Practical Homesteading

Month: July 2025

  • Heartbeat in the Straw

    Dawn creeps quietly through the slats of the coop, cool air curling past my feathers. The world holds its breath. In the hush, I stand over two warm, caramel-colored eggs, their shells glowing softly beneath me, alive with promise. A rush of purpose stirs my body, deep as bone, compelling me to shelter these treasures. I lower myself, wings spread and mind sharp with instincts older than sunrise, shaping the straw and down beneath me into a fortress nothing can breach.

    Hours and light trickle in. My eggs fit perfectly against my breast, warmed by the steady drum of my heartbeat. Here in my corner, the scent of straw and my own dust settles around us, a constant comfort. For the long wait ahead, I am a sentinel:  alert, keen, wary.

    Every morning, footsteps disturb the quiet:  steady, deliberate. Sun spits through cracks as The Hand reaches with slow, practiced movements. My feathers rise: a warning. My beak snaps forward, and I bristle, fierce and certain, defending what is mine from this giant, careful invader. The Hand lingers, then withdraws, replaced with the sound of a door shutting and the world shrinking small again.

    The Hand insists on getting my picture, and my eggs.

    After that, I steal only quick moments away for food or water, kindly set close by The Hand:  useful, but never to be trusted fully. Each day brings new weight: I turn my eggs, settle them, keep them close. Beneath my attention, they each pulse with silent potential. Sometimes, I croon low, promising presence and protection, sound meant only for ears tucked inside a shell.

    One shifting dawn, a tap splits the silence. I freeze, every quill on alert. I see the crack, and the chick within, fighting, peeping, flailing toward the world. There is struggle, breathless and raw, until she falls into my waiting wing. Damp and trembling, she presses against my heat, glittery-eyed, alive.

    My new chick

    Beside us, the second egg stills with each passing hour. I nudge it, rearrange straw, listen for any sound. There is only cooling shell and the ache of absence:  a loss with no cry or answer. My body hovers over both: one soft and humming, one silent and heavy.

    Still, duty binds me. My chick stirs, cheeps, burrows close. Her hunger for life draws me back. She tumbles over straw while I guide her away from danger, teach her how to squat low under a crow’s chasing shadow, how to crunch beetle shell between her new, clumsy beak. All my motions shape her world. Other hens watch, uncertain, until my sharp glare sends them back; she is mine to guard.

    In the fresh grass, I teach her all that I know

    The Hand grows less bold now, waiting in the doorway, silent. I watch, half-fluffed and ready, each muscle curled between challenge and acceptance. The door remains, the boundary clear, and my chick finds courage in the shade of my wing.

    Dusk returns the coop to hush. I settle with my chick nestled close, her warmth answering mine. The world outside might bellow and swirl, but here, I know the weight and shape of safety. Shadows lengthen, the air cools, and we breathe in the straw-sweet darkness.

    Feathers fill out where down once was, and my little one’s stride grows sure. She rises on stronger legs:  stumbles, rights herself, tries again. Our small world is edged with gold, and a hundred mornings stretch ahead. Each night, I tuck her in close, fierce and gentle, letting the dark settle over us like a promise. Tomorrow, we’ll wake to the coop’s hush and sunlit straw. For now: my body’s warmth, my careful watch, and the quiet beat that says:  here, you are safe.

    Have you watched an animal exhibit their natural animal behaviors? Share your experiences below, and subscribe to join a community of like-minded people.

  • The Forgotten Resource

    Every homestead has secrets, but sometimes you uncover far more than you had expected.

    On the day we officially moved onto our new property, I thought I knew what sustainability looked like:  careful choices, eco-friendly habits, mindful living. Yet, as we settled into our new land, the barns and outbuildings became a sort of blind spot, lurking at the edge of my vision while I obsessed over leaky faucets and weathered walls in the house.

    It wasn’t until a heatwave afternoon, with cicadas buzzing and pollen swirling, that I finally asked my husband, “Can we walk through the outbuildings? I want to see what’s really here.” We made our way over the gravel drive, the old barn looming with its faded red paint and centuries-old aura. We ducked inside, stepping into the soft, golden mess of straw, which carpeted the floor in a layer measuring at least four feet thick.  The space was alive:  shadows flickered, a swallow darted overhead, and a mouse rustled just out of sight.

