my cow Trinity is living, and the true free range complex balance of the chickens and roosters on this farm.

This richness beyond white washed foods only comes when you live a life in harmony with natural processes. As you become a part of the whole system, the depth of color explodes in a masterful symphony that has each player working in concert to create something greater than the single hue. The eggs have what sustainable farmer Joel Salatin calls "muscle." And the milk boasts a cadmium yellow that calls to the deepest parts of ourselves.

As a painter, I can remember how I felt the first time I squeezed this color out of a tube. I wanted to eat it. It was a visceral reaction. Of course, my rational self took hold as I knew the paint contained substances that were best left on the canvas and not in my mouth, but the feeling that the color would nourish took hold of me. I placed this yellow in the most prestigious locations of my most favored paintings. Something inside of me intuitively knew that this was a color of healing and transformation. Little did I know that our fresh farm eggs and milk were calling to me, I had been craving the true colors of life. I think we all hold deep inside of us a magical memory of what foods are supposed to look like, even in this disassociated modern society where food comes prepackaged in a supermarket, we know these true colors and they call to all of us to live a more sustainable and enriching life. The gold of kings and queens might have more to do with this human desire than the soft metal that goes for a pretty price. This gold is free for the living. The chickens who scratch forth and lay eggs, the cows who wander and munch the lush greenness of summer sunlight, the person who is lucky enough to remember what food used to look and taste like. True colors; belie the true value of life itself. I count myself among the lucky and blessed ones to know this treasure.

Olive Garden? WTF!

Ron Heacock

 

I read an article in Fast Company magazine about Olive Garden, called Why America Is Addicted to Olive Garden, (http://bit.ly/1aOTcH) . It seems that the parent company, Darden, has made some major changes in the format and now Olive Garden is the world's biggest casual dining operation. It has a loyal following. People wait around for their favorite table. It sounded in the article like a place to get a real Italian meal for a reasonable price. And, as the author Chuck Salter touted, there were the unlimited bread sticks.

 

So tonight after Karen's 6 PM meeting ended, we drove around Columbia looking for a suitable, inexpensive meal where we would not end up feeling like we wasted our money – no matter how little we spent. One possibility was a Chinese place near her office. But we were ambivalent right up to sitting in the parking lot.

The Chinese in Tennessee is nothing to write home about (hell its nothing to text a bad review about either) We grew up in the New York metropolitan area and even though we have found one nearby (READ: within an hour's drive of our house) restaurant that serves from a menu rather than a steam table, even this place lacks the credibility to refer to it as "true New York Chinese" good Won Ton and traditional egg rolls notwithstanding. For some reason Chinese in the south always serves crab legs and French fries in the buffet. It makes no sense to me. We live in a different kind of food desert, one that lacks culture.

We almost got out of the car but I remembered the Fast Company article. Seems that Darden (who owns Lone Star and Red Lobster among others) had changed management tactics and was now comparing notes between competing establishments. The piece talked about the new dishes that they had worked out so that a risotto which normally takes between 30 and 45 minutes to prepare fresh could be served alongside chicken parmesan that could be whipped up in 15.

Risotto? In olive Garden? I was intrigued. When they talked about the new ticketing software that helped get all the orders out at the correct time for all the servers on the floor I thought, "Could they possibly have written software to take the place of an exposition man?" I was interested. And when I heard that select Olive Garden employees get to study local food recipes and preparation in Italy, I was sold. I had to see the new Olive Garden.

So when I finished telling Karen about the article we drove out of the Panda Garden parking lot and headed up the highway to Spring Hill some 29 minutes away so we could see what the hubbub was about. When we arrived I was worried that there would be a long wait. It's Friday night and the huge parking lot seemed pretty full. But Karen came out in a moment and told me that it was only five minutes.

I sat down in the waiting area and no sooner had I noticed that there were two uniformed security guards with badges and arm bands (what, are they afraid of a terrorist attack? Someone might steal the linguini?) Then we were called to our table.

