Here Piggy Piggy

Springtime is for rebirth. Bulbs begin to emerge, fruit buds swell, my favorite time of year. As the days grow longer, I spend more time slogging around the muddy property with my two very dirty labradors in tow. I stop to marvel at plum tree blooms starting to open, soft yellow daffodils peeking through the muck, rhubarb, hellebore, large leaf lupine, trilliums, regenerating after the long dark winter. The chickens and ducks start laying again and begin their broody ways. Hormones rage, while roosters and drakes attack everything that moves. Draco, our large Muscovie Duck showing off his lovely plumage to the wrong gal. Albuquerque the Turkey is simply not impressed.

Spring is also kidding, calving & farrowing season on small farms. Pudgy piglets, fluffy lambs, tiny goat kids, bundles of bouncing farm babes. I love visiting local farms this time of year, fascinated by the natural ways that animal motherly instincts kick in. Some day I will be brave enough to breed an animal myself and experience the full life cycle on this small sustainable farming journey.

Despite large confinement operations ruling our modern food supply, a good number of spring animals are born into small farms. Where they are loved and cared for the duration of their lives. Some live as beloved pets, others go on as producers for milk, fiber, loved by youth, auctioned through 4H…AND yes some to freezer camp to feed local families. The fact is, animals are an integral part of small farm life. Raising animals for any purpose is gut wrenching, back breaking work, not for the weak of heart. The farmers who put in the time to raise them humanely, have earned my deepest respect. Animal rights advocates, I feel you, and only hope that this story will help to open a wider lense to this complex tale between farmer & eater. Advocacy is important, but until a person has experienced raising and caring for a production animal themselves, they cannot truly have a full picture view…AND SO MY STORY BEGINS…

Years in clinical diagnostics offered me a first hand look at the negative effects of a broken industrialized food supply on public health. Taking a breather after my 2nd child, I turn my focus to plants and sign up for the master gardener program. Making valuable community connections and learning all I can from other farmers & gardeners. My passion becomes narrowed to soil biology, home orchards and food soil web ecosystems. Truly the best gift I ever gave myself. But sometimes deeper knowledge makes you see things on a level you wish you hadn’t. If only I could go back to enjoying the canopy of an old fruit tree, rather than seeing only disease, blight and pests.

Five years volunteering in the program, endless plant clinics, & lugging around enormous plant manuals, I realize that I am not a master at anything. Rather more of a “master looker upper.” Most everything found through a simple Google search these days. My science brain migrates to reputable, non-anecdotal sources of course. Coupled with Co-dependent personality disorder from childhood, I become consumed with all things farmy. Friends stare blankly, as I ramble on about regenerative food systems at every gathering.

Preferring the company of animals more anyway, I try my hand at raising my own pastured meat birds. Little Cornish savages bred to eat until their legs buckle under their own weight. I find myself unable to emerge from the farm house without literally being chased down by 50 fat little white zombies hobbling toward me in mob fashion. Throwing feed as fast as I can to escape, truly stuff of nightmares. Butchering day could not come fast enough. Enjoying the satisfaction of serving free ranged meat to my family, while harvesting all that golden poop to build the clay garden. Always in learning mode, I chose to move on to a more natural, slower growing, less frightening heritage breed next time around.

In the spring, multiple science experiments happening on the farm all at once, propagation, permaculture, natural pest controls. I stare out at the empty front field, covered in meadow nap-weed longing to cultivate. The time had come to challenge myself to take the next step into large animal production. The purpose? To educate myself while rehabilitating our weed covered pastures & fill our family freezer with healthy proteins. The mere thought made me shiver. If I was to truly be a small farm advocate, livestock was a necessary step in being accepted among the ranks of “real” farmers. Husband on board, scared and excited, I begin the process of diving into everything Cow!

The homesteaders of our farm had cows on our fields over 80 years ago. I loved the idea of bringing back their heritage. One of my four brothers agrees to build me an animal shed in exchange for a small amount of cash & beef. Raised in Montana, former Eagle Scout and self taught Jack of all trades, Kevin could literally build anything. The 3 sided structure must be small enough for building code, durable to stand against large animals scratching their behinds & yes movable. The challenge, finding a dry location on our increasingly soggy marine climate property. He visits for a few days over the summer and construction begins. Grateful to have returned to diagnostic sales to help pay for this expensive little ditty. My only job, to deliver snacks and drinks to the building site, in between my neverending corporate conference calls. His girlfriend playing with my young daughter, stopping to let me know when he needs a refill on his beer cooler. Annoyed by the extra time other women always seem to have, I do as I am asked, keeping multiple balls in the air at all times. As if my life isn’t already insanely crazy. Yes I really do need therapy, if only I had the time.

