Making Hay

One of the key features of our new property is a 6-acre, established hay field. With a flock of ten breeding sheep, and four goats, we go through a lot of hay each winter. And at $5 per bale (or higher), the total bill can get pretty steep pretty fast.

A local farmer had been renting that field for $275 per year and taking all the hay to sell. Mrs Yeoman Farmer and I were astonished at that deal --- particularly since the rent had not increased in ten years. Given that he was probably reaping in excess of 700 bales per year, he was making a fortune. We introduced ourselves to this farmer, and proposed a new arrangement: we charge no rent, you cut and bale the hay, and we split the hay. His offer? Okay, but he keeps 75% of the hay. That was so laughable, I didn't even respond. A moment later, he hedged a bit and said he could go "no lower" than two-thirds / one-third. I told him we'd think about it, but it didn't take me and MYF long to decide this was a lousy deal.

We began making inquiries, and discovered a nice family that was the friend of one our friends. They do custom haying, and came over to look at our field. We agreed to have them do all the cutting and bailing, and to haul all the hay into our barn, for $2 per bale. Although the field will produce far more hay than our animals can eat in one year, we decided we'd rather not part with any. Rather, given the enormous capacity of our barn, it made sense to stockpile as much as possible. In a drought year, hay could become scarce --- particularly since so many farmers have been plowing their hay fields under so they can plant more corn. (Hay is already fetching upwards of $6-$7 per bale at local auctions.) Besides, in the next year or two, our field will need to be replanted with alfalfa (a planting of alfalfa is good for only 7 years or so, and ours is nearing the end of its run), and our yield might be quite low that year. We figured it would be prudent to have a good stash of hay. Heck, it doesn't spoil as long as it's kept dry.

Ah, yes. Keeping dry. The family came over to cut our hay a week ago. Then they came back a couple of days later to flip it over to continue the drying process. The plan was to bale it on Friday...but as the week progressed, the weather forecast for Friday became increasingly bleak. Thunderstorms were a near-certainty; if the hay got soaked as it lay on the ground, it wouldn't be clear how much could be salvaged. But Thursday was too soon to bale it, so we had to watch the hay as it lay in the field, raked neatly into windrows, and wonder if our animals would ever get to feast on it.


So we prayed. And prayed. And prayed. And got up Friday morning to discover a gray, unsettled-looking sky. So we prayed some more.


The farm family arrived just after lunch, with two strong young local boys in tow. They worked quickly, with one eye on the sky and the other on the field ahead. The tractor and its baler were a fascinating combination to watch: it sucked the hay up, fed it through a device, and nice square bales emerged from a chute. One of the boys would then stack these bales neatly on the hay wagon that was in tow.


They had two hay wagons. Once one wagon was full, they would tow it around to the barn, back it up the slope into the second story, detach the wagon, and go back out in the field with the fresh wagon. As they filled it with more bales, the wife and one of the boys (and, when available, MYF), stacked those bales in the barn. Then the husband would pull up with another load, they'd trade wagons, and keep the cycle going.

We got the final load stacked in the barn just after 7pm. We looked at the counting device on the baler, and found we had harvested 451 bales! Looking at the amount of work and equipment involved, and considering that we now had basically a full year's worth of hay in the barn, the $900 price tag seemed very reasonable. They will be back in 28 days to do the second cutting, and we will get a third cutting later in the summer. Even though second and third cuttings yield fewer bales, we still should get at least 600 more bales this year. Am I ever glad we have such a big barn!

And there's one other big thing to be glad about: the weather held. We didn't get a drop of rain the whole time they were working, despite skies that never got sunny. And then, five minutes after their truck pulled off our property, all those clouds opened up. Rain came down in buckets, soaking everything in sight.

We ran for the house, and raised prayers of thanksgiving --- not only that the hay had remained dry, but for the wonderful rain that will immediately help our field to begin growing again.

Please Pray...

