Practical Homesteading

Category: Community

  • Why the Library Is One of Our Favorite Places (And Not Just for Books)

    Why the Library Is One of Our Favorite Places (And Not Just for Books)

    When I think about places that quietly shape our family life, the library is near the top of the list. It’s easy to overlook—a brick building on a corner, a place you “mean to visit more often.” But for us, it’s one of the sweetest gifts our community offers.

    It’s where we go to learn, to rest, to play, and to remember that we’re part of something bigger than our own four walls.

    More Than Shelves of Books

    On the surface, the library is about shelves: picture books, novels, cookbooks, gardening guides, and everything in between. But when you look a little closer, you realize it’s about access and abundance.

    With one library card, you can:

    • Bring home stacks of books without worrying about the price tag.
    • Try new authors and topics without committing to buying anything.
    • Follow curiosities—history, homesteading, parenting, faith, crafts—one checkout at a time.

    For families trying to live simply and steward resources well, that kind of shared abundance is a gift. For our family, the local library fits us beautifully.

    Movies, Equipment, and Children’s Toys

    Another perk of my local library (and many others) is that they offer free or very low‑cost movie rentals. They carry everything from new releases to classics to some of the best movies ever made.

    Many libraries also lend out equipment and games. At ours, we’ve:

    • Borrowed board games for family game nights.
    • Checked out a portable Bluetooth speaker I wanted to test before buying one.

    Depending on your library, you might also find:

    • Simple tools like stud finders or power meters.
    • Tech items such as hotspots, tablets, laptops, or projectors.
    • Craft or STEM kits for kids.
    • Puzzles or outdoor yard games.

    All of these can be tried without a big upfront cost, which is a huge help when you’re living on a budget or just don’t want to own everything you use occasionally.

    In addition, my children absolutely love to go to the children’s section and either play computer games (my 6‑year‑old son adores a mechanics game where he designs systems that make things work and solve problems), or play with the wooden train set and other toys we don’t have at home.

    Passes, Perks, and Everyday Adventures

    One of my favorite “hidden” features of our local library is how it opens doors around town without adding to our budget.

    Depending on where you live, your library might offer:

    • Passes to local pools and attractions you can borrow like books.
    • Discounts on souvenirs or gift shop items at partner museums or zoos.
    • Free or reduced parking when you visit certain places with a library‑issued pass.

    These little perks turn “maybe someday” outings into real possibilities. Before we buy tickets or plan a special day, we’ve learned to ask: “Does the library have a pass or a partnership for this?” Sometimes the answer is yes—and the savings are substantial.

    Lego Days, Summer Programs, and a Monthly Book Club

    Our library isn’t just about quiet reading; it’s also about community and play.

    A few favorites in our area are:

    • Lego days. Tables covered in bricks, kids of all ages building side by side, imaginations running wild. It’s simple, noisy, and wonderfully free. We walk in with empty hands and walk out with tired, happy kids and a few new book titles to explore.
    • Summer reading program, with special library events organized around a central theme. This year at my local library, they’re celebrating America’s 250th birthday with events like “Party Like It’s 1776” and “Eat Like It’s 1776,” where my son had an absolute blast making homemade butter in a plastic cup with a lid. There are prizes for meeting reading goals (free ice cream, tickets to local attractions, trinkets), and there’s even a program for the adults.
    • A monthly book club. Adults (and sometimes older teens) gather to talk about a book they’ve all read—sharing perspectives, hearing different viewpoints, and making connections across ages and backgrounds. It’s an easy way to keep reading stretching us, not just entertaining us.

    These aren’t just events; they’re regular rhythms that help us feel anchored in our community. Not every library will have these exact events, but many have their own version—craft days, story times, clubs, or seasonal celebrations.

    How the Library Supports Simple Living and Homesteading

    For those of us who garden, homestead, or love rural life, the library can quietly support that, too.

    You might find:

    • Gardening books that help you plan your beds or troubleshoot pests.
    • Cookbooks and preserving guides that walk through canning, freezing, and fermenting.
    • DIY and skills guides—sewing, carpentry, herbal remedies, simple repairs.

    Instead of buying every book you’re curious about, you can borrow, learn, and then decide which ones you truly want to own. It keeps clutter and costs down while still feeding your brain and your skills.

