Greetings

"Consider it a newsletter to family and friends, but without all the multiple copies and stamp licking!". And with that, I was able to convince my reluctant Dear Partner that blogging could be a practical and non-dangerous undertaking, or at least no worse than the axe in the woodshed. I will begin at the beginning in a moment, but first a warm greeting to our readers, and a heartfelt thank you for your visits. I will try to provide an honest glimpse into our lives and activities, not all of which are progressive or by any measure a success. I may dig up the courage to share future goals along the way so you can muse over the progress (or lack thereof) toward meeting them. Your comments and suggestions are also welcome and we do hope to hear from you. Please drop us a note on your way out, and don't forget your muck shoes.

 

Little Cricket Farm was conceived in the comfort and elegance of a turn-of-the-century brownstone in the coveted Capital Hill neighborhood of Seattle. Was it a latent gene kicking in? or a sudden distrust in government's ability to maintain social security?  This remains uncertain, but it definitely started with goats.

Back when we had high speed in that lovely apartment, I stumbled upon a goat forum, and for some curious reason, a seed was planted. I made endless trips back to that website, lurking and listening in on conversations from goat owners across the globe. Suddenly, the flower box outside our kitchen window was simply not enough. Like a cascade of books falling from a shelf, an intense preoccupation developed concerning various types of livestock, plant growing techniques, soil management, barns, tractors, on and on. Maps, plans, and calculations became dreams on paper. Spyware trackers were dizzy with the fury of web browsing in a dozen different directions. On weekends, The Sunday Times was replaced with The Little Nickle. On summer evenings, I would gaze to the east from my balcony where miles and miles away I imagined a farmer must be finishing the last of  his chores, and his wife would be calling him in for dinner. 

It would be another year at least before the hot economy bubble lifted just enough that we could sneak into the party, and many more years before my hand would touch our goats. When the real estate transaction closed and we were proud property owners, I put a fistful of earth in a plastic baggy and sent it to my mother. And yet, the acreage was completely overgrown. The house was dilapidated, riddled with bullet holes and without central heating. (Our new neighbors brought us firewood the first year). I remember it was cold that first year, exhausting and wet. There were no street lights. No restaurants. We could hear wild things howling at night... I also remember the day we brought home our first two chickens, or the night we cooked our first complete home grown meal.

Would I do it again? Exchange all that luxury, the glittering lights of the city, a life of friends, theaters and dining out for the mud and uncertainty of the country? The answer depends on when you ask! 

  

There are tasks so grimy or overwhelming that the reply would be a resounding "no! Hell NO!"

 ...and then, there are moments so precious, so remote from most people's experience, so unimaginable back in that city apartment, I am filled with a feeling of life, truth, and immense fortune.   

   

Ah, c'est la vie!