Bonita had a big single buckling! He's huge! As tall as Friday and in great shape. He's eating well, running about, and looking healthy as any goat farmer can ask! He's got the size of the Alpine breed and the gentleness and tiny ears of the LaMancha. He'll go to a new home soon as he is sold (yours for $65, but while he is here he needs a name. What do you think I should call this monkey? Best name gets a postcard mailed with his illustration on it!
P.S. Tiffany who posted at 10AM on May 3rd, you won the fox. Email me for mailing info, please?
Welcome new readers and old friends, I often post this: Come in, Sit Down, which means introduce yourself here on the blog by your name and location, and maybe share a little more about yourself as far as homesteading dreams or goals are? If you don't feel comfortable giving your name online, you could always just leave your location and perhaps a suggestion for the blog. It's a way for me to see who I am writing to and say hello. It makes the place a little more friendly on this side, as you know so much about me, but I know so little about you. A simple introduction makes it feel like I'm talking with a group rather than writing to the sky. If you never comment this post is an exception worth making. You might even make a friend or two...
It's also a way for you guys out there to connect with other folks with like interests. If you're sitting in your Sausalito apartment dreaming of mini angus bloodlines and rototillers you might just see another name from Sausalito a few comments down dreaming about coop plans and explaining his container gardens.... and before you know if you've made a farming friend. The internet is great—you'll never hear me say otherwise—but it keeps us inside a little too much. It should be a tool to network and learn from, not a replacement for three dimensional conversations and relationships. (I am talking for myself right now as much as anyone) and by saying hello here you might just spark book clubs and dinner potlucks, meetups and work parties, farm visits and advice, or just someone to grab coffee with in the Philadelphia Barnes & Noble and pour over the new issue of Hobby Farms together while chatting about why your husbands think chickens are ridiculous.
So come on inside, pull up a chair, and say hello.
Friday cut her dewclaw pad running around the farm like a fox on fire. She didn't even notice it, not until she came inside the farm house after morning chores. Little red paw prints coated the floor from the blood running off the fresh cut. I am used to this from Gibson, who in six years has cut his paw twice and once had it split open from a slammed tailgate. Paw pads are tough, heal well, and don't need much fuss for a small cut but this needed attention. Fri never had to be forced to be aided that way and so I wasn't sure how she would take it. It went as well as expected.
The trust of border collies amazes me. She let me scoop her up in my arms (she is only 40lbs) and carry her into the bathroom. Fear of the pain and the instinct to clean and care for her own wound was strong, but she let me hold her in place while I cut away the muddy and bloody feathering on her front leg, wash it with warm soapy water, rinse out the cut with a sterile syringe (without the needle, so it was a mini water gun) and apply anti-biotic cream, bandages, and vet wrap. I did it the way the vet taught me from visits with Gibson. I could tell she didn't need stitches but she did need to keep it clean. She was shaking, she was hurt. She stayed with me and let me take care of her.
Gibson and Friday are invaluable here. Gibson has become an amazing worker with the livestock. If I walk outside and see less then fourteen sheep, all I need to do is look at that dog and point up the road to the neighbor's pasture. Gibson is off like buckshot, Friday trails behind him (more excited to run beside her hero than herd sheep), and he gets them back with a beautiful, natural outrun. He lays down on a dime. He cares more about pleasing me than chasing stock. Friday, she's another story. And now with a badass armband accessory I think her own origin story is just getting more punk rock. She'll start proper herding training with Jim McRae in a few weeks, I hope. If he can fit us in, he is after all a sheep shearer and this is the busy season.
In other good news, I planted over 108 kale, lettuce, and spinach plants in the kailyard. The started plants all came from the good people at Stannard Farm and are fed well by last year's goat pen muck, well composted and black and rich. It was a morning of hoeing and pitching the compost and planting but I am very happy with the spread.
So glad to see the response to the little fox. I'll pick a winner tomorrow randomly. Just scroll and then close my eyes and place my finger on the screen. I'll try and do small gifts like this more often. You guys do so much for me, from buying books to signing up for the monthly subscriptions. I so appreciate it.
So wish that scrappy pup a fast heal. She's hopefully not going to need the vet's time but if it isn't closed up in three days we will. Dogs are top animal around here, after primates like me. They get the best, as that is what they give me.
