As June Dairy Month comes to a close, I’ve been thinking about how much this month’s writing has revolved around farmers, hayfields, and the quiet weight of rural life. It wasn’t a strategic content plan so much as an honest outflow of what’s on my heart—and on my mind—this time of year.
In case you missed any of the recent posts (or want to revisit them with fresh eyes), here’s a look back at the stories we’ve walked through together.
In one post, I took you out to the hayfield, where an old New Holland baler still clatters its way across the field, tying bales as steadily as it did in the 1960s. We followed its story from my grandfather’s horse-drawn days, through my dad’s years of frantic shear-pin changes and late‑night repairs, all the way to today’s summers under my father’s care.
That baler became more than a machine—it stood in for a family legacy of persistence, resourcefulness, and care passed down from one set of hands to the next. Each bale it drops is a small monument to the people who refused to let it quit.
Another post shifted from machinery to identity. I shared my “confession” that, for years, I tried to tuck my farm background away—doing just enough chores, avoiding being “too farm kid,” and choosing choirs over FFA. I wanted the values without the label.
But homesteading habits kept creeping back: blanching green beans, learning to make sauerkraut, failing (and eventually succeeding) at homemade pizza. A glut of cucumbers and a Facebook post finally opened my eyes to how unusual my access to fresh food really was—and how much others valued what I took for granted.
Through coworkers’ questions and friends’ enthusiasm, I began to see my rural upbringing not as a liability, but as an asset: a source of work ethic, resourcefulness, and a perspective that still shapes how I parent, homestead, and show up in my community.
We also zoomed out to look more directly at farmer mental health. That post walked through the way farming has changed over the past forty years: fewer, larger farms; bigger equipment; “land rich and cash poor” realities; new diseases and pests; and markets that feel like a roller coaster.
Layer by layer, we named the unseen pressures—chronic stress, isolation, identity and legacy, and stigma around asking for help. The goal wasn’t to drown anyone in statistics, but to give words to what many farmers and farm families are already feeling: that toughness doesn’t make you immune to stress, and that talking about it is an act of courage, not weakness.
We also talked about what farmers need to hear (that being exhausted doesn’t mean you’re failing) and what the rest of us can do in small but meaningful ways: listening well, supporting local, sharing resources, and checking in after hard news.
In honor of June Dairy Month, another piece turned the camera toward what June actually feels like on the farm. While towns see smiling cow posters, ice cream specials, and farm breakfasts, farmers see early alarms, hot barns, hayfields racing storms, and bills riding in their back pockets.
I shared memories of June as “hold on tight and hope the machinery cooperates,” and explored how it can feel to be “celebrated” while you’re barely keeping up. For some, June Dairy Month is joyful; for others, it’s complicated. We imagined what farmers might actually want this month: fewer speeches and more listening, real prayers for safety and rest, quiet texts that say, “How are you holding up?” and resources that gently say, “You don’t have to carry this alone.”
I also mention practical ways to honor farmers—asking better questions, dropping off food or encouragement during haying, and telling kids the story behind the milk in their glasses.
Most recently, I shared a story from before I was born, about how one small act—stopping to help on a red barn roof—turned two neighboring farmers into lifelong friends. A neighbor pulled in, climbed up despite a fear of heights, and offered a hand. From that afternoon on the peak, their lives became deeply intertwined through haying days, shared meals, weddings, and tough seasons.
As a kid, I joined those hay crews, stacked bales until I was covered in dust, and ate big meals that felt like our own modern threshing bees. Looking back, I can see how that one moment of courage and kindness rippled through decades and shaped the community I grew up in.
What Threads These Stories Together
Across all these posts, a few themes keep surfacing:
The steady, sometimes unnoticed persistence of farmers and farm families
The way small acts—fixing an old baler, sharing cucumbers, stopping to help on a roof—carry forward into generations
The tension between public celebrations of agriculture and the private weight many farmers carry
The quiet, sturdy beauty of rural friendships and communities
June Dairy Month may be the official reason to talk about cows and fields, but the stories don’t fit neatly into one month on a calendar. They’re ongoing, season after season.
If one of these posts resonated with you, I’m glad you were here. And if you’re a farmer, or love one, thank you—for the work you do, the courage it takes, and the stories you’re still living.
If you have a minute, I’d love to know: which of these stories stuck with you most, and what would you like to see more of in the months ahead?
If you know someone who loves farm stories—or someone who lives them—would you share this recap with them? Your shares and comments help these stories find the people who need them.
In today’s post, I want to share a story from more than a decade before I was born—one that shaped my childhood in a foundational way. It’s the story of how two farmers became friends, and how that friendship became part of the fabric of our family.
The Farmer on the Barn Roof
My dad, set to inherit the family farm, was working on my grandparents’ red barn roof. He had not yet met my mom and was about 25. My grandparents were laying the groundwork for the farm handover. They’d helped him buy the property next door (where I eventually grew up) and taught him farming from childhood (as was customary).
That day, he was up on their red barn. This wasn’t some tiny shed—it stretched about 60 feet long, with the roof starting roughly 25 feet off the ground and peaking even higher. In other words, working up there was no small task.
A Simple Act of Help Changes Everything
A local farmer, a couple years older than my dad, drove by and spotted him. He pulled in, climbed up to the roof, and offered a hand. My dad said yes, and the farmer sat on the peak for a couple minutes—gathering his nerve—before joining in the work. What my dad didn’t know at the time was that this farmer was afraid of heights. That detail makes the moment even more meaningful to me—he set his fear aside to help a neighbor.
From that afternoon on the barn roof, a friendship sparked that continues to this day.
A Farm Friendship That Shaped Decades—and My Childhood
They wove themselves into each other’s lives completely. They attended each other’s weddings (sharing not just the same first name, but wives with the same first name too). They sponsored each other’s kids and teamed up for big jobs like baling hay across large fields.
From the time I could lift bales, I pitched in during those haying days. As one large team with two small New Holland balers, we would bale 2,000 to 3,000 small bales in a day—enough to fill a haymow and feed the cattle for months. I’d finish covered in dust and sweat—I didn’t exactly love it then—but I look back on those memories fondly now.
Baling hay was always a big endeavor.
After the hard work wrapped up, we’d always share a big meal together. I didn’t realize it as a kid, but it felt like our own version of the old threshing bees, where neighbors gathered to help put away the feed, eat, and celebrate the harvest.
Before that day on the roof, they were just acquaintances. Afterward, they were like brothers. That one choice—to stop, help, and climb despite his fear—rippled through shared work, celebrations, tough seasons, and the community I grew up in.
And it all started with one farmer seeing another on a tall red barn and deciding not to drive on by.
Do you have a story of a neighbor or friend whose one small act changed the course of your farm or family?
If this story brought someone to mind—a neighbor, a friend, or a farmer you’re grateful for—would you pass it along to them or share it so others can be reminded how much small acts of help matter?
This piece is written in honor of the farmers who live June from the farmyard side of the fence, and for the neighbors who want to understand and support them a little better.
June celebrates dairy on the shelf, but every cow stands behind a farmer who got up early to care for her.
June shows up every year with smiling cow cartoons, ice cream specials, and “June Dairy Month!” signs at the grocery store. Those things make me smile too. I love a good squeaky cheese curd or a deep‑fried cheese curd as much as the next person.