Our server was nice. When I told her that we had always thought of Olive Garden as "Shoney's with garlic," she laughed a little too loud. I should have known something was up. We looked over the menu and it was impressive. Short ribs in Chianti, Mussels, a Portobello Mushroom Risotto. We ordered a side of calamari and decided to split an entrée. We asked for the house red, Principato Rosso. At $4.75 a glass we figured it had to be as good as the Macaroni Grill red we drank at home sometimes which only costs $8.95 for a 1.5 liter bottle.

The warm breadsticks arrived. There was no butter so Karen asked for some olive oil. The server, ever attentive and friendly asked if we wanted some balsamic in it. We said yes, suitably impressed further. They were kind of salty but I was sure I was eating real food so I did not pay much attention. Karen decided on a pasta and seafood dish with a wine sauce called Seafood Portofino. Soon the calamari arrived. The wine was a little watery but not bad for a cheap house red. The sauces with the calamari were cold marinara and some kind of mystery ranch dressing. The calamari was hot. We gave a couple of points to the exposition software.

After eating a few I noted that it tasted like Sysco frozen calamari. That is not a terrible crime but we were beginning to wonder. Around that time we got more bread sticks and the plate of oil. The oil was an unmistakable cheap refined olive oil. It was bitter. I began dipping the bread in the red sauce – which I realize now, was loaded with sugar. Before I could stop myself I had eaten three more of the fat soggy, salt y breads. The new batches were not warm either but I couldn't seem to stop myself.

Totally into the atmosphere of the place, we ordered another couple of glasses of wine. It seemed drier than it should be but we were animated and happy, talking about the nice ambiance and laughing about the way the ceramic vases were glued to the shelves. It was looking more like a chain restaurant. The wine, which usually makes the world less real, seemed to be revealing the corporate fingerprint beneath the yuppie veneer.

The soup came with the entrée, but it was like canned with some fresh veggies thrown in. The entrée smelled good, but the scallops were tiny and the shrimp also looked like they came from a can; tiny and salty. There were seven small mussels on top and one was not open. The sauce was some kind of thick gelatinous Alfredo bastardization. It reminded me of the one and only time I ever tried Fassoli's. We could not finish. By the time we were half way through our mouths were burning. I am glad that we weren't given water because I know how bad it is in Spring Hill. But the waitress could have sold us a couple of bottles of Pellegrino at airport prices and we would have been overjoyed. She never asked.

The meal was not cheap. We brought the left over bread sticks home but thought better than to feed them to our ducks. On the drive my mouth puckered up from all the salt and MSG so bad that I was almost not able to talk.

I realized that when I go to McDonalds I know what I am buying. The McNuggets are not really made of chicken. If one knows this they can eat them responsibly. I resist the over salted fries because I know that the chemical they put on them will cause me to lose the ability to stop when I have had enough (and occasionally all feeling in my lips!). Olive Garden fooled me. They are representing themselves as real food with the atmosphere in which they serve and the service that they are providing (when you are here, you're family? Shit, my family does not try to poison me!). But don't be fooled. The proof is in the fact that the food, which seems to taste good upon the first bite, becomes tasteless after a moment –a sure-fire sign of over processed, over salted artificial foods. And the way it burns your mouth for hours afterwards is the final verdict.

Olive Garden is worse than McDonalds in that they are dishonest (and pricy, the $15 entrée had $2 worth of bad ingredients in it, that even beat the 10 to 1 ratio used in airport bars). When I go to Mickey D's I know what to expect and how to manage. If consumed properly the food is consistent and tasty, even if it is made of questionable ingredients. I have no idea what I just ate at Olive Garden but I will not even compliment it to the degree of calling it Shoney's with garlic anymore. Even Shoney's is more honest than Olive Garden.

My opinion is that America is addicted to Olive Garden because they drug the food.

Free Chapter from My Novel Happily After Ever

From Ron,

It has been suggested more than once that I publish this myself. So I have decided to do a market test.

I have uploaded a PDF of my novel Happily After Ever.

It is the story of Harry Steele, a somewhat neurotic man who receives the key to an amazingly powerful manifestation technique and finds that as a writer he is uniquely well suited for success. But success takes a circuitous route and the journey pairs Harry with an unlikely crew of shadow people, dead relatives, misfits and a talking dog in order for him to learn the true ways of manifestation and the ultimate lesson of love.