    Our barn straw

    At first glance, the mass of straw seemed like a nuisance, a fire hazard begging to be dealt with. “Should we just burn it?” my husband mused “At the moment, the additional floor space is more valuable to me than the straw”.

    Something in me balked at this thought:  burning felt wasteful, even wrong. Carting it away made no logistical sense either; what if there was a better way? After some discussion and research over several months, the straw, was an overlooked treasure.

    Straw mulch added to the pumpkin garden

    We started experimenting. In the garden, a layer of straw became a natural mulch: suppressing weeds, maintaining moisture, protecting the soil from harsh sun, then gradually breaking down to enrich it. Over winter, it insulated our garlic against freeze and thaw. When we raised pigs and poultry, the straw made perfect bedding; combined with manure, it later transformed into dark, nutrient-rich compost for the next planting season.

    Straw is interbedded with pig waste to slowly create compost

    about how far we could stretch this resource, I tried something new: mushroom cultivation. With a kit of oyster mushroom spawn and an afternoon of work, the neglected straw hosted an eruption of firm, delicious mushrooms for our table. Even after their flush, that straw went right back to the garden, completing yet another cycle.

    Oyster mushrooms grown on a straw substrate

    Through it all, my notion of sustainability shifted. It stopped being about strict rules or abstract ideals, and became something far more creative:  a willingness to look again at what’s in front of me, to find worth where others perceive waste, and to keep experimenting despite setbacks and occasional messes. Now, when we look at our barn, we no longer see just an old building or a cluttered responsibility. We see opportunities waiting quietly in the wings:  reminding us that the most valuable lessons are sometimes found in the places you almost forgot to look.

    Have you overlooked a resource, only to find it to be extremely valuable? Share your experiences below, and subscribe to join a group of like-minded people.

  • Guns, Smoke, and Summer Steel

    Guns, Smoke, and Summer Steel

    If you’ve spent any time in farm country, you know that summer is a season steeped in tradition: sweet corn roasting on the grill, fireworks bursting above open fields, and parades weaving through small-town streets. Another tradition that perfectly captures the spirit of summer for me is the roar of engines and the gritty spectacle of a tractor pull.

    This fascination goes back generations. Our grandparents told stories of the early days when tractors were just transforming American agriculture:  mechanical workhorses that symbolized grit, self-reliance, and progress. What began as casual farmyard boasts over who had the stronger machine has since evolved into something far more ceremonial: a celebration of horsepower, heritage, and the unbreakable threads that tie country communities together.

    That’s why, on a sun-drenched Sunday afternoon, I find myself heading to the local gun club, an unexpected but oddly fitting venue, to catch this year’s edition of the Farmersville pull, colorfully named the Guns, Smoke, and Beer Tractor and Truck Pull.

    I find a spot along the chain-link fence, close enough to feel the rumble. Behind the scenes, tractors line up like gladiators awaiting their turn:  some lovingly restored antiques with curved fenders and hand-lettered paint jobs, others futuristic behemoths fitted with exposed engine blocks, massive rear tires, and vertical stacks that shimmer like weapons under the noonday sun. Each machine has its own name, its own backstory, its own fan club.

    The PA system crackles and the announcer wastes no time bringing the crowd to life. The first competitor is already strapping on a helmet. There’s a hush. The green flag lifts.

    Then:  ignition.

    A bellow of power splits the silence. The tractor lurches forward, chained to a sled ominously named The Eliminator. The front wheels lift clean off the clay. Dust flares as the driver leans in, holding the machine straight as the sled ratchets its weight forward, sinking deeper into the earth with every passing foot. The engine howls. My chest vibrates with it.

    That tractor is really working! Photo by Hillary S.

    Instinctively, my hands tighten on the fence. Cheers rise. For a few heartbeats, it feels less like a pastime and more like a proving ground:  man and machine battling inertia in unspoken defiance of gravity and time.

    When the tractor finally grinds to a halt and lets out a victorious hiss, the crowd roars approval. The driver remains still in the cab just long enough to savor it.

    Between runs, the rhythm slows but never stops. A blade-toting grader drags the track smooth again. Kids sprint along the fence pretending to drive their own invisible rigs, engines sputtering gleefully. Neighbors swap guesses on winners while sipping sweating cans of beer and soda. Raffle volunteers roam the crowd with plastic buckets and tickets. From the speakers, the announcer plays local DJ:  blending stats and wit with hometown shout-outs. All the while, the tension builds toward the next burst of combustion.