...for Mrs. Yeoman Farmer's mother. She's been chronically ill for many years, and in hospitals or nursing homes for nearly two straight years. She'd seemed to be making a recovery in recent months, and there was even talk of her moving home this summer. But in the last few days, she's taken a terrible turn and is now deteriorating rapidly. Prognosis is quite dim. She received Extreme Unction (yes, we still call it that in our family) this afternoon, and is spiritually very prepared to pass to the next life. Please join us in "accompanying" her with your prayers in these hours.

I must say, we've never been so glad we made the move to Michigan. Mrs. Yeoman Farmer has been able to see her mother many times over these last months, and has been able to spend many hours at the hospital these last few days. We're very thankful we're not right now frantically packing the minivan and wondering if we'll make it from Illinois to Michigan in time...and wondering who will take care of the farm while we're gone.

It's good to be home. And for this to be our home.

Sad Farewell

With a trip to the mailbox this morning, I've brought an era to an end: For the first time in nearly 17 years, I do not own a Volvo 240. Or any other kind of Volvo, either.

Yes, the old things are known as quintessentially liberal cars...but I think blowing the stereotype was part of why I enjoyed driving them so much. Nothing like putting a Bush-Cheney 2004 sticker on the bumper, and an NRA sticker on the window, to thoroughly confuse people.

I learned to drive on a 1973 144, and a 1983 242 was the first car I bought after graduating from college in 1991. That vehicle ended up saving my life; I spun out on an icy freeway, and was crushed against a guardrail by two tractor-trailers...and walked away from the accident with little more than scrapes and bruises. Needless to say, everything you've read about Volvos and safety is true. I quickly bought another; when it rusted out in 1998, we got our 1978 244. Later, I would buy a 1984 station wagon. The whole series was solid, reliable, and even an amateur mechanic like me could do a lot of the work on them.

Alas, the 1978 sedan eventually became unreliable; after stranding us in St Louis on vacation, we retired it to the second string. As the 1984 wagon also became unreliable, we finally broke down and got two late model vehicles. The 1978 sedan was redundant, and we never drove it, but I couldn't bear to part with it.

But we couldn't take it with us to Michigan, and I couldn't find anyone in East Central Illinois crazy enough about old Volvos to want to buy it. The solution: donate it to Illinois Right to Life's vehicle donation program. The tax deduction will be minuscule, but hopefully IRTL will get something for it...and I hope someone will be driving it (I couldn't bear to take it to the junk yard, even if they'd have paid $100 cash for it.) The title is going in the mail this morning, and they'll pick it up from our old farm next Monday.

Someday, I hope to have another of these cars. Actually, the 1975 164E, with manual transmission, is the Volvo I dream about. But right now, I have one old project car in the garage...a second one would be irresponsible.

Here's hoping the end of this era is only temporary.

Too Furious For Words

When we left Illinois late last year, we made two trips with 26-foot U-Haul trucks; the first had a whole winter's worth of hay and straw, plus as much farm equipment (rolls of fencing, t-posts, etc) as we could fit. The second trip was all our household goods. Even with both of those trips, we knew we'd need to come back a third time to get the remaining farm equipment --- and I told this to the new owner of the property. I told him that repeatedly. We were moving to a place with three times the acreage, and we needed all our fencing and posts. And gates.

We had at least a dozen of those expensive, steel pasture gates stacked neatly against the barn. At least a dozen rolls of expensive chain link fencing. Chain link fence posts, all neatly stacked. And a huge pile (hundreds) of t-posts that I'd yanked out of the ground before it froze.

And it's all now gone. GONE.

Our intent had been to come back in mid-December for all of this, but the snows came first. I did go back in mid-February for some stray household goods, but couldn't get a big truck on that trip. And I told the new owner, again, we'd be back soon for all that farm stuff.

That trip was to be this weekend. But when I called to let him know about these plans, he told me EVERYTHING HAS BEEN GIVEN AWAY to his buddies. "I didn't know what you were going to do with that, and I needed to clean up the property," he said.