Try out the first chapter and let me know if you are interested in more. I have not decided if I should release it as a serial novel of just sell the e-book. I welcome your comments and suggestions.

 

Here is a quirky little bio to tell you more about me and the story.

 

"Hi, Roger Penrose of the Dutton Literary Agency. Is Ron Heacock in?"

Mandy answered, "I'll see, please hold. --Nope. Can I take the message?"

"May I ask you a few questions then?"

"Well sure. Okay."

"What is your name, ma'am?"

"Mandy Eastman. I die near the end of Ron's first novel, Happily After Ever."

Roger was sure he hadn't heard correctly but he pressed on. "Mandy, what can you tell me about Mr. Heacock? As a writer, of course."

She snorted a laugh that sounded like a cat hocking up a hairball. I can definitely tell you about Ronny," She was smiling, "he's got a nice ass…"

Roger looked at his watch thinking, I wonder if there is a way out of this. "Right then, ah, when did Ron begin writing?"

"He wrote short stories in high school, but he's more of a poet. Did you know he sings too? Wrote at least a hundred songs. He was a band too and then went solo – what a waste of time that was. Then he did all kinds of jobs."

"Oh really, what kind?"

"Got married at nineteen. That's a job – shit; three months is my limit."

"Umm hmm."

"He fixed stuff, sold stuff and built stuff. Taught songwriting, and played with 'Look What They Done To My Song, Ma,' Melanie from Woodstock. But that was long after da summer of love. And now she's fat like a house and her husband Peter is totally batshit!" Mandy chuckled to herself.

"How is it that Ron is writing now?"

"You know, I have to pee. Here, talk to Harry." She yelled, "Hey Steele!"

"Hello, Harry Steele, can I help you?"

"Yes, Hi, this is Roger Penrose from …"

"Hi Roger. I know your boss, Brian Dutton –you're calling about Ron?"

"Well, yes."

"Damn fine guitarist. Much better than me; a real natural."

"But what about his writing, this is for a biography you see and…"

"Well that's a big part it. In order to put a whole story into three and a half minutes you have to condense details. He's got the brevity factor down pat."

"Other publishing credits?"

You know, you should ask Rockmed or Lisa about that. Maybe Beauregard."

"Is there anything else you can tell me?"

"Well, he created me. That's something. Here's Hassim, ask him."

"Quite."

A man with smooth thickly accented voice said, "Hello, Doctor Rockmed."

"I'm Roger Penrose," Roger began his introduction.

Oh yes, Mr. Penrose. Ron told me about you. You would like some history?"

"Yes."

"The book, Happily After Ever is a love story about loving your own life so much that you make good things happen. Ron's an expert at Manifesting the Life You Desire. With no money, he built a real estate empire before realizing his true calling."

"True calling?"

"Writing, of course, sir. That is what we are talking about isn't it?"

"Oh, right."

"Ron manifested a BMW M3 once, after doing a series of exercises."

"Really? What kind of exercises?"

"You should read the book."

"Oh, yes, I've been told that."

"He found the car on EBay, bid on it and won. He called, and with no money down the salesman delivered the car the next day."

"That's amazing, but I fail to see the connection."

"Oh, I couldn't say. But I'll bet you a chestnut that Lisa has insights. Lisa?"

She broke right in. "I've been lurking, Scooter. Listen, Ron has published a few on-line stories, some poetry, newspaper articles and an Arts piece, but the point is, he a machine. They downsized him from his corporate gig in '03 and his wife asked him, 'What do you really want to do?' Without a beat he says, 'I want to write.' So he does -- every day for a year! Completed Happily After Ever along with the beginning of five other novels – you should ask him to show you."

"Okay," Roger had two pages of scribbled notes. "Harry suggested I speak to one more person. Is Beauregard there?"

"Ha!" Lisa's barked a laugh. "That Harry. No, Mr. Penrose, you don't want to talk to Beau. You'll never get a straight answer from a man's dog."