But when I see those displays, my mind doesn’t go first to the dairy case. It goes to the people behind it—the farmers who are too busy scraping alleys, baling hay, fixing something that broke, or trying to make the numbers work to even notice that it’s “their month.”
What June Looks Like From the Farm Side
From town, June Dairy Month looks like ice cream socials and farm breakfasts. From the farmyard, it looks like:
An alarm that rings before the sky is pink.
Cows that don’t know it’s a holiday—they just know it’s milking time again.
Hayfields that are finally dry enough to cut and bale, and a forecast that may or may not cooperate.
Maybe you’re hustling to get first‑crop hay in before a line of storms. Maybe you’re watching the thermometer climb and worrying about how your cows will handle the heat. Maybe you’re waiting on a haybine part that’s “supposed to be here tomorrow” while the grass gets a little older every day.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, there’s a calf kicking up her heels in fresh bedding or a field that finally looks just right in the evening light—and you tuck that away as quiet fuel to keep going. When the world says, “Let’s celebrate farmers!,” June often says, “Let’s see how much more you can carry.”
The Part the Posters Don’t Show
When I was a kid, June didn’t feel like a themed month; it felt like “hold on tight and hope the machinery cooperates.” I remember:
The way supper got pushed later and later because there was still hay to bale, still a calf to treat, still a broken something to put back together.
The quiet mental math of “Can we afford this repair?” and “Will the milk check stretch far enough this month?”
You didn’t see that on the posters at the grocery store. You still don’t. The public sees the ice cream cone; you see the list of bills in your back pocket while they enjoy it.
How It Feels to Be “Celebrated”
If you’re a farmer, you might get a lot of “Thank you, farmers!” posts in your feed this month. They’re kind, and they’re appreciated. But sometimes they land in a funny place in your chest.
On the one hand, it feels good to be noticed. On the other hand, you may be thinking:
“If you really knew what this took, you’d understand why I’m too tired to come to the celebration.”
“I’m glad you love cheese, but I wish someone would ask how we’re really doing.”
“I don’t feel like a hero. I feel like I’m barely keeping up.”
Being celebrated can be strange when you’re also wondering if the next generation will be able to keep doing this the way your family always has. Some farmers genuinely love every minute of June Dairy Month; others feel a twinge of something more complicated under the surface.
What Farmers Might Actually Want This June
If I could rewrite June Dairy Month from the farm side, it would still have ice cream and farm breakfasts. But it might also have:
A quiet text from a neighbor that says, “How are things holding up on your farm this spring?” or, better yet, “Can we help you with haying?”
A church announcement that includes not just a dairy potluck, but a prayer for farmers’ safety, sanity, and sleep.
A flyer at the co‑op with real support resources and a simple line: “You don’t have to carry this alone.”
It might look like fewer speeches and more listening. Less, “Tell us your success story,” and more, “What’s been heavy this year, and how can we stand with you in it?”
A Small Invitation for Non‑Farm Folks
If you don’t farm but you love your milk, cheese, and summer sweet corn, you don’t need a big platform to make June “land” differently for the farmers in your life.
You could:
Ask one real question and give space for a real answer: “What’s June like for you on the farm?”
Drop off a pan of bars or brownies, a pizza, or a gift card during haying or harvest, no strings attached.
Tell your kids, “This milk didn’t start in a carton. It started with a family that got up early today.”
Share a hotline number or farm stress resource quietly with a farmer friend and say, “No pressure at all. I just want you to have this in your back pocket.”
None of that fixes markets or weather. But it tells a farmer, “I see you—not just what you produce.”
A Word to the Farmers Reading This
If June feels heavy instead of festive this year, you’re not doing it wrong.
You can be proud of your work and still be tired of the fight. You can love your cows and your land and still feel worn down by the paperwork, the payments, and the pressure. You can be grateful and still be honest that this is hard.
If all you do this June is keep going, catch your breath when you can, maybe say out loud to one safe person, “This is a lot right now”—that is enough. You’re more than a photo op or a slogan. You’re a whole person in boots and jeans and calloused hands, carrying decisions that most people never see.
More Than a Month on the Calendar
I’m glad we set aside a month to celebrate dairy and the farmers who make it possible. But when the banners come down and the sales end, the work goes on.
My hope is that June can be more than a marketing campaign—that it can be a yearly reminder to look past the milk carton and into the lives of the people behind it, to ask better questions, listen a little longer, and remember that “supporting farmers” is about more than buying another gallon.
If you’re a farmer (dairy or otherwise), what do you wish people understood about June on your farm?
If this resonated with you, would you pass it along to someone who cares about farmers—or share it where other farm families might see it? I’d also love to hear from you in the comments: what’s one small way you’ve seen someone truly honor a farmer, or one thing you wish people understood about June on your farm?
Hay season means long days, heavy decisions, and worries that don’t clock out when the sun gets low.
When most people picture a farmer, they imagine strong hands, early mornings, and a deep connection to the land. Those things are true. But what’s less visible is the mental and emotional weight that modern farmers carry—often in silence.
Over the last 40 years, farming has changed dramatically. We’ve seen consolidated farms, bigger machinery, larger herds, and new technology. Alongside those changes came something else: bigger debt, more uncertainty, and worries that don’t clock out when the day is done.
This piece isn’t about statistics. It’s about naming some of the pressures farmers feel, and why mental health deserves to be part of the conversation when we talk about agriculture.
From Many Small Farms to Fewer, Bigger Ones
A generation or two ago, it was common to see many small and mid-sized family farms clustered within a few miles of each other. They could lean on each other for basic help. My dad and a good farmer friend lived two miles apart and shared haymaking equipment and labor. We would spend a day baling hay at the friend’s place, and another day baling hay on our farm.
On a good day with lots of help, we could bale and put away 2,000–3,000 small square bales—enough to fill a hay mow from the floor to the rafters and keep a dairy herd fed for months. All the while, we had good conversations, got a solid workout, and ate a good meal afterward. There was a sense of satisfaction I didn’t fully appreciate at the time as I coughed up dust all night and well into the next day. We could rely on each other for reciprocal help that taught me what true community support looks like.
Over the past few decades:
Many small operations have closed or merged.
Land has consolidated into fewer, larger farms.
Surviving farms often feel pressure to “get bigger or get out.”
This shift means:
Less shared workload between neighbors.
More land, animals, and responsibilities on fewer shoulders.
A sense of loss—not just of businesses, but of communities and a way of life.
My dad and his friend both sold their cows around the same time. I remember the farm auction they jointly held when I was an early teenager. At the time, I was thrilled that we didn’t have the cows anymore. In adulthood, that relief turned into sadness, because it meant there were two fewer dairy farms in the area. Now, the farms with 100 or fewer cows are few and far between. My dad used to joke that FFA—“Future Farmers of America”—really stood for “Father Farming Alone.” He wasn’t wrong.
For the farmers who remain, this consolidation can bring a mix of gratitude (for still being here) and grief (for those who aren’t).
“Land Rich,” Cash Poor
Another layer in all of this is what people sometimes call being “land rich.”
Many farmers:
Own or are paying on hundreds of acres of land.
Have barns, sheds, and equipment worth significant money on paper.