There are no words to describe how furious we are at this. Mrs. Yeoman Farmer is especially angry, because she spent two weeks out in the cold, very carefully taking down the chain link fence and rolling it up neatly. We couldn't have made our intentions clearer to the buyer.

I was frankly so stunned while on the phone with him this morning, my brain didn't engage enough to even ask, "WHY DIDN'T YOU CALL US FIRST?"

We're talking about a couple of thousand dollars worth of supplies we're now going to have to purchase...and that's money we don't really have at the moment. Yet with more lambs arriving every day, and goat kids bursting at the seams, we need to get these animals out on pasture. We do have some t-posts, and some fencing material. But that's only enough to get us started.

It's an old lesson, but one I grew complacent about following while living in the country: get it in writing. Even if all your country neighbors do everything with a handshake and verbal understanding, when this much money is on the line you really need to spell it out on paper. I'm not sure a piece of paper would've prevented him from giving the stuff away, but at least it would've provided us with some legal recourse to recover our losses.

A Morning with the Sheriff

Next stop on the "becoming a Michigan resident" tour: the Ingham County Sheriff's office, to register my pistol. It seemed a bit "big brother-ish" to be presenting a firearm to the police and seeking permission to continue owning it. But every state has its own gun laws, and I wanted to make sure I was following them from the start. As soon as I can complete the requisite training course, I plan on getting a concealed carry permit (in my opinion the way in which Michigan gun laws are far and away better than those of Illinois); my pistol would need to be registered then, anyhow.

And even before then, suppose I had to use the gun to defend our family against an intruder. After the incident is over, and the police arrive to make their report, what do you suppose the first question will be? "Could I see your registration certificate for that handgun?" And, "I, uh, came here from out of state and didn't know I had to register it" probably will not suffice as an answer. At least long guns need not be registered, so I guess Michigan laws are still a whole lot less intrusive than they could be.

Anyhow, there I was yesterday morning in line at the Sheriff's office. Ahead of me, at the counter, was a very nice older gentleman who was also presenting a handgun for inspection. After I mentioned that I'd recently moved here from out of state, he struck up a conversation about the local gun shop. As we waited for the clerk to process his paperwork, he told me all about the place and what they have to offer: huge selection, wonderful indoor firing range ("they open at ten, and I'm going over there right now"), gunsmith services, and so forth. I was actually disappointed the clerk finished with him so quickly. Funny how a common interest in something like firearms, which the general public largely does not understand, can create such an instant bond between two people who wouldn't seem similar to each other on the surface.

The registration process took quite some time, in part because I didn't yet have a Michigan driver's license. However, as mentioned in recent posts, I did have a voter registration card --- and I also had that (expensive) dog registration for Scooter. The clerk had to check with her supervisor, but eventually agreed to accept those documents as proof of residency. The "safety inspection" of my pistol (which is what the process is supposedly about) was a joke; she basically just picked up the gun, looked at it from a few different angles, and then set it down. I spent much more time filling out forms, taking a "test" (which was a series of common sense True/False statements about gun safety that any of my kids probably could have passed), and so forth. I was actually surprised they didn't photograph and fingerprint me, but I guess they're saving that for when I get a CCW permit.

Anyway, while I was standing there waiting for the clerk to finish something, a very odd (and sad) incident took place. A woman came into the lobby, and asked another clerk if she could talk to a police officer about a domestic issue. The clerk directed her to a deputy, who met with her in another part of the lobby. The deputy, who struck me as an incredibly nice guy and very professional, listened patiently as the woman explained, "It's my eleven year old. He's completely out of control, and I just can't take it anymore. I honestly don't know what to do. I need the police to get involved, and don't know how to go about doing that."