This little fox is sleeping tight, and hand drawn, inked, and colored on a postcard. It is ready to mail. If you would like this little guy to show up at your home with some words of encouragement, just leave a comment here. There is no price for the fox. The fox is a gift. I want to send it off with kind words to a random reader as a thank you for following along here with Cold Antler. Leave a comment and I'll pick someone and announce it in the comments, and then ask that person to email me with their address or the address of someone they would like to send the fox to. That's all for today, from rainy Jackson.
Last night, just after Game of Thrones ended, I headed outside with Gibson and Friday to check on the goats. Ida and Bonita are ready to kid any hour now, and I think Ida will go first. This morning she had a stream of mucus coming out of her hoo haa and was rubbing her belly along the barn wall. They have a clean place to give birth and the farmhouse is ready for babies and the kickstart to dairy season. All the steel pails, buckets, strainers, filters, and bottles are ready to go. Their is a dog crate with soft hay in it ready by the wood stove. I have years of experience at this now, and so far have never had a problem with kidding season (or anything!) with these two goats. I can not praise Alpines enough. They are great mothers, great milkers, great producers (I can expect around 2 gallons a day soon from these girls), and at this point: great friends.
Wish us luck with this kidding season. I am going to run into town or some grain and minerals for the girls so I am stocked, get a fire going inside on this rainy day while I work on illustrations and logos, and spend the day working and checking on goats for little ones.
Just back from the adventure and wonder that is the Annual Poultry Swap! It's pretty much a holiday for this little farm, and an event I think I have only missed once since I moved to Veryork. It is a little chilly and rainy out here in the savagelands, but that did not deter the hundreds of people who gathered at the blessed event. People of all ages, sizes, tax brackets and farm-experience came to see the big show.
And I can't believe how much bigger it gets every year! What started as a couple of pickup trucks selling and trading fancy fowl has turned into a thriving grass-roots marketplace. It's the kind of bazaar of scrappy little businesses selling livestock, plants, cages, and saddles you'd expect to read about in some post-apocalypse novel. There are lambs in big crates and goat kids running down the market aisles. There are highland calves on lead ropes being walked out of trailers and parrots and puppies in crates and cages. It's a real country affair for people looking to buy and sell animals they raised to help make ends meet. I love it.
I was looking for new breeding does (rabbits not goats) and hopefully some turkey hens. It didn't take long to find two gorgeous half-flemish does (one bred!). I snatched them up and looked everywhere for turkeys, and sadly they were all $50 or more. That is too rich for me, so Lucas and Bryan remain single until I find some better prices on Craigslist.
It was good to see friends and fellow farmers I knew well. Lots of dogs, too (I brought Friday). There were gorgeous horses (a horse show was being held at the fairgrounds at the same time). And the human animals were a joy to watch as well. The kind of plucky people who wake up before dawn to feed their own farms and serve their kids breakfast before packing up a truck of hope and hoping to make a killing at an animal yard sale.
I'm home now, of course, and the new does are already set up in their outdoor, on-earth, hutches. They seem to be doing just fine. Friday is asleep hard in her crate. I think the whole thing was a bit shocking for her to take in, but after some original nerves she walked proudly through the crowds and got to play with Swanson, my friend Ejay's nice lad of a border collie. And by "play" I mean sniff and raise a lip to because Friday is kind of a bitch. Literally.
I got 2 flats of vegetable 6-backs, all kale and salad greens to populate the Kailyard with. There is an amazing pile of fresh compost for it, since yesterday me and my friend Trevor pitched muck into a pile for a few hours after we finished a 4-mile run (for fun!), but what the hell. You only live once. My body isn't sore yet from the mucking but I know by the time Game of Thrones is on I will feel like a piece of burned oak that was once a human woman. Stiff, tight, and hurting. But in a good way.
Kids will be born any day, as both my goats look ready to pop. I got a good feel on them, their bags, and their temperaments during hoof trimming a few days ago. They both have that tired-eyed and quiet hum of mothers feeling that birth is long overdue - but not fussing with impatience. They have a cleaned out pen with fresh hay to bring those babies into the world.
More news when there is news, have a good one guys.
...When you go out into the woods and you look at trees, you see all these different trees. And some of them are bent, and some of them are straight, and some of them are evergreens, and some of them are whatever. And you look at the tree and you allow it. You appreciate it. You see why it is the way it is. You sort of understand that it didn’t get enough light, and so it turned that way. And you don’t get all emotional about it. You just allow it. You appreciate the tree.
The minute you get near humans, you lose all that. And you are constantly saying “You’re too this, or I’m too this.” That judging mind comes in. And so I practice turning people into trees. Which means appreciating them just the way they are...
