The hum of diesel engines and the scent of dusty corn fill the air every fall, signaling harvest season and long days ahead. For the local farmers, this time of year brings both relief and pressure—hundreds of acres to harvest before rain or early snow set in.
My dad is always there to help, his steady hands and decades of experience behind the wheel making all the difference. With his CDL and a lifetime spent operating heavy equipment, he’s the kind of person neighbors know they can count on when the fields demand every ounce of daylight and sometimes half the night.
This morning, he asked my six-year-old son to ride along as the corn was hauled from the field to the grain elevator to be processed. Before climbing into the truck, my son spotted a single kernel of corn lying by the road. He picked it up, studied it for a moment, and declared it his “lucky corn.” My dad just smiled, and together they climbed into the cab, a small tradition beginning in that instant.
As the truck pulled away, I realized that what my dad is teaching goes beyond driving or hard work. He’s showing the next generation what community looks like—the kind built not by grand gestures, but by showing up, season after season, when it matters most.
What traditions or small moments in your family remind you of where you come from?
If clothes could talk, mine would whisper, “Keep it simple, keep it real.” I’ve never dressed to dazzle; I’d like to think my wit and thoughtfulness handle that. My two favorites—leggings and slip-on shoes—form my daily uniform, a quiet stand against pretense that champions ease and presence.
Leggings are my unshakable foundation. No zippers pinching, no seams chafing—they stretch through curled-up reading marathons or frantic errand dashes. Years ago on a snowy first date, my breath fogging the crisp air, I pulled on jeggings to meet the man who’d someday become my husband. Snow boots crunched softly as I crossed the driveway to his truck. We’d known each other for years, but this felt electric. He laughed with me, saw the real me, and fell harder. While others chased one-shoulder dresses that year, my practicality carved space for unfiltered connection.
My slip-on shoes share this no-nonsense vibe. One slide, and I’m out the door: ready for park strolls, meetings, or walking outside during that snowy date, no lace-tying delays. Their worn soles have hugged my steps through decades—unflappable, like the reliability that let our spark endure.
I’ve learned the hard way sometimes that style does have its place. At my bridal shower, I underdressed in leggings and slip-ons. What had felt “nice enough” to me upset a loved one important to the bridal party, who saw rebellion where I saw comfort. That clash reaffirmed why these pieces endure: true style balances self with sensitivity, letting mind and heart lead without alienating.
In the end, these favorites aren’t mere picks; they’re my vote for authenticity. They strip distractions, letting me show up kind, thoughtful, wholly myself. They also prove, as my husband’s grin confirmed back then, the right person always loves the real you, snow boots and all.
What’s your go-to outfit for showing up as your authentic self?
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What’s the first impression you want to give people? When I think about the first impression I want to give people now, it connects closely to how much I’ve learned about myself. In my 30-something years, I’ve spent a lot of time shrinking into the background—speaking softly, standing at the edges of rooms, and convincing…
Who is the most famous or infamous person you have ever met? It’s funny how one small moment can stick with you for years—the conversation you didn’t have, the voice you didn’t use. Some might say I live a quiet, even isolated life. The most well-known person I’ve met—depending on your politics—is Representative Glenn Grothman,…
When I pulled open the long-forgotten box of clothes, I expected nothing more than sweaters and dresses that hadn’t seen daylight since before we moved. Instead, I uncovered an archive of myself—fabric woven with memory and identity, versions of me I thought I’d misplaced in the blur of motherhood, upheaval, and quiet reinvention. Threads I…
What technology would you be better off without, why?
What if I unplugged everything—just one day—and watched my farmstead world grind back to its raw roots?
Sun crests the barn at 5:45 am. No alarm jolts me; instinct pulls me up. We feed the animals, hauling water, grinding feed. We dress kids by fading lantern glow. Husband carries our daughter down the grassy footworn path to Grandma’s. I hitch the old wagon, walking our son two miles to school through dust and dawn chatter—no 10-minute car hum.