From the outside, it can look like wealth. But the reality is often:
Most of that value is tied up in land and buildings that can’t be easily sold without dismantling the farm.
Day-to-day cash flow can be tight, especially when prices are low or inputs are high.
The same land that represents security also represents responsibility, taxes, and debt.
Being “land rich and cash poor” is its own kind of mental strain. Farmers can feel:
Trapped between the desire to keep the farm going and the weight of the bills.
Guilty for even considering selling something that generations built.
Misunderstood by people who only see acreage and assume comfort, not stress.
When the balance sheet says “asset,” but the checking account says “barely,” it adds another quiet layer of pressure.
Bigger Equipment, Bigger Debt
With larger farms comes larger equipment:
Bigger tractors, combines, balers, and harvesters.
More sophisticated technology—GPS, monitors, sensors, and software.
These tools can boost efficiency, but they come at a cost:
High purchase prices, ongoing payments, and subscription fees.
Expensive parts and repairs when something breaks (usually at the worst possible time).
The constant knowledge that a breakdown—or a bad year—could put the whole operation at risk.
Carrying that level of debt isn’t just a line item in a budget. It’s a weight in the back of a farmer’s mind, especially at night. Farming has always been stressful, but when you add costs that are ten or a hundred times higher than they used to be, the stress compounds right along with it.
Mutating Diseases, New Pests, and Biosecurity Worries
The last few decades have also brought:
New or mutating livestock diseases.
Crop diseases and pests that adapt quickly.
Rising biosecurity concerns, especially with larger, more concentrated herds.
This adds another layer of stress:
One outbreak can threaten years of hard work.
Farmers must constantly update protocols, vaccinations, and preventative care.
There’s a nagging worry: “What if something slips through? What if we miss something?”
The responsibility of caring for animals and crops isn’t just physical; it’s emotional. When animals get sick or crops fail, it can feel like a personal failure—even when it isn’t.
I recently heard the sad story of a local strawberry farm that lost much of its crop to a disease that thrives in wet soil after a particularly rainy spring. I’ve also watched them rebound in a way that is truly inspiring—launching a strawberry-scented skincare line made from the berries they could salvage and using their platform to educate the public about soil health. Even in resilience, you can feel the weight of what was lost and the effort it took for them to pivot.
Markets That Feel Like a Roller Coaster
Farmers today live with:
Fluctuating commodity prices.
Sudden changes in demand, trade policies, and global events.
Input costs (fuel, fertilizer, feed, repairs) that don’t always match what they’re paid.
That means:
It’s harder to plan even one year ahead, let alone several.
A good production year doesn’t always mean a good financial year.
Farmers carry the constant question: “Will this be the year we can’t make it work?”
Uncertainty isn’t just a math problem. It’s a mental burden—especially when an entire family’s livelihood, legacy, and identity are tied to the farm.
More Worries, Less Margin for Error
Put all of that together, and you get a heavy load:
Bigger farms and fewer people to share the work.
Bigger machines and bigger debts.
Disease, pests, and biosecurity concerns that never truly go away.
Markets that can swing wildly from one season to the next.
Land that looks like wealth on paper, but doesn’t always translate into financial breathing room.
And yet, despite all this, many farmers still:
Get up before sunrise.
Work long days in all kinds of weather.
Care deeply about their animals, crops, and customers.
Try to show up at community events and be good neighbors.
They do it not because it’s an easy business decision, but because farming is a calling—a way of life they care about too deeply to walk away from lightly.
From the outside, it’s easy to see just the toughness. From the inside, farmers know: toughness doesn’t make you immune to stress, anxiety, or depression. It just makes you more likely to keep quiet about it.
The Quiet Strain on Farmer Mental Health
Some common mental health pressures on farmers include:
Chronic stress. There is always something to worry about—weather, prices, animals, equipment, finances.
Isolation. Many farms are rural and remote, with fewer opportunities to socialize or talk openly about struggles. The isolation has only increased as farms have consolidated and neighbors have sold out.
Identity and legacy. The farm often isn’t “just a job.” It’s a family identity and a multi-generation story. The fear of being “the one who couldn’t keep it going” runs deep.
Stigma. In many farm communities, there’s an unspoken rule: you work hard, keep your head down, and don’t complain. Asking for help can feel like weakness, even when it’s actually courage.
It’s not unusual for farmers to feel:
Overwhelmed
Guilty for feeling overwhelmed
Unsure where to turn or what resources exist
Naming these realities doesn’t mean farmers are broken. It means they’re human.
What Farmers Need to Hear
If you’re a farmer, or married to one, or raising farm kids, you may need to hear that:
Feeling stressed or anxious doesn’t mean you’re failing.
Being exhausted by the weight of decisions and responsibilities is understandable.
You are not the only one who lies awake at night worrying about the bank, the herd, the crops, the land, the next generation.
Talking to someone—a friend, pastor, counselor, doctor—is not a sign of weakness. It’s one more way of caring for your farm and family, because you are part of both.
What the Rest of Us Can Do
For those who aren’t farming but care about farmers, there are small but meaningful ways to help:
Acknowledge the weight. Simply saying, “I know things are tough right now, and I appreciate what you do,” can matter more than you realize.
Listen without minimizing. Resist the urge to say “It’ll all work out” or “At least you get to live in the country.” Instead try: “That sounds really hard. Do you want to talk about it?”
Support local when you can. Buying from local farms and small businesses helps, even if it’s not a complete solution.
Share resources. If you hear about mental health hotlines, local support groups, or farm stress programs, pass them along without pressure: “I saw this and thought it might be useful if you ever wanted it.”
Check in after hard news. A bad storm, a price crash, a big equipment breakdown—these are good times to send a message or stop by.
A Small Invitation
Over the past 40 years, farms have gotten bigger, equipment has gotten bigger, and the to-do lists and worries have grown right alongside them. What hasn’t grown at the same pace is our willingness to talk honestly about what all of that does to a farmer’s mind and heart.
For many farmers, this work is more than a career. It’s a calling they’ve been born into, chosen, or both—and that’s part of why the weight can feel so heavy.
I don’t pretend to speak for every farmer or every situation, but these are some of the patterns I’ve seen and lived.
We can’t solve everything in one conversation or one blog post. But we can:
Start naming the pressures.
Make it normal to talk about stress and mental health in farm communities.
Remind farmers that their worth is not measured only in bushels, pounds, acres, or how many acres they “own” on paper.
If you’re a farmer, or you love one, I hope this gives you language for some of what you’re feeling—or seeing.
And if you’re reading this from town or city, maybe the next time you pass a tractor on the road, pour a glass of milk, have a steak, or drive by a field, you’ll remember: behind that scene is a person carrying more than just a workload.
If you feel comfortable sharing, I’d love to hear: what’s one thing you wish people understood about the mental load farmers carry—or one small way you think we could better support them?
If this post helped put words to what you’ve seen or felt, would you share it with someone who cares about farmers—or save it to revisit later? Your stories matter too. I’d be honored if you shared a small piece of your experience or tagged a farmer who deserves a quiet “thank you.”