I didn't wake up in the night while the bear rummaged about. I was fast asleep, listening to Louis CK standup off Youtube as my lullaby and curled up with the dogs on the second floor. The dogs didn't hear (or care) and so no barking woke me up either. I imagine the only sounds on the farm were Louie and the occasional grunts of a large ursine beast.
When I was outside for early morning chores, all I saw was the mess. There were shells of goose eggs scattered all around the woodpile, and my three geese were watching from high on the hillside with the sheep. Clearly the bear had found the nest and snacked on all 15 eggs and the geese took off for the highlands. Imagine those old movies where the family watches their house burn down at a safe distance? It was like that.
The eggs were the lightest bit of damage though, the trash bins were scattered to the four winds. It looked like my yard just hosted an outdoor rock concert. My first thought wasn't a bear at all, but raccoons, or perhaps the two pigs in the woods broke out of their pen? But I could see the pigs looking at me from their Pigoda and the goats watched quietly from their pen. I cleaned up the mess, threw the egg shells on the compost pile, and looked around the place for some sort of sign or track. At this point things were so dry and in need of rain, there was nothing on the ground to prove anything, but my head went back to the raccoons. But then I remembered how often a raccoon would rather snag a fat chicken then rummage through garbage? And that so many times coons had come and pilfered food and never once knocked out a trash can in the past? Then it hit me: bear.
I had a small package of pork to deliver to the neighbor's so I walked over. It was a thank you for letting me ride on their property. Because of them, I can have an adventure on horseback right outside my front door on hundreds of acres of trails instead of just riding around my 6.5 acres. After he thanked me for the gift he asked me if I saw the bear? I had not, but he sure was at my place - I told him. He nodded. Apparently he went right now the mountain ripping apart bird feeders, trash cans, compost piles and feed containers. Yikes.
So besides some minor damage and the reminder that I live in a place where several-hundred-pound animals can walk right up to your kitchen window looking for dinner - all is well.
Sorry these posts are coming few and far between. Dealing with a lot of stress. But writing is what makes me feel connected and better, so I hope to be more present here.
I left for two hours to do errands in town and do laundry. I came home to this in my sheep pasture? Who the hell dropped off a goat!? I do not want another goat. This is not my goat. Is it your goat and lost? There was no note on the door, no email, no DM, no anything. Come get your goat.
This was not a good week to be a goose at Cold Antler Farm. Not at all.
The geese have had a nest by the wood pile next to the kitchen. It's a safe little place, tucked right next to the house by the mews and the stacks of firewood. About a dozen eggs were being sat upon, hoping for a hatching of goslings to take to the Poultry Swap in May. About ten feet from them is the garbage cans. Both cans and the nest are less than fifty feet from my small 2-car-garage-sized barn.
I came home from the brewery early. Or, earlier than my friends who stay well into the wee hours. I get up with the sun around 6:30AM right now and staying up until 1Am isn't appealing. So I came home, and when I pulled into the driveway with my pickup, there was not a weird thing going on, at all. There was no panicked sounds of animals or grunts. There was no weird smells. I had been sober as a Judge for a while before I even turned the key in the truck. All was quiet on the Cold Antler Front.
I let the dogs out to pee. I checked the goats to see if any kids had arrived. I counted the flock for all 14 sheep. I made sure the pigs didn't topple their water (I hate waking up thirsty at 3Am, I imagine a pig does, too). So, as far I as knew, the farm was well and good when I crawled upstairs into my bed at 11PM. Honestly, I was so happy about that stair walk, it is embarassing. I had been sleeping on the daybed in the living room all winter, and to have the big full bed, the open windows, the fresh air, the clean sheets, the sprawling GLORY that is a big bed in a clean room... I was more drunk on comfort than anything. And this was the same day I had ran eight miles and fell off a horse. I was ready to sleep.
And while I was sleeping the bear came.
I live on a small mountain, up a winding road. Bears are common, as is bear hunting. There are packs of Plott Hounds that chase bear across my farm fields come fall. I watched them run across corn fields and have seen cubs climbing trees. I love this. I have no qualms with bears as they rarely cause problems. But that night while I slept one bear was on a mission. That mission was calledL DESTROY COLD ANTLER FARM.