    Teaching Kids to Love Shared Spaces

    The library is also a gentle way to teach kids that some things belong to all of us.

    Every visit is a chance to practice:

    • Using quiet voices when needed.
    • Walking even when they’re excited.
    • Putting books and toys back where they belong.
    • Being considerate of other kids and adults who are sharing the space.

    We can explain that the books, bricks, passes, and programs don’t live at our house—they’re part of a shared resource that we help care for. When we’re done enjoying them, we send them back so someone else can enjoy them too. It’s a small but meaningful way to plant seeds of community‑mindedness and respect.

    Making the Library Part of Your Family Rhythm

    You don’t have to turn the library into a big production. Sometimes the best approach is simple and steady.

    Ideas to try:

    • A weekly “library day” with a special snack afterward.
    • Letting each child choose a set number of books—one purely for fun, one about something they’re curious about.
    • Checking the library calendar at the start of each month and circling Lego days, book clubs, and seasonal events.

    Over time, these small routines add up. The library becomes not just a place you visit, but a regular part of your family’s story.

    A Small Thank‑You to the People Behind the Desk

    Behind all the books and programs are real people: librarians and staff who know the collection, plan events, and quietly help families and individuals find what they need.

    They:

    • Recommend titles based on a few hesitant questions.
    • Register kids for Lego days and summer reading programs.
    • Help track down that one book that’s “about trees” or “had a blue cover.”

    They keep the whole operation running, often with limited budgets and a lot of heart.

    If you’re reading this and love your library too, maybe this can be a gentle nudge: the next time you’re there, consider saying a simple “thank you” to the person who helped you—or sending a short note of appreciation.

    If your family uses the library, I’d love to hear: what’s one program, perk, or little ritual that makes it special for you?

    If this post gave you new ideas or reminded you how much your own library offers, would you share it with a friend or fellow parent? Your shares and comments help these stories reach more families—and more librarians who deserve a thank you.”

    Read Next: Simple Summer Fun that Doesn’t Break the Budget

  • Simple Summer Fun That Doesn’t Break the Budget

    Simple Summer Fun That Doesn’t Break the Budget

    Summer goes fast, especially with kids. The kids are off school, the days are long, and the temptation to spend big on activities is everywhere. Big trips can be wonderful, but they’re not the only way to give kids a great summer. Some of the best memories don’t require plane tickets, pricey passes, or a suitcase—just a little creativity, some local resources, and a willingness to enjoy what you already have.

    Here are a few ways to save money while still having a genuinely fun summer with your kids.

    Turn Your Yard Into “Casa de Backyarda”

    You don’t need a fancy inflatable water park to make the backyard magical. Sometimes all it takes is a hose and a simple sprinkler.

    In our house, we call it “Casa de Backyarda.” When the weather heats up, we:

    • Set up a basic sprinkler in the yard.
    • Add a few extras—a plastic kiddie pool, buckets, or cups for pouring water.
    • Let the kids run, jump, and invent their own games.

    Pair it with popsicles, bubbles, a simple little picnic on a blanket, or a “no shoes” rule, and suddenly you’ve got a full afternoon of fun for the cost of water and whatever you already own. It’s low-stress, low-prep, and high joy.

    Make the Most of Your Local Library

    Your local library can be a quiet powerhouse for summer fun and savings. Many libraries offer far more than books and story time.

    Depending on your library system, you may find:

    • Passes you can borrow for local pools, museums, zoos, and other attractions.
    • Discounts on souvenirs or gift shop purchases at partner locations.
    • Free or reduced parking when you visit certain spots with a library‑issued pass.
    • Summer reading programs with small rewards, events, and special activity days.
    • Free equipment rentals (such as Bluetooth speakers) which really amp up the vibe of any activity.

    Not every library has every perk, but it’s worth checking what your local system offers—you might be surprised. A simple habit: before you buy tickets or plan an outing, check what your library offers. Sometimes all it takes is a library card and a bit of planning ahead to turn a “maybe too expensive” activity into something doable.

    Camping as a Main Summer Trip

    You don’t have to fly across the country to have a memorable family vacation. A simple camping trip can be both an adventure and a major cost saver.

    When camping is your main trip for the summer, you often get to:

    • Save on lodging. Campsites are usually much cheaper than hotels or rentals.
    • Spend more time outdoors—hiking, swimming, stargazing, cooking over a fire.
    • Build traditions around campfire stories, card games, and simple meals.