For a long time, that sentence felt like something I needed to tuck away, not lead with. In high school, I carefully sidestepped anything that might mark me as “too farm kid.” I avoided FFA and agriculture classes, choosing instead to spend time with the choir crowd—some of the kindest people you’ll ever meet (and, let’s be honest, who doesn’t love friends who can sing?).
On the surface, I was doing what a lot of teenagers do: trying to blend in. Underneath, I was quietly distancing myself from a way of life that had shaped me more than I realized.
Trying to Tuck My Farm Roots Away
Looking back, I can see how much effort I put into not looking “too farm.”
I did the bare minimum caring for the steers assigned to me.
I half-heartedly tended the garden that had been so generously entrusted to my “care.”
I laughed off my farm chores as “no big deal,” even when they meant missing events or coming to school smelling faintly of silage.
I share more about the steers here, but the short version is this: I wanted the values of my upbringing (work ethic, responsibility, resourcefulness) without the label that came with them. I thought being “the farm kid” made me less interesting, less sophisticated, less…something.
Even in college, I was hesitant to share details about my rural background. I listened to friends talk about their favorite coffee shops and city neighborhoods, and I stayed quiet about gravel roads, hay balers, and cleaning cow yards.
The Homesteading Bug That Never Quite Left
And yet, there was always a part of me that genuinely enjoyed homesteading.
The summer after my freshman year of college, I found myself slipping back into familiar rhythms:
I spent days blanching and freezing green beans.
I asked my dad to teach me how to make sauerkraut.
It was as if my hands remembered what my pride wanted to forget. I loved the feeling of putting food by, the satisfaction of seeing freezer bags full of vegetables, and the simple rhythm of working alongside my parents.
At the time, I still didn’t connect this with identity. It just felt like “what we do in the summer”—use what we have, store what we can, waste as little as possible.
The Cucumber Story That Started to Change My Perspective
I remember clearly when my perspective started to shift.
Shortly before my junior year of college, our garden produced a glut of cucumbers. In a moment of practicality, I posted on Facebook asking if anyone wanted some. Several college friends responded enthusiastically.
I didn’t believe they were serious.
To me, cucumbers were just…there. They showed up in the garden, we ate what we wanted, and the rest sometimes ended up in the compost if we couldn’t keep up. I assumed everyone had access to as many fresh vegetables as they wanted, if they just “put in the effort.”
So I left the cucumbers at home.
When I saw my friends later, their disappointed faces told me I’d made a mistake. They had genuinely looked forward to those garden-fresh cucumbers. In that moment, it hit me: my experience of having plentiful fresh vegetables was not typical. What I saw as ordinary was, to many others, special.
That simple misunderstanding planted a metaphorical seed. Maybe my farm background wasn’t something to hide. Maybe it was something to share.
Realizing My Background Was an Asset, Not a Liability
Later, at my post-college job, that seed grew.
Coworkers would ask the usual small-talk questions: “Where did you grow up?” “What did your parents do?” When I mentioned my agricultural background—dairy cows, hay fields, chores before school—I was surprised by their reactions.
They were impressed.
They asked follow-up questions. They wanted to know what milking was like, how long haying days really were, what it meant to care for animals every single day. They didn’t hear “small town, limited experience.” They heard “work ethic,” “responsibility,” and “a perspective I don’t have.”
Slowly, I began to see that the very things I had once tried to downplay were the things that made my story unique and valuable.
What Farm Life Actually Gave Me
When I think about my farm childhood now, I don’t just see early mornings and missed parties. I see the deeper gifts standing behind them:
A strong work ethic. You show up even when you’re tired, because the animals still need care.
Follow-through. You don’t quit halfway through cleaning the yard or milking a herd.
Resourcefulness. You learn to fix things, make do, and find ways to stretch what you have.
Respect for land and animals. You see firsthand that your choices affect living creatures and the soil under your feet.
Community awareness. You understand that your work feeds people you know by name.
Those values follow me into parenting, into how I manage our small homestead now, and into how I show up in my community.
Sharing the “Confession” with Pride
Today, I share my “confession”—that I grew up on a farm—not as something to gloss over, but as something I’m proud of.
I’m proud of:
My parents, who modeled consistency and care when no one was watching.
My extended family, who have been (and still are) stewards of the land.
The countless farmers who live out the same story in their own quiet, steadfast way.
I’m also grateful for the friends and coworkers who helped me see my background differently—those who wanted the cucumbers I thought were nothing special, and those who lit up when I shared stories about dairy cows and hay fields.
A Note of Thanks for June Dairy Month
So, in the spirit of June Dairy Month, consider this post a small thank-you:
To the farmers who are up before dawn, again.
To the families who build their lives around the needs of animals and land.
To the kids who might someday feel tempted to hide their farm roots, just like I did.
If you’re one of those kids, I hope you’ll come to see what I finally did: your story matters, and your background is a strength—not something to be smoothed over.
Happy June Dairy Month—to all the hardworking farmers out there, and especially to the friends and family who keep showing up, season after season.
If this story resonated with you—or reminded you of your own farm kid days—would you share it with a friend or save it for later?
I’d also love to hear from you: did you grow up on a farm, or are you just now learning where your food comes from? Your perspective matters too.
The baler rattles across the field, kicking up dust in its wake. Each stroke of the plunger on our old New Holland baler strikes a rhythm I’ve known for as long as I can remember, growing up on a hay farm. To most, it’s just an old machine grinding through another hay crop. To me, it’s the steady heartbeat of family history.
My grandfather was born in 1911 and grew up working with horses in the field. He didn’t fully retire the horses until after World War II. In 1951, he bought his own farm, and in 1977 he purchased the farm next door—the place where I would grow up, and the one I hope to someday manage.
Somewhere in the middle of all that change, he bought this New Holland baler new in 1964. Sixty-two years later, under my father’s care, it’s still knotting twine and spitting out hay bales—stubborn as ever.
A tool that old doesn’t survive by luck. It lasts because hands refuse to let it quit.
I think of frantic shear pin replacements in the field before storms, grease-slicked wrenches, evenings spent tightening chains or swapping bearings as clouds pushed in.
Each repair was more than maintenance; it was a promise that the baler would see another hay harvest. Its clatter is proof of care passed from one set of hands to the next.
What I value most isn’t only its reliability, but the story etched into every dent and weld. Farming has changed in ways my grandfather never could have imagined—mammoth tractors, bigger bales, GPS-guided rows—but this old New Holland baler remains, a bridge tying his summers to mine. Each bale it drops is more than forage; it’s a small monument to persistence, tangible proof that his investment still pays forward.
There’s a quiet pride in watching it work—steady, unassuming, framed by sun and dust. I sometimes imagine my grandfather and father standing beside me, hearing that same hum carry across the field, nodding at the machine they once trusted with a season’s livelihood.
And as long as the chute spits out hay beneath the summer sky, their legacy endures. Someday, when I hand the lines to the next set of hands, I hope they’ll listen closely. If they do, they won’t just hear an old clatter in the field. They’ll hear the rhythm of persistence, the echo of care, the sound of a haying legacy worth continuing.
I’d also love to hear from you: is there a piece of equipment, a tool, or a sound that instantly takes you back to your own family’s farm story?
If this little glimpse into our haying history resonated with you, would you share it with someone who loves old equipment or grew up on a farm?