Home, I’d scrub laundry in the tub, no machine whirl. Meals bubble over wood fire, not Crock-Pot ease. Bread dough yields to muscle on the oak table, sans Kitchen Aid. No working outside the home for me. Husband swings scythe and shovel where tractors rule now; breakdowns mean hammer, anvil, firelight fixes. We could do it all—generations did. But tasks balloon from minutes to hours, bones aching, daylight devoured.
Reality snaps back: technology saves my soul. Remote work keeps me here for first words, bus arrivals, story hours no commute steals. Farm machines turn brutality into rhythm, sustaining us without wrecking backs. Humans thrived millennia hauling water, grinding grain by hand. Yet why suffer when tools free us for laughter, learning, presence?
Smartphones, though—these pocket tyrants I’d temper first. Last week, a ping ripped me from our son’s magnatile tower mid-build. “Just one email,” I thought. Half an hour vanished, his glee stolen.
Notifications shred focus; feeds erode dinner talk; blue light robs sleep. We’d survive without them, grit conquering all. But boundaries—silent family hours, apps locked post-8—restore what tech should amplify.
No full unplugging for us. We’ve glimpsed the raw possible, but embracing tools with fierce reins honors ingenuity and roots. Here on the farmstead, kids’ laughter rises under starlit skies: progress, bounded, yields the richest harvest.
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If you could meet a historical figure, who would it be and why? If given the chance to meet any historical figure, I would choose not a famous leader or thinker. I’d choose to meet my own ancestors in both Germany and Austria between the 1850s and 1870s. These were ordinary people facing an extraordinary…
Stone by stone, a farmer’s patient craft built more than a wall – it built a legacy. Discover a story of endurance, purpose, and quiet strength that still stands a century later.
Discover the forgotten history behind three thousand attic nails once used to dry corn. A heartfelt reflection on heritage, hard work, and the enduring rhythm of farm life.
What’s the hardest decision you’ve ever had to make? Why?
I walked the yard one last time, tracing fences and trees like scars on a lover’s skin. It’s crazy how something that once felt so familiar can suddenly feel worlds away.
The Drive That Broke Me That two-hour drive home from Christmas just dragged on. My husband kept saying, “Our son needs cousins nearby, grandparents around the corner. Your parents aren’t getting any younger. And that family diagnosis… it’s time we really thought about what matters most.”
His words kept piling up, like snow drifting over all those years we’d spent here. I was holding tight to this quiet rural life. Meanwhile, he quietly pulled away, and the distance between us grew every year.
Roots I Couldn’t Uproot I loved this land—finally had friends, a house that felt like mine after all that searching.
He never really settled. For him, this place felt more like a cage than a home.
The Moment Everything Changed That family diagnosis had been hanging over us, but what really broke me was Christmas at his parents’ house. Everything felt tight, forced—smiles stretched thin, pauses filled with unspoken tension. Our son didn’t know quite what to make of it all.
On top of that, my parents’ health kept slipping. The spaces in our family were widening. Staying meant risking losing them all.
The Yes That Broke Me We didn’t say much that night. The silence carried everything we couldn’t put into words. Finally, I just whispered, “Okay.”
No more tears left—just that stunned quiet as I wandered the yard, trying to soak in every curve, knowing I was letting go.
How It Changed Me Leaving meant giving up on solitude and peace for family and chaos—but honestly, no regrets.
Now, I watch our son laugh and play in his grandparents’ arms. I’ve held my parents through their darker days and welcomed our daughter into this tight-knit fold.
Sometimes love means stepping back to grow deeper roots—roots that grew stronger because I chose family over place. And yeah, I still miss the quiet sometimes. But this? This is home.
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Do you or your family make any special dishes for the holidays?
Flour-dusted hands trembled over a bowl at 3 a.m., measuring cups snapping in the silent kitchen. Everything was a desperate attempt to summon my mother from the hospital. An undiagnosed intestinal blockage had her rejecting even water.