    And as the event rolls on, camaraderie deepens. Nostalgia mingles with anticipation. Every round adds to a growing patchwork of shared memory:  anecdotes of legendary pulls from years past and parents pointing out last year’s champion to wide-eyed children.

    By early evening, as the final competitors rumble down the track and the engines begin to cool, golden light falls across the dispersing crowd. A breeze kicks up, lifting grit into the sky like smoke from a burn pile. People linger, reluctant to let the day end. No one’s in a rush. Kids hang off the backs of UTVs. Parents gather chairs and grass-filled blankets. There’s laughter, hugs, and long goodbyes.

    Driving home, dust clinging to my shoes and the growl of engines still echoing in my ribs, I realize this wasn’t just a distraction or a show. It was a testament:  to tradition, to craftsmanship, to communities that still gather not just to watch, but to belong.

    And as the countryside stretches before me, each field burnished by the fading sun, I already know: I’ll be back next year, same track, same dust, same roar. Some rituals are worth waiting for.

    Have you ever been to a tractor pull? Comment below, and subscribe to join a community of like-minded people.

  • Where the Red Fern Grows and the Sprinkler Flows

    The moment I stepped outside in the morning, sweat prickled down my back:  a warning that today would be a scorcher. The thermometer already hovered above 90 degrees, and the rest of the day promised no relief. My husband would be gone this afternoon, off helping family with farm chores, leaving me alone with our two kids: my energetic five-year-old son and my curious one-and-a-half-year-old daughter.  What to do?!

    My husband left around noon, waving goodbye as he headed out the door, his shirt already sticking to his back. I watched him go, feeling a twinge of envy.  At least he’d be busy, distracted by the rhythm of farm chores. The house felt unusually quiet after the door shut, the kind of quiet that comes with thick, unmoving air. My son and I lingered in the kitchen, the hum of the fridge and the ticking of the wall clock louder than usual.  My daughter was napping at Grandma’s house across the road, giving me a rare moment of quiet with my son.

    The heat pressed in from all sides, making even the simplest tasks feel monumental. I suggested, “How about we lie down for a bit and watch a movie?” He grinned, already grabbing his favorite blue blanket with dog prints, a Christmas gift from a friend.

    He’s usually resistant to what he calls “adult movies” (a term I gently correct), but after a little coaxing, he agreed to watch “Where the Red Fern Grows.” I hadn’t thought of that story since grade school, and as the familiar scenes flickered across the screen, I found myself transported back to my own grade school days:  the smell of the school library, the scratch of pencil on lined paper, the way my heart ached for Old Dan and Little Ann. My son watched with wide eyes, occasionally asking me questions about the plot. By the end, I noticed his body relaxed into mine as we lay on the couch.

    After the credits rolled, I took a few quiet moments to write while my son, content and a little drowsy, watched cartoons. Then Grandma called: “Your little one is up and asking for you!” I slipped on my black Crocs, crossed the road, and scooped my daughter into my arms. Her hair was in pigtails and tousled from sleep. “Mama!” she squealed, wrapping her arms around my neck.

    Back home, I remembered the starter plants my husband had put in the ground the day before. They’d be wilting in this heat if we didn’t water them soon. So, with my daughter perched on my hip and my son trailing behind, we headed out to the garden. The air was thick and still. We watered the thirsty plants, the cool overspray a welcome relief to our legs, and then gathered a colander of fresh vegetables: spinach, oyster mushrooms, bok choy, celery, and green onions, their colors vibrant against the metal colander.

    “These will taste so good for dinner,” I told the kids, and my son nodded, already dreaming up ways to help.

    To make the evening special, I decided to order steamed dumplings and crab Rangoon that we would pick up from our favorite Chinese restaurant in town. “A feast!” my son declared, clapping his hands.  The promise of takeout seemed to lift everyone’s spirits, a small luxury on a day when everything felt sticky and slow.

    While we waited for the restaurant to open, I suggested hesitantly, “How about we run through the sprinkler?” I remembered a failed attempt during the early days of Covid. Back then, our son, just a baby, hadn’t been impressed. But this time, his eyes lit up. “Yes! Let’s do it!”