If you’ve been following along, you know our family just welcomed 20 new homestead inhabitants. Both of our gilts farrowed 10 healthy piglets each, within eight days of one another. In this post, I’m sharing the good, the bad, and the “ugly” (if you consider birth in all its rawness “ugly”) from our first farrowing season.
If you’re a human parent, you may find yourself nodding along—there are a lot of parallels between farrowing and real childbirth.
Planning for Piglet Due Dates and Farrowing
Our first gilt was due on Mother’s Day, which felt poetic and slightly nerve‑wracking.
Counting out the classic pig gestation period: 3 months, 3 weeks, and 3 days
Mr.Eligible boar (pink)
Just like with human pregnancies, a “due date” for pigs is more like a due window. There’s a grace period on either side, and you quickly learn that the animals don’t read calendars.
On the calendar due date itself, she turned…feisty. And by feisty, I mean she was ready to bite anything that got within range of her snout. But she did not actually farrow that day.
My husband and I were both on high alert. He checked on her several times from Sunday into Monday, but nothing happened. Then, midday Monday, he checked on her again, saw no progress, ran a quick errand, and came back to a surprise: three piglets, mostly dried off and already attempting to nurse.
Watching the First Piglets Arrive
He came to pull me away from my home office, and we stood there, just watching.
It’s incredible how quickly piglets transition from birth to motion:
They got up on shaky legs
They walked toward mom’s teats
They instinctively nuzzled and attempted to latch
When they wandered too close to her head or drifted off too far, she would grunt, and they would back off. You could see the communication happening instantly between mother and babies.
Based on how quickly those first three arrived, we expected more piglets to appear almost immediately. But an hour went by with no action.
We knew there were more piglets in there. A typical first-time gilt can have between 6 and 12 piglets, and we could see our girl straining. But nothing was moving.
When Birth Doesn’t Go Smoothly
At this point, we knew we were out of our depth and that simply “waiting” might not be enough. My husband called my brother-in-law, who came over quickly (we still cannot thank him enough) with oxytocin to help speed up the process if needed.
Oxytocin for pigs is similar to Pitocin for humans. It’s also a hormone our bodies naturally produce to help labor progress and to promote bonding with our young.
Before he arrived, though, the next piglet finally emerged—and it was stillborn.
Based on its size, we could tell it hadn’t fully developed in the womb, which is fairly common in pig litters. What I didn’t know beforehand was how much a stillborn piglet can slow down the farrowing process.
In a normal birth:
The sow pushes
The piglet wriggles and helps move itself along the birth canal
When the piglet is stillborn, there’s no wriggling, which reduces the sow’s natural urge to push and makes things much slower and harder.
The Rest of the Litter and Piglet Safety
Once the stillborn piglet was out, everything sped up. The next seven piglets arrived within about half an hour. Some came out in groups of three, one right after another.
We:
Caught each piglet
Used towels to dry them off
Placed them under a heat lamp in a designated corner of the farrowing crate
We had intentionally designed a piglet-only corner in the crate—an area where the babies could go but the sow could not. This gives them a protected space if mom’s hormones are running high or she’s moving around clumsily during or after farrowing.
My brother-in-law arrived during this time, showed us how to administer oxytocin, and—equally important—gave us some perspective.
He reminded us that sometimes you need to “sit on your hands.” The sow often knows what to do, and constant interference can create more problems than it solves.
Mere minutes before this, we had to sit on our hands as we were nervous the new mom would lay flat on her babies. Imagine 10 little ones walking underneath you, going in front of you as you try not to walk into them, and you can understand our apprehension.
Instincts, Bonding, and the Early Days
It was awe-inspiring to watch a first-time mom become a mother in an instant.
When we picked up a piglet, it squealed, and she would leap up, immediately on guard, ready to defend her baby. That bond is powerful and very, very real.
In the first week, we watched the piglets:
Double, then nearly triple in size
Learn to find the warmest spot under the heat lamp
Figure out (and fight over) the best spots on the udder
Because the weather was initially cold, we added a second heat lamp in the piglet-only section to keep them warm enough. Those first days felt like a delicate balancing act between warmth, safety, and giving the sow enough space to relax and recover.
Just as the first litter was settling into a rhythm, we realized we were about to do it all over again with our second gilt.
Preparing for Our Second Gilt’s Farrowing
Five days later, we moved our second gilt into her farrowing crate. In classic Wisconsin fashion, the weather changed dramatically—now it was suddenly warm.
That temperature swing added a whole different layer of worry.
Several times, we thought she was laying down to start farrowing. My husband lost more than a few nights of sleep, watching her, waiting for contractions that never came. Instead, she was simply overheated and panting, trying to cool herself down.
A few things to remember about pigs:
They don’t have sweat glands
They carry a good layer of insulating fat
Dumping excess heat is genuinely hard for them
We ended up spraying her gently with a hose during the worst of the heat, and it made a noticeable difference. She relaxed, her breathing slowed, and it was a good reminder that not every “change” in position or breathing is labor.
Sometimes, it’s just a hot pig.
A Dramatic Second Farrowing
Naturally, our second gilt chose a wonderfully inconvenient time to start farrowing.
Right as I was heading out the door for my monthly book club meeting, she decided it was go time. By the time I returned, seven piglets were already out.
My husband filled me in on what I’d missed:
One piglet was born breech (butt first), and he had to help pull it out
By the time it emerged, it was struggling to breathe, so he rubbed it vigorously to stimulate it
Then came another challenge—the largest piglet of the litter got stuck in the sow’s pelvis. It took about an hour for that baby to finally make its way out. Once it did, the remaining piglets arrived quickly, followed by the placenta (what some people call the “afterbirth” or “cleanings”).
That hour with the stuck piglet felt much longer than sixty minutes. It was one of those situations where you’re walking a line between stepping in and letting nature work, all while trying not to panic.
Second litter, they also made a dramatic entrance
What We Didn’t Need—and What We Did
Looking back at both farrowings, a few specific tools and supplies made a big difference—and a few things we were sure we’d need stayed in the box.
One small but encouraging discovery: we didn’t end up needing the iodine we had ordered for antiseptic purposes. Both gilts instinctively chewed off their piglets’ umbilical cords on their own, just as nature designed them to.
During the second farrowing, we did use the sleeve-length veterinary gloves, which my husband used to check the second sow and see where the piglet was in the birth canal. Having those on hand gave us a safer way to assess what was happening without introducing as much risk of infection.
After each birth:
Mom would eventually lay down flat, exposing her full udder
The piglets would find their spots and latch on
The first milk, just like in humans, was rich colostrum
Later, her full milk let-down came in
The sow grunts to call her babies over and often continues to grunt the entire time she’s nursing. It’s a sound that becomes the background track to your days during those first weeks—steady, rhythmic, and weirdly comforting.
She nurses about once an hour around the clock, and in between, she rests, eats, drinks, and even teaches her babies where to defecate (in a designated corner).
Lessons We Learned from Our First Farrowing
This whole experience left us humbled, exhausted, and incredibly grateful. It also taught us some practical lessons we’ll carry into every future farrowing season.