The family lineage traces to heavy German roots. My father’s ancestors came from Austria in the 1870s, my mother’s from northern Germany in the 1850s. Her kranz kuchen recipe endures from her grandmother’s penciled cards. Yeasted dough rolled thin, layered with my dad’s foraged hickory nuts, chopped dates, cinnamon, and brown sugar. Twisted into crescents, baked golden, and glazed, dozens emerge each year for us six daughters, neighbors, and church friends, embodying a quiet hospitality.
Last Christmas, that rhythm fractured. Hospitalized, she could not retain food; us sisters started a text string, asking one question. “What if they never pinpoint the cause?” No flour clouds rose, no yeasty warmth filled the air—only silence amplifying the dread of a holiday without her.
Insomnia seized the nights. Each fragmented update jolted awake any fragile rest. Kneading became refuge: egg yolks merging into warm, proofed milk and yeast, the dough yielding beneath palms like hope taking form. As it rose under a towel, yeast’s scent enveloped the darkness. Folding in the nuts, dates, and spice, then rolling and shaping crescents, the hands of generations guided mine.
The oven’s glow dispelled shadows; caramelized sugar perfumed the halls. Frosting traced uneven paths, mirroring hers. Those crescents transformed rupture into resilience.
A single bite of spice-laced crumb now evokes my dad’s meticulous toil, my mother’s assured fold, my midnight vigil—a resilient pastry proving adversity does not sever us but reshapes us, crescent intact. She recovered. The tradition persists. We endure.
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Gobbles, our forty‑pound turkey, once refused to move for the lawnmower. My husband drove closer, then closer still, waiting for the bird to do the sensible thing. Gobbles didn’t budge, and that’s how we ended up with a turkey‑shaped patch of unmowed lawn—a small, stubborn monument to the wild experiment we’d started in our backyard.
A New Chapter in Backyard Farming
Chickens had already shown me that birds can be both hilarious and mean. Ducks had proven that cuteness and filth can happily coexist. A few years ago, after reading about a woman who raised her own Thanksgiving turkeys, I realized I wanted to go further. When our local hatchery couldn’t source ducklings one spring, it was a minor inconvenience. This became the excuse to bring home three turkey poults instead.
From Basement Brooder to Outdoor Coop
This time, my husband handled pickup duty. He arrived with a box of peeping chicks and poults. Their arrival turned the whole house electric with anticipation. The brooder—a repurposed water tank in our basement—waited with a heat lamp, water, feed, and a lid to contain the chaos. At first, the turkeys were only slightly larger than the chicks, all of them fluffy and awkward. Within days, though, the turkeys started to pull away. They doubled in size, then doubled again. It seemed their entire job was to eat, drink, and poop as efficiently as possible.
We lost one poult early on for reasons we never understood, and the sudden shift from three to two landed harder than I expected. It was a quiet, early lesson in how fragile life on a small farm can be. Of the survivors, one always had his feathers sticking out at odd angles, so we named him Gobbles, a little wink to anyone who’d seen South Park. The smaller bird became Jennie, after the frozen turkey brand that had defined “Thanksgiving” for us before we raised our own.
Gobbles
By early May, the brooder was bursting, and everyone was ready for fresh air. We tried separating the turkeys from the chickens that first night outside, but the noise they made made it clear we were fighting a losing battle. After one loud, sleepless experiment, we moved everyone into our mobile chicken coop and let them sort it out. During the day, they roamed the yard as a mismatched flock, and each evening they filed back into the coop like feathered commuters, jostling for their preferred spots.
Jennie
Personality Plus: Turkeys vs. Chickens
Living with both species at once made their differences obvious. The chickens were efficient, slightly tyrannical little dinosaurs. The turkeys seemed to have missed out on common sense entirely. On Memorial Day weekend, a big storm rolled in; the chickens headed straight for shelter, while the turkeys stood in the downpour, soaked and squawking as if the rain were a personal insult.