The deputy asked where she lived, and she gave an address in town. The deputy then explained that their jurisdiction only covers unincorporated areas of the county, so she would need to talk with someone on the local police force. "Can you give me a referral?" she asked. The deputy gave the name of an officer, explaining that he works with all the schools and covers all the problems related to juveniles. The woman thanked him sincerely, and then hurried out to her car.

As I waited for the clerk to finish processing paperwork, I couldn't help reflecting on what I'd just observed. First of all, the woman had appeared to be so average and ordinary: middle aged, middle class, tastefully dressed, well-kempt, well-spoken. She defied the exterior stereotypes that someone might usually associate with "homes that produce juvenile delinquents." But what had been going on behind the exterior? What kinds of influences was her kid picking up at school? From older siblings? Did he have a father at home? A father who was involved and engaged in his life? There was no way to know, and it wasn't fair to speculate. But one word kept pounding through my head: ELEVEN. Her completely-out-of-control son, who needed to be turned over to the police, is ELEVEN.

Why is this significant? I have an eleven year old son, too. I know what eleven "looks like." Or, rather, I know what my own eleven year old son looks like and does. I could not, for the life of me, imagine a child that young and that innocent being so much of a demon as to cause his mother to seek assistance and protection from the sheriff.

I thought about that a lot as I waited for the clerk to finish my paperwork. And I kept thinking about it later, when I was at the local gun shop the man at the sheriff's office had told me about. As the gun shop guy was getting me registered for the CCW training course, a 30-ish man came in with his son. The little boy couldn't have been older than three, and was as cute as they come: big eyes, short brown hair, and very shy. As his father looked at rifles and bantered with one of the salespeople, the boy stood close by and seemed to be observing all of us with rapt attention. What a wonderful thing that his father brought him here with him this morning, I thought. Here was a father who was closely involved with his son's life, spending one-on-one time together at a very young age, and from the beginning introducing his son to the strong, masculine and responsible culture of hunting and firearms. And this particular shop was an ideal setting: warm, clean, safe, well-organized, and staffed by men who were both friendly and knowledgeable. Assuming that the father stuck around and continued building these kinds of connections with his son, I figured the odds of this kid's mother ending up in exasperation at a sheriff's office were close to zero.

I walked back to my truck making a mental note to be more creative and forward-thinking about taking a kid with me on errands like these. Each trip to the gun shop, or bike shop, or hardware store, or auto parts store, or salvage yard...each of those trips comes only once, and each of them slips away so quickly. The big temptation, for me at least, is to make those trips and run those errands alone; there are fewer distractions, and fewer things to worry about when I'm by myself. The key is remembering that each of those trips out of the house is more than an errand: it is also an unrepeatable opportunity to share an experience with another little person.

Arrival

We're finally catching our breath and getting our life back out of boxes. Mrs. Yeoman Farmer and I are positive about one thing: we don't want to move again.

We loaded the truck on Friday, November 30th. U-Haul has a wonderful new service called eMove; it's a directory of people who can help with all aspects of a relocation. When I reserved the truck, the website asked if I'd like assistance with loading and/or unloading the truck. Curious, I took a closer look --- and thought more about the last time I'd loaded and unloaded a moving van. The rates were quite reasonable (typically $50 per hour for a team of two guys), so I decided to give it a try. This was the smartest thing we did, the entire move. Particularly for loading the truck, the two guys were absolutely indispensable. They not only did all the heavy lifting, but they also knew the most efficient way to pack the truck. And they stayed until the job was done, late into the night. When they finished, the inside of that truck was an amazing thing to behold; there wasn't a single cubic foot of wasted space. If it'd been up to me, I would have needed a tractor-trailer to load all of our household goods and it would've taken several days; these guys managed to get it into a 26-foot truck, in just 9 hours.

Our neighbors, from whom we buy our beef and who have a large livestock trailer, had offered to follow us up on Saturday the 1st, towing all our animals. However, as the weekend approached, it became clear that the upper Midwest would be slammed by an ice storm that day. It looked like we'd easily be able to beat the storm to Michigan, but our friends would be in the thick of it heading home. Indeed, that's what happened: northern Illinois had multiple inches of sheet ice covering everything by late afternoon. And fortunately, we and the neighbors had decided ahead of time that they shouldn't attempt to go on that day.