My livestock research takes me to local area farms. Positioned as yet another Saturday fun farmy family outing. Too numerous to count, my middle schooler rolling his eyes, sitting slumped in the back seat. We arrive on a peninsula dairy farm. Pulling down the long dirt driveway, I notice overgrazed pastures, noxious tansy, endless broken fences and work, lots of work. I gaze at my hubby staring straight ahead trying to avoid eye contact with me. We enter the field to interact with some sweet calves, as the humongous momma cows close in. Curious creatures staring at eye level quietly chomping their cud. Intimidating in size alone, scaring the holy hell out of us. I stand shaking in my flip flops, while my hubby calmly reassures my kids. The gray haired female farmer emerges from her milking parlor and begins rapid firing, literally yelling, complex details of cow rearing at us. I had made an appointment in advance to come see her calves, explaining my gross inadequacy in livestock. She was clearly not interested in mentoring anyone. Realizing in that moment that I am not a farmer. I am a coward. We drive home in silence. Cross fencing ranging upward of 10K, I begin to panic…BUT I had promised my brother grass fed beef.

There is something very powerful about growing & raising your own food. Once you begin to share your bounty with others, it’s almost like a switch turns on. Neighbors and family begin to reach out requesting swiss chard, fresh eggs, figs.. oh those amazing succulent figs! Suddenly you’ve taken on a sense of duty, an obligation to your community. I spend countless hours working the farm, distracted from my “real” job, the one that actually pays the bills. Growing in my knowledge, studying local food systems, planting more gardens. I plunge deeper into the connections of every living thing within the complex ecosystem of the planet in which we live.

Fall approaches, I paint the new animal shed barn burnt red of course, because I must adhere to real farmer norms. Back in the day, farmers covered their barns with linseed oil which turned the wood red. Dark burgundy with white trim from our local hardware store will do just fine, taking care to match the color to our chicken coop. The kids help me knock it out in short order. I stand back in admiration. The front field starting to look like a real farm, not just another old craftsman house on empty sterile ground. I catch myself day dreaming, someday this hard pan clay field will produce food for the masses. Perhaps a community garden with space to teach children.

Months pass as I gaze upon my beautiful new fence less, red shed barn standing alone in an empty field. I begin to imagine what putting meat on the tables must feel like for our local small farmers. Eating meat is a personal choice for each of us. Often based in childhood, societal & cultural norms. Raised in Montana among hunters and ranchers, its just part of my DNA. For me, it is important that animals used for food be loved & treated humanely and able to live their best life outdoors in large spaces, regardless how long that should be. There is little money to be made in small regenerative farming. Small Farmers do it as a religion, a passion, a secret society that I desperately want to be a part of.

Early spring arrives, I stop by a local farm to pick up orders for our community co-op. My gruff farmer gal pal takes a few moments from her busy farm life to show my daughter her newly weaned piglets. I watch my daughter timid and scared of these sweet little pink sausage shaped creatures clambering all over her. I think to myself, Yes pork, why had I not thought of that before!

While the farmer proceeds to lecture my daughter on the principles of pig behavior, I take visual snapshots. Cheap metal step in posts, livestock panels. No fencing envy here. I wonder to myself, why do livestock farmers always seem so cranky, as I hurry home to tell my hubby about my plans to raise swine for our family freezer. Something I will certainly come to realize in short order. Farmers who raise meat sold within the food system require major regulatory hoops, USDA licensing, health department permitting, inspections etc. I have so much respect for those who tackle this enormous feat. A few hogs for our family freezer will be easy, no regulations needed. This I can do myself!

The next day I begin the arduous process of pounding in 50 step-in posts, taking multiple trips to my local feed store for twenty five, 16 foot long rigid hog panels. Working with the supply yard guys to load, carefully bowing one at a time into my small short bed truck. Back and forth, week after week, they begin to greet me by name. At one point even allowing me to drive the fork lift to assist in the loading process. Thinking back this may have actually been the exact moment my aching body started to show itself. I am determined to do every bit of this project myself in my effort to not burden my already exhausted first responder Hubby. I hear of a farmer friend in my peninsula female farmer group who is weaning GOS piglets for sale. Glauchester Old Spots are a heritage breed hog specific for meat production. Reaching upward of 600lbs full grown. Plenty of meat for my brother and our extended family. Here we go on my path to become a real farmer!