We learned:
How much can go smoothly without our intervention when we give the sow space
How quickly things can go wrong—and how critical it is to have knowledgeable help on call
How important it is to be prepared for both cold snaps and heat waves during spring farrowing
How valuable a piglet-only safe zone and basic supplies (like gloves and towels) can be
How strong maternal instinct is, whether in pigs or humans
If you’re reading this because you’re considering raising pigs, or you’re just here for the many parallels to human childbirth, I hope this gives you a real, honest picture of what farrowing can look like.
It’s messy, beautiful, stressful, and holy all at once—and when you’re standing there in a dusty farrowing crate, watching a brand-new piglet wobble toward its first meal, it’s hard not to feel a little awe.
If you’ve been through your own version of ‘first farrowing’—with pigs, other livestock, or even human babies—I’d love to hear about it. What surprised you the most about birth and early days on your homestead?
If this story was helpful (or reassuring) as you think about raising pigs, would you share it with a fellow homesteader or save it for later? You can also join my email list for more honest, behind-the-scenes looks at our homestead wins, mistakes, and everything in between.
The process of purchasing meat directly from a farmer is a little different than grabbing a package from the grocery store. It takes more planning, dependable freezer space, and a willingness to think about your food in a new way.
But in return, you get so much more than just meat.
If you’ve ever wondered how to buy a quarter beef or half pig from a local farmer, this guide walks you through the whole process.
Knowing How Your Meat Was Raised
There’s something powerful about being able to visit the animal that will eventually feed your family.
When you have a good relationship with a farmer, you can:
See where the animals live
Watch what they eat
Notice how they’re handled and treated
To be a good farmer is to be empathetic. You’re working with living beings that deserve dignity. They don’t deserve to live in filth, inside all the time, never able to root, scratch, or roam according to their instincts.
On our homestead, for example, our pigs are raised outside all the time. They can root, eat grass, make mud puddles, and scratch. We don’t dock piglets’ tails because we let them nurse from mom long enough that they don’t get frustrated and chew on each other. In winter, we help them stay warm in a few ways: we feed them extra so they can build up fat reserves, and we add plenty of straw and insulation around their pig hut (which, for us, is an old calf crate). Think of it like the house of straw from the three little pigs—but this one is reinforced with solid supports and a lot more intention.
Little Pig, Little Pig, Let me in!
When you buy meat from a farmer whose practices you know and trust, you’re not just buying a product. You’re choosing a story you feel good feeding your family.
Bulk Meat, Full Freezer, and Creative Cooking
Buying meat in bulk pushes you to think beyond just bacon, sausage, and ham.
Pigs, for example, are so much more than the “usual” cuts. Have you ever had:
A well-cooked pork steak or pork chops
Homemade uncased breakfast or Italian sausage (not at all difficult to make)
Marinated side pork (uncured bacon) cooked over a grill or campfire (this one is a total game changer)
There’s a whole world of flavor and texture in a single animal, and learning to cook those different cuts can actually be fun. I plan to share more recipes and cooking ideas in future posts if you’re interested in exploring beyond the basics.
There’s also the very practical side: having a full freezer of meat means:
Fewer last-minute grocery runs
Less impulse spending on convenience food
One less thing to juggle when life is busy
With a little forward planning, you’re essentially building your own little “store” at home that you can shop from all year. When you’re tired, sick, or snowed in, knowing you have meat on hand for soups, roasts, tacos, casseroles, and quick meals is a huge relief.
Helps a neighbor maintain their land, care for animals, and keep going another season
Ideally, this relationship grows beyond a simple transaction. Over time, you get to know each other. You learn their rhythms and challenges; they learn about your family and your needs. Maybe they text you pictures of new piglets, or you bring your kids out to see the calves.
You’re not just “a customer”—you’re part of the farm’s story too.
In other words, you’re trading a little extra planning upfront for better meat, deeper connection, and a more secure pantry.
How Buying Meat in Bulk from a Farmer Works
Now that we’ve talked through the benefits, let’s look at how this actually works in practice.
When you purchase meat directly from a farmer, you typically buy a portion of an animal, not just an individual package. You’ll usually be offered:
A quarter
A half
A whole
The exact options depend on the type of animal and the farmer.
Buying a Quarter or Half Beef
A beef animal (steer) is large, so it’s commonly broken into quarters.
One quarter of beef usually equals around 200 pounds of freezer meat (this can vary based on size and breed).
A half or whole animal would, of course, be proportionally more.
This sounds like a lot—and it is—but once you break it down into ground beef, roasts, steaks, stew meat, and soup bones, most families are surprised how quickly they use it over the course of a year. For many four-person families, a quarter beef can comfortably supply most of their beef for many months, if not close to a full year, depending on their eating habits.
You’ll sometimes hear people call this a “quarter cow,” but “quarter beef” is the more accurate term.
Buying a Half or Whole Pig
Pigs are smaller, so they’re often sold as halves or wholes.
A half pig usually yields around 100 pounds of freezer meat.
A whole pig is roughly 200 pounds, give or take.
The 2 boxes on the right show what a half pork looks like, labeled and packaged. The rest is my Amish suppies.
The pork is split between bacon, ham, ground pork or sausage, and various cuts. For our four-person family, a whole hog is enough pork to last us about one year. Your experience may vary based on your family’s eating habits.
Again, these are ballpark numbers, but they’re helpful for planning. You can always split a half or a whole with another family if that feels more manageable.
Freezer Space for Bulk Meat Orders
Buying a quarter of beef or a half pig means one very practical thing: you need somewhere to store it.
A few things to consider:
Freezer Type
We use both a chest freezer and an upright freezer between our beef, pork, frozen garden vegetables, and other grocery store finds (yes, I do still grocery shop, but more like monthly). Either style works; it often comes down to space and personal preference.
Chest freezers tend to be more energy-efficient and stay cold longer if the power goes out.
Upright freezers are easier to organize and access because everything isn’t stacked on top of everything else.
Our chest freezer full of frozen beef (this is what a quarter beef looks like).
Finding a Freezer
You can often find secondhand freezers at a bargain on places like Facebook Marketplace or local buy/sell groups if you’re willing to watch for deals and clean them. Just make sure you can test that it gets and stays cold before you bring it home.
Electric Considerations
Ideally, your freezer should be on a dedicated electrical circuit to reduce the risk of tripping a breaker and silently losing everything. If you’re unsure, it’s worth asking someone handy or an electrician to check.
Power Outages
If there is a power outage, resist the urge to open the freezer “just to check.” A closed, full freezer will stay cold much longer than you’d think. If your area loses power frequently, having a small generator on hand for your freezer might be worth considering.
Think of your freezer as a savings account: that meat is your hard-earned money in frozen form. You want to protect it.
Planning Ahead with Your Farmer
Farmers can’t just create finished animals overnight. It takes time to raise them to a good butcher weight, and many farms book processing dates months in advance.
As a rough guide:
A beef animal takes about 2 years to raise.
A pig takes about 6 months.
Most farmers plan their processing schedule well ahead of time. If you’re thinking of buying meat in bulk:
Reach out to a farmer several months (or even a season) in advance.
Ask when they typically send animals to the processor.
Get on their list early, especially if they’re a smaller operation.
You can also ask about breed and feeding practices (grass-fed, grain-finished, pasture-raised), so you know exactly what you’re getting.
Building a Relationship While You Wait
During that time, you can do more than just wait for a phone call.