    Camping can be as rustic or “soft” as your family needs—anything from tent camping at a state park to renting a small cabin or camper. Either way, the focus shifts from expensive attractions to shared experiences: setting up camp together, exploring trails, and unplugging a bit from screens.

    Lean Into “Small Fun” That Adds Up

    Kids often remember the small, repeated joys more than the one big, expensive outing. A few “small fun” ideas that don’t cost much:

    • Weekly library visits with a special snack afterward.
    • Neighborhood walks or bike rides with a stop at a playground.
    • Walking a storybook trail at a local park.
    • Firefly chasing in the backyard.
    • Living room movie nights with blankets and popcorn.
    • Simple crafts using what you already have—chalk, cardboard, paints.

    You don’t have to fill every day with something elaborate. A few steady, simple traditions can carry a lot of weight over a whole summer.

    A Gentle Reminder for Summer Parents

    It’s easy to feel pressure to do “everything” in the summer—big trips, fancy outings, perfect memories. But your kids don’t need perfection. They need you, some time, and a few simple experiences to hang onto.

    A sprinkler in the yard. A borrowed library pass. A weekend camping trip instead of a hotel. A stack of books and a bowl of popcorn. Those can be enough.

    If you have a favorite low‑cost summer tradition, I’d love to hear: what’s one simple thing your family does every year that makes summer feel special without stretching the budget?

    If this post gave you a few ideas or reminded you of the simple things you already love, would you share it with another parent or caregiver? Your shares and comments help these budget friendly ideas reach families who might need them.

    Read Next: Where the Red Fern Grows and the Sprinkler Flows

  • How to Be Quietly Patriotic This Fourth of July

    How to Be Quietly Patriotic This Fourth of July

    Every Fourth of July, there’s a lot of noise—fireworks, parades, red‑white‑and‑blue everything. I don’t begrudge any of it.  In fact, I embrace all of it, and these events are some of my favorite of the summer. But my own patriotism tends to show up in quieter ways, especially as we head toward America’s 250th birthday in 2026.

    This season isn’t just about looking up at the sky. It’s about looking back with gratitude, looking around with clear eyes, and asking how we can love this place well in the small, ordinary days we’ve been given.

    Remembering the People Who Got Us Here

    When I think about America 250, my mind goes first to gratitude—for the people who made it possible for me to be here at all.

    My own ancestors left Germany in the mid‑1800s, walking away from upheaval and uncertainty. They traded familiar villages and language for the unknowns of an ocean crossing and a new country. I think about what it must have taken for them to move entire families and villages to a new country. I picture them on crowded docks, clutching children and trunks.  In their arms they carried everything they owned in the world, placing a fragile hope in a place they had never seen.

    They came because they believed there might be room here to build a life, raise families, worship freely, work hard, and build a legacy. That courage—and the opportunities they found—is a gift I didn’t earn but get to receive. Remembering that fills me with humility and gratitude, not guilt.

    Learning Our History as an Act of Love

    When we love a person, we usually want to know their whole story—the good, the hard, the in‑between. I think loving a country can be similar.

    Quiet patriotism, for me, means:

    • Celebrating the ideals that shaped this place—liberty, self‑government, freedom of speech and assembly.
    • Learning more about the people who helped build those ideals into reality: farmers and factory workers, teachers and soldiers, abolitionists and suffragists, civil rights leaders and small‑town organizers.
    • Making room in my understanding for stories that aren’t just like mine, so I can better appreciate how wide and complicated “we the people” really is.

    For me, learning the harder parts of our history doesn’t lessen my love for this country; it deepens it. This isn’t about dwelling on what’s wrong. It’s about loving our country enough to know it deeply, the way you’d want to really know a friend or a spouse. The more I learn, the more amazed I am by the resilience, creativity, and everyday goodness woven through our history.

    Noticing the “Good” Right Where We Live

    It’s easy to talk about “America” in big, abstract terms. But most of the reasons I love this country show up in small, local ways:

    • The freedom to plant a garden on a little patch of ground and teach my child our core values.
    • The mix of people in even a small town—different backgrounds, different stories—finding ways to live side by side.
    • The libraries, parks, and back roads that quietly serve as the backdrop of our lives.
    • The ability to speak, write, and vote without asking permission, even when we disagree with our leaders.