My daughter and I work together to capture the slippery, fast little weaners. Slipping and sliding, covering ourselves in stinky mud and poo. All the while the farmer attempts to hold back Wilma, a very angry, massively huge momma. A sweltering hot early summer day, deafened by piglet screams, we finally wrangle them into the back of my truck. Spraying down their hot little bodies with cold water and head on our way. We deliver two to another nearby farm, because that’s what real farmers do.

We finally get them home and comfy in their new perfectly painted, straw lined red shed barn. Pinching myself, I stand back with camera in hand. Taking in every moment of those adorable curly tails. We finally have real livestock on our farm! My daughter soothing them in her gentle animal whisper ways. Myself enjoying the moment, while secretly trembling in my flip flops about what lies ahead. We will have 6 months to prepare I tell myself. I let my kids name them despite my hesitation to do so. Hammy, Porkchop, Kevin Bacon… We settle on something a little more loving. Watching pink chubby piggies with curly tails frolic on fresh pasture is a beautiful sight.

My first week with the piggies is a comedy of errors. Smallish but mighty, they manage to destroy everything, ripping up the pasture turning it into muck and boulders. Digging up artifacts from days gone by, an old spoon, farm tools, an old padlock. With each find, I wonder about the Hansen family that worked these pastures before us. What were they doing when they dropped this? Wrangling cows, haying the fields, repairing fences? A few short days into my piggy project, the little devils manage to crush my foot. (Note to self don’t wear flip flops with livestock..EVER). Achy and bruised, ridiculed by farm girl peers, downplaying the pain, I forge ahead.

My perfectly painted red shed barn now stands covered in mud. Closer inspection reveals tunnels under the shed causing the heavy structure to tip. I spend countless hours limping around in my new $100 mucking boots, strategically bordering up the sides of the shed with scrap posts, boulders, pallets anything I can find to protect my beautiful and very expensive prize from the little rooting monsters.

As the weeks follow, I work tirelessly on building a piggy palace fortress. So incredibly reinforced now that I failed to notice that I can nolonger access the pasture with the tractor. I stand defeated, staring at my masterpiece, trying to figure out how to overcome yet another Epic fail. I have no choice now but to hand dig a wallow to help the little suckers cool off in the intense summer sun. Something the Kubota could have taken care of in a few quick swipes, becomes an all day back breaking ordeal. Turns out piggy’s are prone to sunburn, who knew? They need mud to cool them off and protect their sensitive skin. I spend many more days digging and transplanting Cedar saplings for shade. Only turning out to be a quick snack for these omnivores, completely chomped to bits that same afternoon. I slip into bed with Tylenol in hand, reflecting on the epic fails of my pig farmer existence.

Despite my rookie farmer challenges, these strange creatures are starting to grow on me. Realizing there is no way we can keep 600lb pigs as pets, I begin to have conversations with my family about butcher day. My son minimally interested, more focused on our companion pets, while my daughter especially growing in her affection for the farm animals. I pitch to my husband an idea to lesson the blow. Let’s adopt 2 Kune Kunes as pets for the kids, I beg. Deep down realizing this is likely more for my psyche than them. Supposedly smallish in relative pig size, we bring home the adorable little terrified bacon bits. Kept separate from the others, as any new addition most certainly results in biting, squealing, drawing blood and complete pig hiarchy chaos.

The cute little bundles grow fast and before our eyes weigh 100 plus pounds. Despite my continued efforts to reinforce the fortress, the little escape artist bust through the chicken yard chain link that borders the hog pasture. After a full day of trying to capture them before they end up in traffic, I vow to keep them well fed. Surely this strategy will help intercept their continued attempts at a fresh chicken dinner. Turns out pigs enjoy meat, much more than lettuce.

Forever the sales gal, always finding partners on my journey, I make arrangements with a new farm to table restaurant for biweekly produce. As our farm scraps are mere pittance for these enormous creatures. The owner and I become fast friends as we work together to source local farm fresh ingredients to his restaurant. We join forces doing public speaking on the importance of supporting small sustainable farms. Having finally found my people, I stand proud to introduce myself as a regenerative Hog Farmer. We spend the summer in a symbiotic relationship with his Chefs. The kids and I dropping off fresh picked fruit in exchange for four 30lb bins of scraps twice a week. Together my son and I toss the bins over the fence, while we watch in awe as these snorting ravenous creatures explode in size right before our very eyes. My busy captain hubby and chef extraordinaire rarely making an appearance, drops by to marvel on how he can already smell the pot roasts filling the air.