    He changed into a swimsuit and dashed outside to set up the sprinkler while I started dinner: washing and chopping the vegetables, measuring out rice, chicken bouillon, and water into the instant pot. The kitchen filled with the rich aroma of garlic sizzling in oil, followed by the earthy scent of mushrooms and the sharp tang of green onions. I added soy sauce, fish sauce, Sichuan peppercorns, ginger, sesame oil, and a splash of black vinegar in unmeasured amounts, letting the sauce bubble and thicken as the rice cooked.

    The instant pot beeped just as I finished tossing the veggies. I turned off the stove, set dinner aside to rest, and quickly changed both myself and my daughter into swimsuits.

    Outside, the sprinkler arced across the lawn, droplets sparkling in the golden afternoon light. My son was already shrieking with laughter, darting through the spray. “Come on!” he called. My daughter clung to my leg, uncertain, but after a few gentle passes through the edge of the water, she started to giggle, too. Soon we were all running and laughing, the heat forgotten for a few blissful moments.

    We found our own cool on a sticky summer day.

    We ordered our food and went to town to retrieve it.  The air conditioning in the car was a welcome relief, and the kids pressed their faces to the windows, watching the world blur by. After we paid and were returning to the car with our food, a man ran out to give my son a bouncy ball. My son’s eyes lit up as he stretched out his hand to receive it. “Thank you!” he said, clutching the prize as if it were treasure.

    Dinner was a celebration:  steaming bowls of rice topped with our garden-fresh stir fry, dumplings, and crab Rangoon on the side. We ate together, sharing stories and savoring the simple joy of a summer evening well spent.  My daughter insisted on feeding herself, smearing rice and sauce across her cheeks, while my son asked questions about the plot of “Where the Red Fern Grows”.  “Why did Little Ann die?”  “How does a red fern grow between two dogs?”  There was plenty of food left over for Dad when he would return home later.

    We had so much fun with the sprinkler that we went back outside after dinner for a second round, all of us laughing and squealing with joy. As the sun dipped lower, we toweled off, spent a couple minutes swinging on the swing set, and headed inside, cheeks flushed and hearts light. The sky was streaked with pink and orange, and the air was finally beginning to cool.

    After showers, we settled in to watch another movie that my son had been asking me to watch with him, “Monster House”.  I prepared some popcorn, and we all cuddled together on the couch.  My daughter snuggled in the crook of my arm while my son watched with wide-eyed excitement, occasionally grabbing me during the scariest parts.

    Later, as I tucked the kids into bed, I realized that sometimes the best memories are made on the hottest days, when you find a way to make your own kind of cool. The house was quiet again, the only sound the soft whir of the fan and the even breathing of my children. I lay in bed, grateful for the small moments: the splash of water, the taste of fresh vegetables, the weight of a sleepy child in my arms. Summer, in all its sticky, sun-drenched glory, had given us a day to remember.

    Have you ever turned an ordinary day into an extraordinary day? Share your stories below, and subscribe to join a group of like-minded people.

  • The Heart of Knowles: Fourth of July Traditions

    The Fourth of July has always been my favorite holiday, no contest. There’s something magical about sun-drenched parades, the smoky drift of cookouts on the breeze, and fireworks crackling against a velvet sky. I’ve always cherished tradition, and for me, nothing says “summer” quite like the annual Fireman’s Picnic in Knowles.

    The Knowles Volunteer Fire Department is legendary: a group of unpaid neighbors who protect our patch of the world from fires and emergencies. The picnic isn’t just fun; it’s a lifeline, funding the equipment and training that keep us safe.

    One summer, the fire department saved our family’s barn. My dad had stored hay that was too wet; days later, it started to smolder. The firemen arrived in force, helping us haul out the hay before disaster struck. I still remember his voice, rough with relief, as he shook each fireman’s hand. After that, our family threw ourselves even more into supporting the picnic and the department.

    Ma always baked chocolate cake with white frosting for the dessert sale. She’d hum as the kitchen filled with the scent of cocoa and sugar, while my sisters and I licked the beaters and squabbled over who’d get the coveted corner piece. My dad, after morning chores, headed to the hamburger stand, donning his money belt and frying up brats and burgers, his face flushed from both heat and pride. When she came of age, my oldest sister joined the fire department.

    Knowles is the kind of tiny town that jokes about its size. “Not many,” the sign reads, and they mean it. The main attractions: a farm equipment dealer, a single church, and two bars that double as gathering spots for miles around. But on the Fourth, Knowles transforms. The population swells as people from neighboring towns descend, armed with lawn chairs, faded blankets, coolers, and sticky popsicles for the kids.