You don't think of much when you're falling off a horse. There isn't a lot of time. But I do remember a quick moment somewhere between saddle and dirt when I thought about hooves. I wasn't worried about the short fall off the horse, but I was worried about where those giant haunches landed after I did. I caught a glance of black feathered foot and felt them slam into the earth beside me. I have no idea why a thousand pound animal with a head the size of a truck tire can be classified as "pony." I got right up. Merlin trotted a foot or two away and then just stood there, blowing. He stared at me.
It was my fault, the fall. I was feeling invincible after an 8 mile run. It was sunny, 72-degrees, I wanted nothing more than to come home, change into riding clothes and boots and ride that beast up the mountain. I wanted to feel like a hero after feeling so out of control and scared all week. To take in the view of the valley I just explored on foot from the back of my horse. So I got Merlin out of the pasture, groomed him, didn't take the time to do any ground work and I didn't use any bug spray on him. I had not even bought bug spray yet this year. The bugs weren't an issue yet.
But the heat had finally brought out the first hatches and while they weren't bad in the woods at the base of the mountain they were bad up in the open grassy places we ride. Merlin wanted to graze on the better grass where the sun shined. I wanted to ride. I could tell I should have done ground work, too late though, and we rode on.
In another place and in another time I'll tell the whole story, like if we meet up for drinks at the Argyle Brewing Company, but the summary is that I was asking him to go on new trails, with bugs bothering him, without ground work, in a saddle that had too loose a girth. All dumb mistakes I had made before, but what can I say. I ran far and felt strong. He felt strong too, and kicked up high as he loped up a muddy trail and there was no purchase on the sliding saddle.
I got his reins, lead him to a place I could tie him up, and adjusted the girth. I got right back on him. He tried the bucking again and I said some very choice words and stayed on. I rode him home. He was wild and wanted to sprint. I laughed thinking how a 20 year old horse is not exactly an oldster just yet. He bitched and wanted to take off but I kept him calm. I sang to him the only song I knew in Gaelic, slowly and with calm confidence. Whatever part of me that was supposed to be shaken and scared was in a drawer somewhere else.
That night I finished chores with the sheepdogs running around, grabbed a long hot shower, and then got gussied up for the brewery. I always take Gibson, who is welcome most civilized places. I enjoyed a night of hard cider and new brews and talked for hours with good friends. It was packed, and headed home when the crowd size beat the enjoyment size. I knew I'd wake up sore.
I was too tired to hear the bear. That story in the morning...
I was out running yesterday. I needed it. It's my meditation. I wish I was better at sitting still and breathing—I used to be—but these days few things are as unsettling as sitting quietly with my own bear-cage of a brain and not being allowed to get up and leave. That sort of classic meditation feels like being trapped in a phone booth with a crazy person. And soon as I relent and get up from that quiet place - I have failed. So I exchanged sitting still and counting breath for jogging. Out with music and sunshine, I can do something tangible and physical - but still monotonous. My brain can latch onto music that inspires me or podcasts that make me laugh and I can feel things in my body and mind heal up. There is no email. No constantly checking leads for jobs. And even if I only make it half the distance I thought I would go - I still ran. I can turn home early and not feel like I failed. It's important to explain that here.
One of the most common things people say to me is "You are Living The Dream!" What people see is a woman on a farm, working from home, and following her passion for a creative life. That is all true, but I am not living a dream. I am fighting like hell to keep a dream. "Living a dream" conveys the sense of success and ease. That is not the case here. And recently that fight has me down for the count. I feel like I am failing Cold Antler Farm.
I came to this farm with the identity that I was a writer. Since 2008 I have published five books about this adventure. Right now my 6th book is being edited and will be self published later this year. Writing books has been my identity and my sense of self worth as an adult, but selling another one to an established publisher is getting harder and harder. My agent has two proposals for books I am very passionate about and desperately want to write, but no contract has been signed in years on this little farm. This lack of that professional-bound-Nationally-shelf-stocked work is one way I feel like a failure. Because being an "author' was who I thought I was. But now my income comes from freelance design, writing, and illustrations. I don't know what to call myself these days when people ask what I do for a living. I am failing at being a working author.
Cold Antler Farm was created right before Made From Scratch, my first book, came out. This was before the boom of social media and blogs were hot. I got lucky with timing and boldness, and got that book contract signed on my 25th birthday. The book did well enough to bring readers to the blog, people getting to know a 25-year-old dreamer talking honestly about her goals and trying to get a farm of her own.
For years I wrote and grew alongside this audience. Your kindness, support, and stories was a drug that fueled this fever dream. In 2010, I bought this farm and had published three books in around two years. Talk about an ego boost. I felt invincible. I felt amazing. But I think people were done with my story after the farm was bought in 2010, thinking that was the best place to end the movie. I can't blame them.