It doesn’t take long before I begin to understand the personalities of my little porky friends. Not immediately realizing that I am low man on their private herd hierarchy. As food production hogs, I chose not to spay as their time is limited on our farm. Another epic fail, I quickly begin to feel the full effects of an intact crotchety female in heat every 21 days when her needs are not met. No longer the sweet little porky baby, now a squeeling torpedo locked and ready to kill me. Nothing more frightening than a 200lb hog charging at you full speed. How on earth did I go from a corporate sales professional to a mud soaked crazy lady.

Waddles, affectionately named after the dangly appendages beneath her snout, begins pushing and shoving me in regularity, knocking me off my feet. I realize very quickly that I am no longer in charge. Under farmy friends advice, Bamboo stick in hand, a light tap on the snout. Within seconds I suddenly become leader of the pack once again. Turns out the snout is a very sensitive body part of a pig. Convincing myself that my piggies really do love me, just as long as their bellies are full. My eyes gaze over to the wallow, visualizing my mud covered limp body laying faced down in the hot sun. Grabbing my bamboo stick, I feel empowered to scratch their bellies, whispering sweet nothings to my porky pals. Please don’t kill me today.

Despite my bruises, I become attached to their quirkiness. Loving their vocal response to my hourly visits with orchard windfalls of fresh figs, apples, a rainbow array of fresh garden produce. They continue to bond to me and grow into beautiful large specimens. My little piggy friends finding more ways to dig under fences, tearing up my beautiful red shed barn. Easier to live in denial than deal with hot wiring everything. I add 2 bags of extra hog feed per week to the menu and daily soccer ball with my kids for enrichment exercise. Yes pigs enjoy a good ball game. All other animals are literally ignored as these massive hot dogs take over our lives. All consuming, I truly love these animals with my deepest self.

I find myself thinking about all things pig every hour of every day. Dragging hose in the hot sun, filling waterers multiple times per day, replenishing food, fixing damaged fencing, filling wallows, shoveling endless tootsie roll poop, refreshing straw bedding, deworming, literally a never ending flurry of pig potpourri. I shutter to think about what all of this is costing us in time & resources. Surely the most expensive pork chops in the history of small farming.

As the late Summer days grow hotter, and the lush pasture turns to hard pan clay. I realize why these animals are meant to forage among orchards and forests. Their sensitive pink skin burns easily as they roll in wet mud to stay cool. Despite acres of forest out back, I’m too exhausted to put in more fencing and start this brutal process over…AND how on earth would I ever get them moved? I spend the remaining summer days keeping them as comfortable as possible. Slathering them in sunscreen, spiking waterers with electrolytes, setting sprinklers, foraging for more food waste and digging deeper wallows. You have not lived until you experience watching pigs run through the sprinkler on a hot summer day!

As the crispness of fall fills the air and the dreaded day draws near, I start to tell myself that bacon is overrated. I know deep down that it is not possible to continue to keep up this pace while feeding over 2400lbs of swine. Nor will I be able to keep them contained, veterinary care, trimming 16 hooves and all the other tasks that go along with caring for these animals day to day. The ship has clearly sailed on spaying these beasts. Reminding myself every minute that these massive animals are bred for food production, not pets. Anyone who thinks otherwise has clearly never been through this. I must remain focused, as I begin the process of detaching myself.

I finish them on buckets of fallen apples & pears from our orchard. Feels so good to finally have a no waste farm model. Realizing that we humans may starve to death in the process, the silhouette of my dead, mud soaked body flashes in my mind once again. My porky friends come running, squealing in delight as they see me approach, gobbling up any apple maggot still left among the windfalls. Integrated pest management in the finest sense, my fellow master gardeners would be so proud.

After numerous cancellations, the mobile butcher finally arrives. I remove the hog panels to allow him to drive his truck to the red shed barn and out of sight. No one needs pesky neighbors causing a self righteous raucous. I have all I can handle right now. I hand him cash, quickly retreating to the house to blast music & bury my head. I keep my mind focused, in a few weeks after hung and quartered, we will have a full freezer of pork for the winter to feed our family.