Visit the farm if that’s an option.
Ask questions about how they feed and house animals.
Let your kids (if you have them) see where their food comes from and ask their own questions.
Every farmer I know—and I know quite a few, thanks to my agricultural background—loves to talk about their animals. They’ll tell you about personalities, quirks, and challenges. For most of them, farming is a vocation, not just a job. They’re in it because they care.
Understanding the Two Bills: Animal and Processing
When the processing date gets closer, your farmer will reach out with more details, such as:
Which butcher/processing facility they’re using
The approximate hanging weight of the animal, and the price per pound for their part
The approximate date you can expect to pick up your meat
This is also when you’ll want to understand how payment works. When you purchase directly from a farmer, you’re usually paying two separate bills:
The animal itself – paid directly to the farmer
The processing/butchering – paid directly to the butcher or processing facility
The farmer can tell you their rate structure (per pound, flat rate, etc.), and the processor will have their own fee schedule based on your preferences—cutting, wrapping, curing, sausage-making, smoking, and so on.
Working with the Butcher on Cut Choices
Once the farmer takes the animal to the butcher shop, their part in the story is essentially done. Next, the butcher shop (to whom the farmer has passed along your contact information) will reach out with questions about how you want your meat processed.
A good butcher will walk even the least experienced person through the process. Some examples of decisions include:
More roasts or more ground?
How thick do you want steaks or chops cut?
What kinds of sausage would you like, and in what size packages?
Do you want soup bones, organ meats, or extras like lard or fat?
The possibilities are truly endless, and you can customize it in the way that works best for your cooking. One year, you might prefer 1‑pound packages of ground beef or pork; the next year, you might decide you’d rather have 1.5‑pound packages to better fit your favorite recipes. You can adjust as you learn what your family actually uses.
Picking Up Your Bulk Meat Order
The last part is picking up your meat from the butcher.
The processor will contact you when everything is cut, wrapped, and frozen, and they’ll share the total cost due to them.
It’s important to ask whether you need to bring coolers or boxes to store the meat on the way home. Some butchers provide boxes; others do not.
There’s nothing worse than showing up unprepared and having 200 pounds of meat rolling around loose in your vehicle. Don’t ask me how I know.
A few final tips:
Bring sturdy boxes or coolers so you can stack and carry the meat easily.
Bring a pair of gloves—the meat is cold and pre-frozen, and you don’t want frozen fingers by the time you’re done loading and unloading.
Make sure you have your freezer space ready and cleared before pickup day, so you’re not rearranging everything with a car full of thawing meat.
It can feel more complicated than grabbing a package at the store, but once you’ve done it, it starts to make sense. And the reward is a freezer full of meat you feel good about, with a story you actually know—and a farmer you can call by name.
Common Questions About Buying Meat from a Farmer
Is it cheaper than grocery store meat?
It depends on what you’re comparing it to.
If you usually buy the cheapest grocery store meat and the bargain cuts, buying from a farmer may cost a bit more per pound.
If you usually buy higher-quality or “natural” meat, buying in bulk from a farmer is often the same price or cheaper—and you’re getting better quality and supporting a local family.
One important consideration is that you pay one price per pound of processed meat. This includes the more expensive cuts like pork belly or tenderloin, and the “lesser” cuts like spare ribs and pork hocks. The more expensive cuts come down in price compared to the grocery store, and the “lesser” cuts are typically at or slightly higher than grocery store prices.
The biggest difference is that you’re paying for a large amount at once instead of spreading it out over many small trips—and all the tempting last-minute impulse purchases grocery stores are so good at encouraging.
Do I have to take cuts I don’t know how to cook?
No—and also, not forever.
You can customize your order a lot. For example, if you don’t like roasts, you can ask for more ground.
You can skip certain things (like organ meats) if you know you won’t use them.
Over time, you might decide to try one or two “new” cuts each year as your confidence grows.
You’re not locked into one way of cutting forever; you can adjust each time you order.
What if I don’t have enough freezer space for a whole or half animal?
You have options:
Split a quarter or half with a friend or family member.
Ask your farmer if they know anyone looking to “share” an animal—many do.
Start smaller (for example, a quarter beef instead of a half, or half a pig instead of a whole).
You don’t have to jump straight into a full animal on your first try.You have options:
Split a quarter or half with a friend or family member.
Ask your farmer if they know anyone looking to “share” an animal—many do.
Start smaller (for example, a quarter beef instead of a half, or half a pig instead of a whole).
You don’t have to jump straight into a full animal on your first try.
How long will the meat last in the freezer?
If it’s wrapped well and kept consistently frozen:
Most cuts are best within 12–18 months, though many will last longer and still be safe to eat.
Ground meat is typically best within 6–12 months for peak quality.
Labeling packages with the date and type of cut makes it much easier to rotate and use things in a good timeframe. A good butcher will do that for you.
What if I’m nervous about making the wrong choices?
You’re not alone—almost everyone feels that way the first time.
A few reassurances:
Farmers and butchers are used to first-timers. They expect questions.
A good butcher will walk you through the options and explain what’s common for families like yours.
You can keep things simple your first time (basic steaks/chops, roasts, and ground), then get more adventurous with sausage, specialty cuts, and smoking on your next order.
Think of your first bulk order as a learning experience. You’ll quickly figure out what your family uses most.
If You’re Local and Want to Buy from Us
If you’re local (Southeastern Wisconsin) and interested in buying pork from our homestead, we’d love to connect.
Because raising and processing animals is a big investment, we use a simple reservation and deposit system so everyone knows what to expect:
You reserve a portion (half or whole) with a small non-refundable deposit.
We raise and deliver the animal to the butcher on the scheduled date.
Once we know the hanging weight and processing cost, we send you a clear invoice.
After payment, you pick up your meat at the butcher.
If that sounds like something you’d like to explore—or if you just have questions—feel free to reach out. We’re happy to talk through the process and see whether it’s a good fit for your family.
Have you ever bought a quarter beef, half pig, or other bulk meat from a farmer—or is it something you’ve been curious (or nervous) to try?
If this helped answer some questions—or made buying meat from a farmer feel a little less intimidating—please like and share it with a friend who’s been talking about “finding a local farmer.” It makes a bigger difference than you think.
This spring on our homestead has been both chaotic and full of life. Between new animals, fresh plantings, and long-awaited property upgrades, it feels like everything is waking up at once. If you’re curious what real-life spring homestead projects look like for us—or looking for ideas for your own place—here’s what we’ve been up to.
Spring Planting: Fruit Trees, Strawberries, and Garden Beds
This spring, we’ve focused heavily on long-term food production. We planted new fruit trees, added strawberries, and finally started planting the garden.
Fruit Trees
We put in three apple trees to start planning ahead for the day when our older orchard slows down. Our established apple trees are slowly starting to die off, so these new trees are our way of making sure future us still has apples to harvest. In addition, we’ve planted two pear trees (because my 6-year-old son absolutely loves pears, and we love them too). All the fruit trees should start producing a small amount of fruit in about three years, with bigger harvests in the years after that. The kids are already talking about how they “can’t wait” to pick our own apples and pears someday.