We did get in just fine, and our eMove helpers got our truck unloaded Saturday night. I was utterly exhausted, and in no frame of mind to do much of anything. It took all I had simply to assist the movers.



I got up Monday morning, drove back to Illinois, and spent the evening cleaning the house. Our friends came over with the livestock trailer, and their teenaged sons and I managed to catch all the animals and load them up. The goats were easiest, as they were already in a small pen. Several sheep managed to break free during the loading process, and we would've been in big trouble without Scooter The Amazing Wonder Dog, who managed to round them up again even in the dark. The boys and I then plucked all the chickens off their roosts (fairly easy), and put them in a separate part of the trailer. The ducks were by far the hardest to catch, as the flock scattered throughout the vineyard. Imagine us all tripping over trellis wires in the dark, chasing panicked birds running every which direction.


Somehow or the other, we got everything into the trailer, and left it parked overnight. As inclement weather was again threatening, we pulled out early Tuesday morning. I led the way in our minivan, and the neighbor followed with our Noah's Ark On Wheels. Rest areas were definitely the most fun, as we attracted quite a bit of attention.


Here's how things looked upon arrival:

This is the inside of the livestock trailer, just before we let all the animals out. Note: roosters, hens, geese, several breeds of duck, and two guinea fowl (aka Christmas Dinner 2007). Not visible: the 8 or 9 eggs which the hens had laid during the trip. Also, the sheep and goats were in a separate compartment, behind the far wall.

As snow was starting to fall, our neighbor got back on the road quickly. He made it home without incident, and we were deeply grateful for his help.

Meanwhile, we're enjoying making ourselves at home here. And so are the animals.

Half Moved

Posting has been slow, what with trying to get moved to our new place in Michigan. We're back here in Illinois for the week, and make the definitive move this coming Saturday (December 1st).

To our dismay, we discovered there is no hay available for sale anywhere near our new farm in Michigan. It was a bad year for hay generally in the US, with prices spiking higher than we've ever seen. (I suspect some of that has to do with hay fields being converted to corn because of the ethanol boom, but don't even get me started on that one.) Anyway, Roger, our usual supplier of hay here in Illinois, was happy to help me load 150 bales onto a 26 foot U-Haul truck last Tuesday morning; that should be enough to get all of our sheep and goats through the winter. We were assisted by Matthew, the homeschooled 16 year old neighbor that I've mentioned in other posts. Matthew and Roger have worked together quite a bit over the last few years, and I was floored at how efficiently they were able to pack those bales into the truck.

Still, even with maximizing the use of space, we weren't left with much additional room. I managed to get almost all of our books, and quite a bit of the kids' clothing, but there was very little space for all the other farm equipment we'd planned on taking. We did load both goat milking stanchions, a few stock tanks, several rolls of chain link fencing, and around 100 metal T-posts, and several of our expensive metal farm gates --- but then the truck was jammed to the gills.

I'm thinking I'll probably have to come back here for a third "mop up" trip some time later; there's simply so much fencing material here, and other farm equipment (poultry brooder, chicken plucker) that won't fit with the household goods on this coming Saturday's truck and yet is far too expensive or time consuming to replace. Shocker: T-posts are now selling for $3.28 in Michigan! We have literally hundreds still on the property that I haven't been able to pull up yet. And there are several expensive metal gates that must stay up until the last minute, to keep the animals contained. No way am I leaving all that equipment here, when we have 15 acres to fence in Michigan.