I emerge alone from the house hours later. Kids strategically sent away with friends for the day. As I toss feed to the chickens, gazing upon the empty red shed barn, the stillness is suffocating. Pigs are highly intelligent friendly and full of personality. I feel a deep sense of remorse. I enter the pig pasture gathering waterers and gazing around for signs. Nothing left but a clean piggy bathroom. Contrary to common belief, Pigs are one of the few exceptionally clean farm animals, depositing waste in the same place, far away from their living quarters. I look out at the empty field expecting to see them come running, as I fall to the ground in tears. Quickly collecting myself before anyone sees me, I head over to check in on the Kune Kunes in their temporary housing. Despite having grown as a human in my understanding, I don’t feel like a real farmer. I feel like a failure. The never ending daily commitment for so many months, production animals become a part of your soul. I will miss my hourly visits with my muddy, squealing escape artist friends.

Half a year passes, our busy lives march on as the memories of raising the GOS hogs fades. Feeling a sense of pride as Holidays are celebrated with perfectly glazed ham & roasts from healthy pastured meat I raised all by myself. Grateful for that amazing cook who lives in our household, I suddenly feel empowered to go through it for one more season. Confident that somehow I will grow tougher. With the overwintered Kunes reaching 200 plus pounds and challenging as ever, I decide to take on two more GOS hogs with the plan to butcher all four by fall. By now I know what’s coming, as I brace myself for the inevitable.

With daily attention and management, I get smarter and stronger in my processes. The hogs become a great addition to our youth camps. A diversion for me, as I spend less & less time with them leading up to that dreaded day. Somehow referring to them as hogs now, rather than pigs helps keep my mind in perspective. I learn to cope, as I refrain from calling them by name. “Here piggy piggy” works just fine. I feel so much pride as I listen to my kids tell their peers fun pig facts, while teaching the importance of livestock on a small farm. The next generation of environmental stewards, I have achieved the most important unintended goal.

Processing day is harder this time around and doesn’t go as smoothly with the mobile fella. My hubby is asked to assist. Manly in every way, except lacking in natural hunter mentality. Traumatized by the experience, we decide from that day forward to leave the task to the experienced real farmers. We still eat meat, but now we intentionally chose to purchase from local small farms who raise their animals humanely, in contrast to large industrial confinement operations. It takes a little planning ahead and a chunk of money every spring, but I now have an intimate understanding of how my choices impact the larger sustainable picture.

Time marches on as we reflect on 18 years living on the homestead, animals and pets come and go, each one leaving a mark on our hearts. The red shed barn now housing Nigerian dwarf goats. My daughters 4H milk goat still waiting out the pandemic to hopefully one day debute at the county fair. Our pig pasture bounces back more beautiful than ever with not a trace of noxious weeds to be found. The garden soil structure begins to improve, as their composted contribution lives on. I begin to think about how to better utilize these animals for teaching youth and am led to pig rescue. With the carefully thought out decision to adopt American Minipigs bred as pets to help teach youth. A cross breed of Juliana and Potbelly from an unintended litter. Realizing that these slow growing munchkins, won’t truly ever stay mini. They will live outside among the other farm animals, rooting around as nature intended. Figburt & Manny become furry family members living out their best lives educating children about the value of precious pig poop….My brain is at rest & my soul at peace.

🐷 Did you know? There are more microbes in a tablespoon of healthy soil, than there are people on earth. Think about that for a minute. How does that happen? Livestock are necessary for healthy regenerative ecosystems, carbon sequestration, soil biology teeming with life. This delicate symbiotic relationship requires large hoofed animals, eating forage and depositing their waste on our pastures and rangelands. We are all interconnected with every living thing & in the food that we chose. Our global cultures eat animal proteins, always have and always will. No amount of animal rights advocacy to the contrary will ever change that. Respecting an individuals choice will always be our mantra, but if you do chose to eat meat, why not support small farmers who raise animals humanely?

We can all vote with our dollars by reducing the amount of meat we purchase from big industrialized supply chain systems. Support small business, build local economies and help reduce our carbon footprint by sourcing from a local small regenerative farmer near you! Thank you for following along & Happy Spring Friends! 🥬 👩‍🌾 🌸

Resources: https://eatlocalfirst.org, Righteous Porkchop: Finding a Life and Good Food Beyond Factory Farms & Defending Beef: The Case for Sustainable Meat by Nicolette Niman, Sacred Cow: The Case for (Better) Meat, by Diana Rodgers