My husband and I slogged around in the storm, alternating between laughing and swearing as we scooped them up and shoved them under cover. We were half convinced they might drown standing there or draw an eagle with all that frantic noise. By summer, their physical transformation matched their larger‑than‑life behavior. If the chickens were little dinosaurs, the turkeys were the T‑rex cousins. After about four months, Gobbles weighed around forty pounds and Jennie about twenty‑five, and both strutted like they owned the place.
Rising Stakes: Growth and Pecking Order
Gobbles clearly saw himself at the top of the pecking order, inserting his bulk into whatever drama unfolded among the hens. Jennie, despite her smaller size, regularly put the roosters in their place and even bloodied one during a particularly heated round of dominance negotiations. The same birds that made us laugh with their antics were always moving toward the date we’d circled on the calendar. Around the five‑month mark, butcher day arrived—never something we looked forward to, but the reason we’d brought them home.
Butcher Day: The Hardest Part of the Journey
My husband handled the hardest part. Once it was done, I thanked the turkeys out loud before joining the work of plucking, stepping away now and then to check on the kids. Our five‑year‑old surprised me by wanting to help, his small fingers well suited to grabbing stubborn feathers, and I felt a brief tug between pride and discomfort as I let him join in. My husband’s father arrived and the day settled into a rhythm: music playing, adults talking, drinks in hand, hands busy. The work was still heavy, but it felt shared, almost like a ritual we were inventing as we went.
By the end, we had one dressed turkey at about thirty pounds and another around twenty, lined up for the freezer like oversized, deeply personal trophies of our effort.
Preparing the Turkey for the Table
I hauled Gobbles from the freezer about a week before Thanksgiving. I set him to defrost in our unheated upstairs. He loomed silently every time I walked past. Each glance reminded me of the fluffy, clumsy poult he had been. It also brought back the long, messy chain of chores that had brought him there.
Two days before Thanksgiving, I mixed a simple brine with salt, sugar, Worcestershire, garlic, and pepper. I discovered that the only vessel big enough was our turkey fryer, minus the basket. It was a ridiculous fit, but it worked. On Thanksgiving morning, we got up early, drained the brine, patted Gobbles dry, rubbed him with salt and oil, and wedged him into a large Nesco roaster so tightly we had to shove his legs down to close the lid. Then we poured in four cans of Miller Lite and turned our attention to the rest of the meal.
Waiting for that turkey to cook felt tense and nerve-wracking. It was like waiting for an exam grade posted in front of the entire extended family. Fifteen people, one bird, no backup plan if it turned out dry or oversalted. As the scent of beer, garlic, and roasting fat filled the house, my anxiety loosened its grip. It shifted into something closer to anticipation. Even if it wasn’t perfect, it was already unforgettable.
Thanksgiving Dinner: More Than Just a Meal
When we finally gathered around the table, Gobbles was as much story as food. As everyone carved off pieces, we traded memories of his lawnmower standoff. We recalled his attempts at intimidation. We laughed at the way he used to lumber after the flock like a confused bodyguard. Conversation took on the tone of a slightly irreverent eulogy as we honored his life in the most direct way possible. We ate the bird who had once stood his ground against a mower and won. It was the best turkey I’d ever tasted, not because it was flawless, but because we knew every step that had led to that plate.
Lessons Learned and Lasting Memories
Looking back, those turkeys demanded patience when they outgrew every space we gave them. They taught us humility when plans went sideways. We needed a sense of humor. We found ourselves sprinting through rainstorms to rescue birds that were too bewildered to seek shelter. They pulled Thanksgiving out of the grocery store freezer and dropped it squarely into our own backyard. I don’t know if I’ll raise turkeys again. Every November, when I see a frozen Jennie in the supermarket, I remember Gobbles and Jennie. I think about the stubborn patch of lawn out back. I recall the season when our holiday centerpiece had a personality—and a history—all his own.
If you’ve raised turkeys or other backyard poultry, share your stories, challenges, or favorite moments in the comments below! What surprises did your birds bring? What tips would you pass on to someone thinking about raising their own turkeys?