    Knowles is honest about its population.

    Usually, the streets are so quiet you can hear the wind in the cornfields and birds in the trees. But on this day, laughter and music fill the air. Familiar faces blend with distant relatives, old classmates, and newcomers, all drawn together by the promise of celebration.

    The parade route is simple:  a single road, maybe half a mile, sloping downhill in two gentle steps. But for that hour, it feels like the center of the universe.

    The parade kicks off with a bang: the fire department leading in crisp uniforms, the American flag held high. The crowd falls silent; hats come off, hands press over hearts. A volley of blanks cracks through the air, firemen’s cheers bouncing down the street, shaking off the summer’s lull. My heart jumps as the fire trucks rumble past, horns blaring like thunder.

    High school bands follow, their music weaving through the warm air: “America the Beautiful,” then “Sweet Caroline.” I sing along quietly, amazed the band kids don’t melt in those wool uniforms. The color guard spins flags skyward, sequins flashing like tiny fireworks.

    Candy flies next: Tootsie Rolls, root beer barrels, and, if you’re lucky, a “Cow” candy—my favorite, caramel and chocolate (gone now, sadly). Plastic bags in hand, we dart into the street, laughing and dodging tractors and floats, our bags filling with sugary treasure.

    “Got your eye on the ‘Cow’?” my sister whispers, grinning as she snags one. I nod, already plotting my next move.

    Confetti toss during 2024 parade. Photo by Angie H.

    Donnie Feucht (may he rest in peace) pilots his father’s ancient stock truck, honking an extra time just for me. Restored antique tractors chug along, their paint gleaming in the sun as neighbors toss candy. Bigger tractors follow:  massive and modern, though quaint compared to today’s behemoths.

    Horse and rider, and gathering candy during 2024 parade. Photo by Kayla M.

    Horses and farm animals make an appearance. Line dancers perform on a moving hay wagon, their feet steady from many summers stacking bales. State senators stroll by, passing out frisbees and flyers, hoping for votes in the fall. A four-wheeler signals the end, with a “The End” sign tacked to the back, just in case.

    After the parade, we drag our overflowing bags and lawn chairs to the hamburger stand. I watch my dad serve lunch, pride swelling every time he hands a burger to a neighbor. The smell of grilled meat is irresistible; nothing tastes better than a brat with mustard and caramelized onions, washed down with ice-cold soda. Adventurous souls wander to the beer tent, where laughter and music spill onto the grass.

    The picnic has something for everyone: carnival rides for the kids, a toy tractor pull, the ever-popular dunk tank where you can try to soak your favorite fireman. Ring tosses and raffles offer prizes from frozen meat to cash. By the time we trudge back to the car, sunburned and sticky, our hearts are full. The sugar rush fades, but the memories linger.

    As I grew older, life got busier. The Fourth became an excuse for road trips and new adventures. But last year, my husband and I returned to Knowles, this time with our own children in tow. We joined his extended family, feeling again like we had an “in.” Their tradition started years ago with his grandparents, who sat on the same lawn and befriended the homeowner over time. Every year, we sit on that same lawn in their honor.

    Though the parade didn’t start until 11, we arrived late—10:30—and forgot the golden rule: get there by 10. Our punishment was a long trek from the highway, kids in tow, weaving through the crowd. I scanned faces for old friends, hoping for a spark of reconnection. As I set up, my brother-in-law handed me a cold beer with a grin. “It’s five o’clock somewhere,” he said, and everyone laughed, the ice broken instantly.

    Watching the parade through my children’s eyes, beer in hand, I felt the old magic return. The experiences I’d loved as a child were now theirs to discover. I knew we’d be back. As the parade wound down, my son clutched his bag of Tootsie Rolls and root beer barrels, cheeks flushed from darting after candy in the street. My daughter, face sticky with popsicles, clutched a frisbee given to her by a state representative. I glanced at my husband, lawn chair tipped back, and watched my children’s eyes widen as the fire truck’s horn echoed through the town. The “The End” four-wheeler passed by, and my son’s sticky hand found mine. For a moment, the world was just laughter, music, and the shimmer of sequined flags:  a perfect day, passed from one generation to the next.

    What is your favorite Fourth of July tradition? Share your thoughts below, and subscribe to join a group of like-minded people.