Wizard Dogs & White Rabbits on Carroll Ridge ~ The Hillhouse Realm

When we brought my son Morgan back up to Nashville to fly home to Portland, Oregon, we spent an enjoyable evening at an Irish Pub. The band played bawdy folk tunes with lots of audience participation. It was fun, bringing back old memories of when Ron played the Northeastern folk circuit amid small pubs, folk festivals and the like. What struck me most about the evening, however, was how completely alien it was from my world. I live in a completely different realm up here on Carroll Ridge; this modern version of Bilbo's shire that we've created is completely outside of the urban/ suburban lives we once knew. I am like the magical Inn Keeper who washes the sheets and hangs them on the line to catch the fragrance of the summer breeze preparing for the next guest so that their dreams may be magically imbibed with the scent of the tricky south wind. It sounds crazy, but this exactly how I feel.

People come here from everywhere, as if they are called by the fairy ring to find what they are seeking. Artists and writers are always seeking something when they come to this way station. Years ago I was a practicing midwife's apprentice. We would nurture women to go through the most powerful event of her life, and then she would be gone… off into the world far from the realm of birthing and labor pains, and into the world of parenthood. Occasionally we would receive word from the outer realm on how the young family was doing, but in modern society with families spread across so many states following the job market, more cases than not would disappear after a few heartfelt notes and I would be left with a sense that they had crossover into a different world.

HillHouse, I am slowing coming to realize it is a lot like that. Dexter the guardian dog will bark at night as she scans the perimeter for what is outside and does not belong. I think of her as the wizard who is maintaining the magical bubble for what resides within our fence line. There are white rabbits that hop freely among the dogs and cats and chickens. My farmer neighbor admitted to me that while driving home one night she saw a white rabbit run along the side of the road near my gate and had to tell herself, "No, I'm not crazy; I did see a white rabbit." (Though she did have to ask me, with a grin, if I did indeed own a white rabbit.)

Apparently the idea of seeing of a free roaming white rabbit is unheard of; it is a sign of the impossible, but not on this farm. Dexter will even bark at hawks that circle in our "fly zone." Hen Wen, our pig, named after the Lloyd Alexander oracle from the Black Cauldron series is the best rototiller I own ~ Is there any question as to why I might feel a little strange when I step outside of my realm and enter the world of French fries, electric guitars and a loud talkative crowd?

Even among my rural farmer friends, I don't quite live in the same world. People come to our place to make art; and farmers who are eking what they can from the land from sunrise to sunset; don't exactly make a place for art in their lives… and yet they do. Appalachian crafts and music are a testament to that. This summer I will be attending a week at Goddard working on my art and I am hoping to incorporate some of the old time crafts into my work. I'm excitedly going to leave my ridge for the great Pacific Northwest for a short while. I have become electrified with new visions that marry my writing to my art to my farm.

Life is good, even if we, too, have not been unscathed by these economic times. Still, there is hope and peace. Which reminds me of one of my favorite fantasy authors, Robin McKinley. There's this character named Luthe in Daria. He lives high in the mountains where heroes can go to be healed. I feel a bit like Luthe, too. Because people come here to be healed, they come to be reconnected to the land, the animals, and the inner voice that can sometimes only be heard when you've got a barking dog protecting your perimeter. Welcome to the HillHouse Realm, we're a bit outside the box here, but I guess that's the point.

We invite you to be our guest!

A typical stay at HillHouse Writer’s retreat

We send out our survey in preparation of a new guest's arrival about a week before their date. The last few times we received these surveys back they were missing critical information (intense food dislikes, allergies, etc.) so I am revising it, on Karen's suggestion, to make the questions more open ended. Instead of asking which types of meat protein you prefer with a multiple choice we will just ask if there are favorites, and some that you wish to avoid.

Once I get the completed survey back I can start creating the menu. I will send that back for comments and make the final revision a day or so prior to arrival. I was joking when I said it but I have realized that it rings true; the biggest task of running this retreat is shopping. Morgan (who is visiting from Portland Oregon this week) said we should get suppliers to deliver to us. That's a great idea, if I can get my head above water this week I may begin arranging some of those relationships.

One thing that complicates this is timing and the other competing complication is the fact that Pulaski, our nearest town, is devoid of shopping. In short, I have to drive 45 minutes on the interstate to get to a decent (read: non-Wal-Mart) grocery store.