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If you didn’t need sleep, what would you do with all the extra time?
What if the hours I spend asleep were suddenly mine to reclaim? Imagine the possibilities unfolding when the need for sleep disappears—every extra minute a doorway to creativity, connection, and joy.
With that precious gift of time, I would dive headfirst into my passions. Writing, for me, is more than words on a page; it’s a lifeline to my inner world. I would spend hours crafting stories and reflections, letting my thoughts roam freely without the constraints of a ticking clock. The soft scratch of pen on paper or the steady clack of keyboard keys would become a comforting rhythm in the long, uninterrupted nights.
Reading, too, would become a daily adventure rather than a stolen moment. I envision curling up with books that whisk me away to new worlds, expanding my understanding one page at a time. Each story would fuel my imagination and feed my mind, creating a vibrant tapestry of inspiration.
In the kitchen, the act of cooking and baking would transform into a joyful exploration of flavors and textures. I long to try new recipes, experiment with spices, and share the fruits of my labor with those I love. The warm scent of fresh bread or the sweet aroma of baked goods would fill the air, turning mundane meals into celebrations.
But above all, the moments spent playing with my children would be my treasure. Without the rush of everyday responsibilities, I would lose myself in their laughter and wonder. Whether building forts, telling stories, or simply running wild in the backyard, this time would deepen our bond and create memories that last a lifetime.
Even though I don’t have endless hours without sleep, that very limitation makes every creative moment more precious. Knowing time is finite encourages me to savor each burst of inspiration, every shared smile, and the warmth of home-cooked meals. The boundaries imposed by sleep sharpen my appreciation for these passions, reminding me that it’s not the quantity, but the depth of experience that truly matters. So, if I couldn’t sleep, I’d embrace the gift of extra time—and if I must, I will cherish the time I do have all the more.
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Everyone has pet peeves—those small irritations that can silently gnaw at our patience. For me, they reveal more than just frustration; they mark my journey toward empathy and self-awareness. I try hard not to complain because I know I am truly fortunate. I have a life filled with comfort and people who support me. When I’m asked about my top three pet peeves, I realize they reflect who I am beneath the surface. They also show how far I’ve come. My three top pet peeves are based on how we treat each other: moral superiority, selfishness, and condescension.
The Weight of Judgmental, Morally Superior People I learned a painful lesson about judgment from a friend. She rightfully withdrew after I reacted to her with criticism rather than compassion. That moment still lingers—when they vulnerably shared their struggles, and I judged their choices instead of hearing their heart. The sting of that loss taught me how easy it is to judge without walking in someone else’s shoes. Now, when I face moral superiority, from others or myself, I pause to remember. We all live complex lives shaped by experiences others can’t fully grasp. Judgment is a quick and lonely reaction; empathy takes more courage but builds connection.
The Sting of Selfishness and Isolation Selfishness frustrates me deeply. I am especially frustrated by the refusal to embrace community in parenting and care giving. I once believed I could handle everything alone, armed with sheer will and rigid routines. Yet endless sleepless nights and isolation soon shattered that illusion. I still recall the raw exhaustion and quiet desperation before I accepted help and found strength in community. Watching others withdraw or show impatience with children stings because it undermines what I now know. We thrive in villages, not in solo isolation. People can also act selfishly without fully understanding how their choices ripple outward and affect those around them. This makes compassion and honest conversation even more important.
The Quiet Poison of Condescension from a Loved One Condescension is unlike judgment in a profound way. It is steeped in strong feelings and visible actions: the raised eyebrow, the patronizing tone, the dismissive glance. These actions communicate contempt and make you feel small. I unfortunately became intimately familiar with those feelings from a trusted loved one during my childhood. Back then, I believed shrinking myself might somehow earn their approval. The sting of those subtle rejections echoed for years. Building my confidence has been a slow, ongoing process that still unfolds. Recognizing condescension as thought, behavior, and emotion has helped me protect my worth today. It has also marked a crucial part of healing.