Strawberries
We also planted 75 strawberry plants in three different varieties. About two-thirds are everbearing strawberries, which produce fruit throughout the growing season. The remaining third are June-bearing strawberries, the kind that give you that big flush of berries in June—what most people know from U-pick strawberry farms.
Hard to see, but the strawberries are there!
We’ll pinch the blossoms off the everbearing strawberries for the first couple of months while their root systems establish, then we’ll start letting them fruit. For the June-bearing strawberries, we’ll pinch all the blossoms this year so they can focus on roots, and we should start seeing fruit next summer. The kids are already excited, asking when they’ll get to pick strawberries and dreaming aloud about “strawberry snacks” straight from the garden.
Field and Garden
Out in the field, my husband planted our two-acre plot of oats, then tilled up a 120-foot by 30-foot field behind our barn (I know, cute) where we planted high population corn (planted more closely than typical field corn). These crops are intended to become feed for our pigs, chickens, and turkeys, which feels like a big step toward growing more of our own animal feed.
Once the April flooding finally receded, we started planting the main garden. So far we’ve gotten radishes (the perfect cool-weather crop), rutabagas, parsnips, and transplanted onions in the ground. There’s still plenty more to do, but it feels good to see those first rows planted.
Don’t judge my not-too-straight row of onions too harshly please!
Spring Animal Projects: Piglets, Chicks, and Turkeys
Anyone with animals knows that adding more livestock takes planning, patience, and a little bit of risk.
Piglets
Last year, we added two gilts to our pig herd and decided—almost on a whim—that we wanted to try farrowing piglets. Of course, biology says you can’t have piglets without a boar, so my brother-in-law graciously lent us his boar for two weeks in mid-January. In return, we helped him by cutting down a tree. Homestead barter at its finest.
Mr. Eligible Bachelor (pink) as he wooed his lady.
Next, we needed a safe space for piglets to be born and grow for the first several weeks. My husband converted an old dilapidated shed into functional farrowing quarters. He shored up rotten sections, set used silo staves in cement to make a makeshift floor, and built a farrowing crate from reclaimed wood. He even added lights, knowing we’d be checking on her at all hours until she finally gave birth.
All ready for some babies!
So far, one gilt has farrowed 10 piglets, and the second is due any day. We love having little babies around the homestead—it’s noisy, busy, and pretty wonderful.
Our plan is to either sell some of the piglets as feeder pigs or raise them for pork that’s grown outside on pasture. If you’re local (SE WI) and interested in either, feel free to reach out.
Chicks
About a month ago, we also added to our poultry flock. We purchased 15 straight-run Wyandotte chicks and set them up in our basement. At the same time, I set up my incubator with 22 eggs.
My first attempt at incubating eggs was a complete failure—I didn’t hatch a single chick from 47 eggs. Lesson learned: the orientation of the eggs in the incubator matters. They can’t be placed upright in egg cartons; they need to lie horizontally or they simply won’t develop.
This time, with the eggs properly positioned, 10 chicks hatched and 9 survived. That gives us 24 new chicks total. In theory, about half will be roosters and half hens. We plan to keep one rooster as our new stud, and the rest of the roosters will eventually head to “freezer camp” and become shredded chicken for soups, broth, and casseroles (yes, I’m from Wisconsin, and we call it casserole). The kids love checking on the chicks in the brooder, counting them, and reporting back on who’s sleeping, who’s eating, and which one is “their” favorite.
Turkeys
Our turkeys have their own spring plans. Both turkey hens found separate hidden spots around the property to sit on nests—despite the small detail that there are no toms currently on the homestead. My husband decided to do a little switcheroo and swapped one turkey’s eggs for fertile chicken eggs. We’ll see if any of those end up hatching. There’s never a dull moment with birds.
Property Improvements: Upstairs Progress and Cleanup
Spring hasn’t been all about plants and animals; we’ve made progress on the house and property, too.
Upstairs Progress
For those who don’t know, we bought our house in 2023 with an unfinished upstairs. Earlier this month, carpet was finally installed in most of that space, and now we’re down to finishing touches like closet doors and furniture. The last third of the upstairs still needs to be completed, and we’re planning to add a bathroom upstairs so we don’t have to navigate steep stairs in the middle of the night.
Outside Cleanup
Outside, my husband has been on a mission to clean up the property again, hauling away loads of scrap metal. The plan for this summer is to shore up one of the existing buildings so we can use it as temporary cover for our equipment while we demolish old structures and replace them with something more functional.
It’s a lot—but it’s the good kind of work.
Spring on a homestead is always busy, but seeing these projects come together—fruit trees in the ground, piglets in the barn, chicks in the brooder, and an upstairs that finally feels like it’s becoming livable—makes all the mud, mess, and chaos feel worth it.
It’s one more season of growing food, raising kids alongside all this work, and slowly building the kind of place we want to call home.
What spring projects are you working on around your home or homestead right now—plants, animals, or house upgrades?
If this gave you ideas—or just made you feel less alone in the spring chaos—tap like and share it with a friend who’s also growing, raising, or rebuilding something this season.
This is a shorter post this week, but it feels like a big one.
We have piglets.
On Monday afternoon, our first gilt farrowed 10 piglets (and one stillborn), and it was our first time experiencing pig farrowing firsthand. One minute we were checking on her like we had so many times before, and the next we were in the middle of something real and messy and alive. There’s no easing into it when it starts—you go from waiting to catching babies in what feels like a breath.
At one point, the farrowing process stalled, which raised our anxiety pretty quickly. From what we’ve learned, pauses can happen during farrowing, but in the moment it’s hard to know when to wait and when to step in. We hovered, second-guessed ourselves, and tried to stay calm. In the end, she worked through it on her own, which was both a relief and a reminder that animals often know exactly what to do if we give them space.
Once the piglets were here, things shifted into action mode. We cleaned them off, making sure each one was breathing well and able to stay warm. My brother-in-law walked us through administering oxytocin so she could relax and start nursing. Watching those piglets root and latch felt like a turning point—less “are we going to be okay?” and more “okay, this is working.”
Momma and babies as they attached for the first time.
We stayed with her for the first couple of hours, keeping a close eye out so no piglets were accidentally crushed. One thing we learned quickly is how important it is to watch the sow’s movements closely, especially when she shifts or lays down. It’s a strange balance of awe and vigilance. Every small movement feels important. Every squeal makes you look twice—and resist the urge to intervene to prevent piglet crushing.
This is the part of raising animals, and growing food, that doesn’t always make it into the highlight reel. It’s messy, a little nerve-wracking, and very real. But it’s also where the learning happens: in the doing, in the watching, and in showing up before you feel fully ready.
And maybe that’s the overlap I keep noticing lately—between raising animals and raising kids. You prepare as much as you can, gather advice, set things up the “right” way… and then you step back and let life unfold, staying close enough to help but far enough away to let growth happen.
Right now, the piglets are tucked in close to momma, and we’re checking on them more often than we probably need to. It feels a little like bringing home a newborn again—equal parts wonder, worry, and watching something new take its first steps in the world.
Growing food, raising kids, building community… sometimes all three show up at once, in a farrowing pen on a Monday afternoon.
Have you ever been present for an animal birth on your farm? What surprised you most?
If this little farrowing story made you smile (or taught you something), please like and share with fellow homesteaders!
Practical Homesteading 