We strive to offer local-organic ingredients whenever possible. That includes the surrounding farms for meats and produce in season. But for little things, like let's say, organic Valencia oranges or Organic Valley heavy cream, we have to plan the trip with the menus. And for perishable supplies like Dover sole or free range chickens the trip can be extended as much as 30 minutes farther into the Green Hills section of Nashville (for the bigger, more urban Whole Foods Market). This was the case yesterday afternoon. The complete round trip took almost four hours.

But let's get back to the present; the guest's arrival day.

Many of our guests fly in to Nashville. We include pickup and drop off from/to the airport (with a minimum 3 day stay). Often on the trip back we stop off at the store to get last minute supplies, like wine, meats, etc (we have a refrigerator in the car so the one hour trip home does not lessen the freshness of what we buy in the city). This gives our guests the opportunity to get forgotten items and make final suggestions regarding the menu.

Arrival at the farm is a big deal for the dogs, which have to freak out when they hear the alerting tones from the electric gate opener. The local Mocking Birds have learned the pitch and rhythm of this beeping as well and will occasionally confuse the dogs and the humans about approaching visitors. This gives support to my assertion that most animals have a finely tuned and extremely dry sense of humor. This irony seems to be built in to the universe!

We pull up on the lawn at the front door so that we do not have to climb too many steps with luggage or boxes and enter the house through the front door. The Blue Room, which is most often the residency lodging of choice, is located directly to the left of the entry. We will either have lunch or dinner a short time later. This first meal gives everyone a chance to meet. So if there are other guests we generally all sit together at this first meal. We go over wakeup times and meals times, specific needs and such. The conversation eventually rolls around to projects and then generally finishes up with a tour of the house and the property.

After that our guests usually disappear. The point of a stay at HillHouse is, after all, to get some quality work time in with no distractions. We give a 30 min advance call for meals, which can be taken anywhere on the property, with or without others. For expended stays, the rooms are cleaned once per week, sheets and towels washed and hung on the line in good weather, and the rooms aired out for an hour or so.

A note about your sense of time at HillHouse; you will lose it. This is the effect that most impressed us when we first visited this property. It is not so much that time stops but more that it matters less and less as you fall into the rhythms of the sunrise and set, the birds and breezes and the cycles of the cows, sheep, horses and other animals. There are broad shaded porches in the front and back of the house to facilitate meditation at any time of the day. You can search the surrounding fields for local fauna or drift to the sound of song birds and wind chimes. There is a constant breeze up here on the hill.

Meals at HillHouse are made to order, from scratch every day (except when we have leftovers – making all this food creates a bit of a surplus by the end of the week). Meal times are agreed upon by all guests in advance but are flexible depending upon need. We will go out of our way to accommodate any special whims. We strive to pamper. Guests are encouraged to help or stay away from the kitchen as suits them. We are flexible and can alter a menu or a meal on a moment's notice.

Since the point of attending HillHouse is to work (and there is an artist's studio available for painting and sculpting) most attendees do not seek attractions off the property. We understand the obsessive nature of the creation of arts and so we can plan trips into Pulaski (or into Nashville or Huntsville) for a movie or a short diversion. There are also several nearby attractions to take up attention like the Tennessee walking Horse Museum Amish country in Lawrenceburg or the Jack Daniels distillery in Lynchburg. Additionally, there are hundreds of miles of country roads through the surrounding hills, valleys, shaded glens and fields. Giles County is situated in rolling hills, host to hundreds of thousands of acres of Fox Hunting and Cattle farming. We liken it to Ireland with warmer temperatures. And if you want to stay closer to home, our property is honeycombed with trails and our animals are all very socialized.

Oh yes, a note about animals. Most of our animals are outdoors. The cats do not come in the house. Although we have four dogs only two of them (three if my daughter is visiting with her teacup Chihuahua, Munchkin) come inside. Nevertheless, we are animal people and they are very present in and around HillHouse. If you have allergies or are afraid of animals we suggest you reconsider visiting. This property belongs to them, we are just visiting.

At the end of a stay at HillHouse we ask our guests to please write a recommendation (or a journal entry describing their visit). We make these testimonials available to potential guests. We like to take pictures and hang out together at the last meal before heading off to the airport. Many of our guests stay in touch and send gifts and cards. Once you attend HillHouse you become part of our extended family.