    These are not small things. They’re daily gifts my ancestors hoped for and that many people in the world still long for. Part of being patriotic, to me, is pausing long enough to notice and appreciate them.

    Everyday Acts That Feel Patriotic

    Fireworks last only a few minutes. The rest of the year, love of country looks much more ordinary.

    In my own life, quiet patriotism shows up when I:

    • Tend our little homestead with care—paying attention to soil and water, making efficient use of everything we have, remembering that stewardship is part of gratitude.
    • Try to be a steady wife, mom, daughter, and friend—keeping promises, apologizing when I’m wrong, showing up as my whole self even when no one is watching.
    • Raise a child who understands both the gifts and responsibilities of living here: that others fought, marched, worked, and invented so we could enjoy things we now call “normal.”
    • Show up for neighbors—bringing casseroles, clearing brush, watching kids—because strong communities are one of the best defenses against despair and division.

    Those things may never be described as patriotic in a speech. But they are my way of saying, “I’m grateful to be here, and I want to leave this place a little better than I found it.”

    Civic Habits That Keep Hope Alive

    Beyond our own homes and neighborhoods, there are also quiet ways to care for the wider country we share.

    Love of country isn’t only a feeling; it’s also a set of habits that keep a free society going. That can sound intimidating, but it often looks quite simple:

    • Voting, even in the “small” elections (because that’s where the decisions that most affect our lives are anyway), and explaining to our kids why it matters.
    • Paying attention to what’s happening in our town, not just on national headlines.
    • Writing or calling leaders respectfully when something matters deeply to us.
    • Practicing kindness and curiosity toward people who see things differently, remembering we share more than we think.

    These habits aren’t a burden; they’re privileges. They are some of the ways we get to participate in the experiment our founders started and that many generations in between have since tried to improve.

    Letting the Fourth Be Joyful and Honest

    I don’t want a Fourth of July that’s only serious and heavy. I want room for joy too:

    • For kids waving flags at small‑town parades.
    • For families gathering around grills and picnic tables.
    • For fireworks reflected in ponds and rivers and wide‑open fields.

    At the same time, I don’t want a Fourth that’s only sentimental. I want a celebration that honors the good, acknowledges the hard, and leans toward hope.

    It’s possible to be deeply grateful for America’s gifts and still honest about its flaws. In fact, I think that combination—gratitude plus honesty—is one of the most patriotic stances we can take.

    A Gentle Invitation for America 250

    As we move toward America’s 250th birthday, you don’t have to overhaul your life to “be patriotic.” You might simply:

    • Learn one new story from America’s past that you didn’t know before—maybe from a perspective different from your own.
    • Take a moment on the Fourth to name out loud a few things you genuinely love about this country.
    • Thank someone in your life who quietly embodies the best of what you hope America can be.
    • Choose one small civic habit—registering to vote, attending a local meeting, supporting a local farm or business—and commit to it as an act of gratitude.

    My ancestors crossed an ocean so I could live here. My way of honoring that isn’t loud or flashy. It’s to keep learning, keep noticing the good, keep tending my little corner, and keep believing that our shared story can keep bending toward something truer and kinder.

    Feature Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

    If you’re willing to share, I’d love to hear: what’s one thing you’re genuinely grateful for about this country—and one small way you’d like to pass that gift on to the next generation?

    If this resonated with you, would you pass it along to a friend or family member who loves this country in a quieter way too? Your shares and comments help these reflections find the people who might need them.

    Read Next: The Heart of Knowles: Fourth of July Traditions

  • June Dairy Month Recap: Stories from the Farmyard

    June Dairy Month Recap: Stories from the Farmyard

    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.

    The Old New Holland Baler and a Haying Legacy

    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.

    Learning to Stop Hiding My Farm Roots

    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.

    Naming the Hidden Weight Farmers Carry

    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.

    June Dairy Month from the Farmyard Side

    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.

    A Barn Roof, a Helping Hand, and a Farm Friendship

    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.

    Feature Photo by GG LeMere on Unsplash

    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.

    Read Next: Growing Up on a Wisconsin Dairy Farm: Reflections for June Dairy Month

  • How Two Neighboring Farmers Became Lifelong Friends

    How Two Neighboring Farmers Became Lifelong Friends

    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.