But the story didn't end at signing mortgage. The story right now IS the mortgage. The story is keeping the lights on, the animals happy, the place legally mine, and to work hard as hell to get the break I need to be more comfortable. I don't like this slow numbness of the uphill crawl towards solvency. I don't like feeling any of this. But here is what I do know, and I am certain of: It is temporary.
There is no quitting. There is no plan B. There will be success and I am sure of it. I don't know how or what avenue, but it will happen if I can just keep going. I firmly believe that as soon as I give up, I relinquish that contract with my future. It's not something I can explain well, but these are truths to me. I am as sure of this as rain. And what may come across as stubbornness and idiocy to those reading this right now - it's more like faith. These past few years have been the darkest and things will get better. And I believe getting to tell the story of that journey of certainty is important.
So I run.
I will not stop running.
And every single mile I run feels like part of the road that takes me there.
If you can help, please help. Help by sharing my story with others who care about food, farms, and luckless slingers. If someone you know needs a logo or illustration, drop my name and contact information. Give one of my books to a friend to read. Share a post you liked here with friends via email. Get the word out that in this messy and gross election year there's this scrappy woman who refuses to give up, shut up, or stop the climb. Because that is what it will take, grassroots effort. And I hope we can all look back on this time of fear and uncertainty on this blog and realize it is times like this when the wolves were at the door that she learned to howl.
Offering a sale on Fiddle Indie Day Packages, and a big discount if you come with a friend, spouse, or kid! The package includes a student fiddle, case, and bow and basic beginner song sheets and charts. It also comes with 4 hours of private lessons here at the farm from 12-4PM - Taking appointments for Summer and Fall!
This is an original piece done in pencil, ink and watercolor of Merlin. It is on 9x12" Bristol Board. Below him it says "Luceo Non Uro" The Clan Mackenzie Motto: I Shine, Not Burn. It is signed and dated. This is for sale to help support the farm. Make an offer to firstname.lastname@example.org and the highest silent bidder takes him home. Shipping free in the US. 8 (US) dollars CA.
Want a piece done of your own equine in sketch, ink, or full color? Email me as well!
Sometimes running a farm feels like being in your own action movie. The stakes are high, the air is crisp, and while you won't find yourself fighting bad guys or walking a tight-rope - your heard still pounds.
Last week I found myself walking up the road, watching the woods with squinting eyes as the ghostly bodies of escaped sheep darted through the trees, little lambs loping behind them. They were a ways up the steep hillside, but still visible since most of the woods here are not yet green. Gibson was beside me, watching, head low and eyes locked. We had been trailing them for a half mile, tipped by a neighbor who had driven by to say they saw my ram and some ewes down the road. My road ends at a rural highway, so that got our attention. I put down the colored pencils and we suited up in boots and a walking stick. We'd get back those sheep. Now we found them. Step one, complete.
I have been spending so much time inside focused on the artwork that is trying to catch up with the bills here, that I didn't stop to look out the window at the flock after morning chores. So they had plenty of time to slip through a hole in the fence and follow the deer paths and stream into the woods. To get to them Gibson would have to jump over the cold creek, race uphill, and have the wherewithal to send them home, not farther away from the farm. I wasn't in hunting chaps, and the rose bushes and other thorny growth was thick. I was hoping Gibson could hand this without me going home bruised and bleeding. I sent him up and he was gone like a buckshot.
It wasn't easy to see from the road, but far as I could tell Gibson locked on them with that classic stare and it was enough for them to turn tail. They darted back towards the farm, and the dog slowly stalked behind, trotting when he needed to to keep up. Gibson has been trained with me and some professional sheepdog trainers, but we are far from trial ready. I was counting on his instincts, not my commands. We are not a well-oiled machine like that. I watched them as I walked back home, along the road and then they crested over a bank and they were out of my site. I watched. I waited. No sign of dog or ewe.
I walked faster, my heart racing a bit. This wasn't our property and I didn't know it. I don't usually have Gibson out of my site, much less leave him with a 200 pound ram, ewes, and their offspring to deal with. I heard nothing, no barks or yelps. I saw nothing, though I strained my eyes trying. Finally I saw a flash of white and it was gone, but it was heading towards the farm. They were on some secret path for cervines and ravens. Seeing them closer to home I called to my dog, who raced back from farther up the road than I expected.