From Peeves to Perspective These pet peeves are more than annoyances; they are milestones on my path of growth. They lay bare the familiar traps of judgment, selfishness, and contempt. They remind me of how far I have come in responding with compassion toward others and myself. Complaining only raises my heart rate and drags me into a negative head space. Instead, I lean into these moments of discomfort as invitations to think and learn. After all, life is a messy, beautiful journey, and we are all works in progress navigating it together.
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Have you ever noticed how some people quietly root themselves into your life’s story, shaping you in ways you only recognize years later?
I have three such people. Each arrived in my life in a different month, under different skies. Yet all have become my most favorite—and every morning, her kisses remind me how deeply entwined we are.
The first person came into my life when I was twelve. It was on a crisp September morning on a creaky school bus. I remember deliberately slipping into his favorite seat, hoping for a moment of attention. He was the boy with the quick grin and sly humor, so different from my preppy, studious self. At first, he barely noticed, but gradually, our laughter bridged our worlds. We briefly drifted apart in high school. By college, weekends bloomed with him driving an hour to visit me, our shared adventures stitching us closer. Eight years later, we married—two lives grown together in love and understanding.
Two Novembers later—two years after marrying him—I awaited another arrival with nervous wonder. Six months earlier, I had learned I would become a mother. As he grew, I spoke often to him, calling him “little one.” I dreamt of the gardens we’d tend and the trips we’d take. He arrived on a blustery Saturday night, bearing a name passed down through generations. Our first year together was a storm, marked by sleepless nights, fears, and growth. But with each challenge, I found a deeper love while planting seeds both in soil and in his heart.
Four Octobers after that, our family welcomed a second burst of joy. She came into the world on a rainy October evening, her laughter a bright pulse in our new home. We had just moved closer to family, seeking the roots we needed. Now my mornings start with her tender toddler kisses—small reminders of the light and love she brings to every day. Watching her discover the world has taught me to find wonder in the small moments, and open my arms wide to life’s beautiful unpredictability.
These three—the boy from the school bus seat in September, the “little one” I awaited in November, and the joyful October child with kisses at dawn—are my heart’s home. My husband and two children, each planting roots, helping me grow, and teaching me what it truly means to love.
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Test the repaired spikes by climbing and cutting down a dead pine in your parents’ yard.
Pose for pictures because your wife thinks this is pretty cool.
Try to fix the chainsaw that quit mid-climb. Fail.
Grab another chainsaw.
Buy gas for said chainsaw.
Get lunch. Listen to wife fume because they gave her sweet tea instead of unsweet.
Finally arrive at the tree.
Spend 20 minutes trying to start the skid loader parked 3 feet from your work zone. Whisper sweet nothings. Caress it. Nothing.
Place the skid loader in time out.
Climb and start limbing.
Ignore wife and dad warning about branches hitting the eavestrough and phone line. It’s just a phone line…
Try, fail, and give up on the skid loader again.
Hang from a limb in a way that makes wife and dad extra nervous.
Shake head as wife demands a “secluded spot” to pee rather than drive to the gas station a half-mile away.
Give the skid loader one last chance. It finally roars to life. Move the damn thing before it dies again.
Cut the final branch.
Wave proudly to bystanders.
Wrap rope around a big limb. Ask dad to guide it as you cut.
Ask dad to lower you down with rope. Appreciate his creative interpretation of “lower,” which leaves you dangling halfway.
Chat with impressed bystander while regaining circulation.
Wrap rope around tree trunk; hook it to the truck.
Examine the 1910s-era whiskey bottle your bystander buddy proudly shows off.
Cut a wedge in the direction the tree should fall.
Have dad ease the truck forward while wife hammers in a plastic wedge so the saw doesn’t jam.
Watch the tree crash down exactly as planned. Feel the earth shake.
Admire the glorious wooden carnage.
Leave. This list ends with cutting, not cleanup. Besides, the skid loader’s blocking the truck in the driveway anyway—perfect excuse to call it a day.
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Practical Homesteading 