    Photo by Maksym Ivashchenko on Unsplash

    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?

  • How to Truly Celebrate Farmers During June Dairy Month

    How to Truly Celebrate Farmers During June Dairy Month

    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.

    Dairy cow in the field during June Dairy Month, cared for by farmers working long days.
    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.

    Feature Photo by Screenroad on Unsplash

    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?

    Read Next: Farmer Mental Health: The Hidden Toll of Bigger Farms and Bigger Debt

  • Farmer Mental Health: The Hidden Toll of Bigger Farms and Bigger Debt

    Farmer Mental Health: The Hidden Toll of Bigger Farms and Bigger Debt

    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.

    Feature Photo by John-Mark Strange on Unsplash

    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.”

    Read Next: Buying Meat from a Farmer: A Complete Guide to Bulk Meat, Freezers, and Butchers

  • Growing Up on a Farm: How I Learned to Appreciate My Dairy Roots

    Growing Up on a Farm: How I Learned to Appreciate My Dairy Roots

    “I grew up on a farm.”

    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:

    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.

    Read Next: Buying Meat from a Farmer: A Complete Guide to Bulk Meat, Freezers, and Butchers

  • Spring Homestead Projects: Fruit Trees, Piglets, and Property Improvements

    Spring Homestead Projects: Fruit Trees, Piglets, and Property Improvements

    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.

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  • One Year of Homesteading Stories: Thank You for Being Here

    This is a little bonus post because today marks one year since I started this blog.

    One year ago today, I hit publish on my very first blog post: a piece called “Sourdough Bread,” a humorous take on how something as simple as baking bread can be both maddeningly difficult and deeply rewarding all at once. It felt like the perfect metaphor for the kind of life I wanted to write about—messy, slow, sometimes sticky, but full of small wins that make the effort worth it.

    Since then, this little corner of the internet has branched out in all sorts of directions. I’ve shared anecdotes from our homestead and family life, how-tos, reflections, and everything in between, all delivered in my own quirky, hopefully humorous voice. Some posts have been practical, some have been tender, and some have just been me trying to make sense of the chaos of growing food, raising kids, and building community. One of my poems, “If You Buy Your Wife a Chicken,” even made it into GRIT Magazine—something I didn’t think was possible when I started.

    What has surprised me most, though, are the connections that have grown beyond the screen. Friends have mentioned a post at the park or over coffee, neighbors have told me they tried a recipe or related to a story about the kids, and people I barely knew have said, “Hey, I read your blog.” Those little in-person moments have made this space feel less abstract and more like part of my real, everyday community.

    What you may not know is that, before I started writing here, I had mostly convinced myself that my voice didn’t really matter—that what I noticed or felt wasn’t worth saying out loud. Hitting “publish” that first time felt like stepping out of a very familiar pattern of staying quiet. Your encouragement over this past year hasn’t just kept the blog going; it’s helped me find my footing again and rediscover the things that have always brought me joy, like writing and gardening.

    To everyone who has taken the time to read a post, click like, leave a comment, or hit ‘subscribe’ over this past year: thank you. Truly. Every view, every “like,” every “I’ve been there too” in the comments has meant more to me than I can put into words. You’ve given this aspiring writer the affirmation that maybe, just maybe, I can do this.

    It means so much that you’ve let me show up in your inbox or feed with stories about bread that refuses to rise, kids who say the most unexpected things, garden experiments that sometimes flop, and the small moments that make it all feel worthwhile. I’m also deeply grateful for your patience when life got hectic and I took a hiatus, and for the way you still showed up as I found my way back to a more consistent rhythm.

    I’m so thankful for each of you who has stuck around, cheered me on, and made this space feel less like I’m talking into the void and more like a real community gathered around a virtual kitchen table.

    Here’s to year one of this blog—and to whatever year two brings. I can’t wait to keep writing, experimenting, and sharing the journey with you. Thank you, from the bottom of my quirky, homesteading, bread-obsessed heart, for being here.

    If you’ve been reading along this year, I’d love to know: what post or topic has stuck with you the most, or what would you like to see more of in year two?

    If this blog has encouraged you, made you laugh, or given you a helpful idea this year, would you take a moment to like, comment, or share this post with a friend who might enjoy it too?

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