He popped out of the woods and onto the empty country road. His chest was heaving and he looked to me and then back at the sheep. I called to him "That'll Do!" and when he ran to me I went to my knees and hugged him close. This dog, he's perfect to me.
The sheep were back in their pens, soon munching early grass and acting as if nothing was wrong or different. Gibson and I were back home, he at my side as I worked on drawings for clients and files for logos. I let out a happy sigh, a long one. For years all I wanted was some sheep on a hill. I thought it was because of my love of wool and fibre, livestock, and farming. But it's about the tiny exhales of adventures I share with these dogs. We don't win ribbons. I we don't enter contests. But we work as a team to keep a little farm sane and safe.
The farm has been getting ready for spring, slowly and surely. The days go from sunny and warm to nights so chill you wake up to frost or an inch of snow. It's April? What should I expect? This month is mean. It's close enough to flirt with spring and get some flowers blooming or apple trees excited, and then BAM! It's 19 degrees and your truck door is fused shut by an ice storm and that outbuilding you just needed to last a few more weeks collapses. April. What a dick.
I have been sparse on this blog this past week, mostly because I have been spending all my creative energy on drawing and logos. If you follow me on Facebook you'll see a lot of work, mostly pet illustrations. But I also want to catch up with regular Youtube videos and the comic. As you can probably tell, I've spread myself thin. I can't help it. I love those little cartoons on Tumblr. I love the community on Youtube. I love the commissions and the logo work and figuring it all out.
Tomorrow I will tell you Gibson's heroic story of herding sheep for a half mile of forests and roads to bring them home. I'll also get into garden prep, chicken housing and brooder prep, farrier appointments, goat hoof trimming, and kidding prep. Slowly this farm will turn back into the green world it once was. Right now it's just poking shoots, mud, and slum. But I spent a few hours tonight just scrubbing and repainting the kitchen in a Spring Cleaning tear I went on. It felt good. I got the dishes done and the coffee ready for the morning. Never underestimate the morale boost having a clean kitchen and a prepped coffee pot can deliver.
I watched the movie Mr. Right and adored it. It's hard to categorize a hitman, romance, action, love story? But watch it. As Antlers it is your partial duty, kinda. We root for our heroes.
I just wanted to pop in quick and share two things. First off, this here image of a wolf raising a horn with a mjolnir in his paw. It's for sale for $150 if anyone is interested, email me at email@example.com. Also, I have a 1/4 share of pork a buyer backed out of. It is ready for pickup in about 6 weeks. If you are interested in some local meat, please do email me as well. Want both? I'll make you a hell of a deal.
Snow came, and kept coming, on this April day. It covered the violets and the daffodils. It coated lamb backs and goat noses. The pigs tucked into their nest and the chickens pretending it didn't happen. Earlier this week there was nearly 70 degree weather and grass on the roadsides. This is reason 43,873 that I hate April.
Creating art, my art, again for the first time in years has been wonderful. Last night to relax and unwind after a hard day, I drew this braided, kilted, border collie. But after he was sketched I didn't want to stop. I inked, painted, and penciled over him. Today I hope to sell this orginal artwork. The nest image is a sketch of a reader's horses, after that, a pile of comps for a motorcycle education group up here.
All of this is art to me. All these little pieces of work are what make up the mortgage, the feed bills, literally stop the power company from coming and placing notices on my doorknob.
I used to make a living from just writing. Books, freelance articles, and future book deals. I will always write but as publishing dips away from small memoir and ag books I am adapting. I'm using the skills I have as an artist to create many small projects.
This morning I woke up, made coffee, and fed my farm. Then I came inside and worked on digital and traditional art. Four different clients and a fed farm before 9AM is a damn good feeling. Wish me luck in logo and art sales! And if anyone you know is looking for a unique gift or branding work, please share my name!
Commission Prices for Art:
Sketch (pencil) $50
Cleaned and Inked $75
Full Color: $150
The blog of author Jenna Woginrich of Cold Antler Farm. Jenna is a 33-year old full time writer. She writes about her adventures following her dream life as a homesteader, archer, falconer, equestrian, hunter, spinner, and low-rent cook. Follow along, it never gets boring!
And when the children are safe in bed, at one of the great holidays like the Fourth of July, New Years, or Halloween, we can bring out some spirits and turn on the music, and the men and the women who are still among the living can get loose and really wild. So that's the final meaning of "wild"- the esoteric meaning, the deepest and most scary. Those who are ready for it will come to it. Please do not repeat this to the uninitiated. -gs