This is what we looked like, when at last we departed on Tuesday afternoon (Mrs. Yeoman Farmer followed in our minivan):

We pulled in late last Tuesday night, leaving the truck and auto trailer in the front yard of the new house. I got my 1975 Fiat Spyder off the trailer and safely in the garage; the canvas top is ripped, and a storm was headed in. Wednesday morning, we had the closing --- and then we headed out to the property to unload the truck. Assisted by my father-in-law, Mrs Yeoman Farmer and I braved a steady drizzling rain and managed to get all 150 bales of hay out of the truck and neatly stacked in the upper level of the Big Red Barn while the kids ran around that barn burning off energy.

But what was supposed to be the happiest day of the year literally turned dark and ugly; the sun went down, the rain intensified...and I couldn't find my wallet. I'd been carrying far more cash than usual, because so many people had just paid for turkeys and other produce. I tore the van apart, but couldn't find it anywhere. 300 miles from home, no driver's license, no credit cards, and no cash. Mrs Yeoman Farmer had a credit card and a little cash, so we'd be able to get home, but I was sick at the thought of having lost everything. The worst part wasn't so much the money, but what it represented: all that work nurturing turkeys and laying hens, and all the effort to get them butchered. If someone at the McDonald's I'd stopped at for lunch had stolen my wallet, what they'd really stolen was all of that work I'd put so much of myself into. (And that, really, is why I've come to realize that theft is such a serious sin.) Things only got darker and more miserable when we went to return the U-Haul truck. It was in a dinky town way off the beaten path, in a combination pizza parlor/banquet hall/storage facility/truck rental building. And then it took the lady 45 minutes to figure out how to check the truck in; U-Haul was clearly a very minor part of their business, and I wondered why they bothered being licensees at all.

So...rain-soaked, dark, late, hungry, exhausted, covered with hay dust, missing several hundred dollars and a driver's license and wondering how I'd cancel all my credit cards, we made our way back to my in-laws' house. Stopped at the McDonald's where I last knew I had my wallet, but it hadn't been turned in. My emotions reached a new bottom.

And then, once we brought everything in to the house, I found the wallet! It had been in my laptop bag, where I'd stashed it so I wouldn't lose it. I'd thought I'd left it there, but hadn't been able to find it in any of the pockets when I'd searched back at the new house. Only now, with the bag out of the van and sitting on my bed, was I able to find the wallet at the bottom of an inside pocket. Sheesh. Relieved, I took a long hot shower and turned my thoughts to the next day.

We had a wonderful Thanksgiving with family, and then went back out to the new house on Friday and Saturday. My father in law, brother in law, and 14 year old nephew helped get the lower level of the barn all set for livestock, and we even managed to drive several posts outside to mark out an initial grazing area. Getting the entire property fenced will have to wait for the spring, but at least we're all set to bring the animals next weekend. There is a goat area, a sheep area, and a chicken area we can turn various critters loose into.

We drove home Sunday, and tried to catch our breath last night. Matthew took good care of things while we were gone, and we're going to miss having someone like him around. But, as MYF pointed out, we won't need someone to come over and do farm chores for us in Michigan --- because we'll never be all going out of town to visit family. Excellent point.

I'll just be glad when it's all over and we can finally settle in.

Squatters!

We are now officially...squatters! And I never thought I'd be so happy to announce it.

Everything went smoothly this morning with the sale of our Illinois farm, and the road appears all clear for closing on our house in Michigan next week. But in the meantime, we are neither homeowners nor renters.

Homeschooled Farm Girl was afraid this would make us "homeless." Nope, Mrs. Yeoman Farmer replied, we're "squatters."

Gotta love it.

Swamped

Posting has been and will remain slow for a bit; we're swamped with preparations for the big move.

I finally got to see the new property in Michigan this weekend; still hard to believe we bought this thing sight unseen, on the word of my father in law that it was "absolutely perfect" for us. And now that I've seen it...I wholeheartedly agree. It's hard to imagine a property that's a better fit for us, all the way around.

We're frantically packing boxes, while making all kinds of other last minute preparations. The plan is to load a 24' U-Haul truck on Monday-Tuesday before Thanksgiving, with all of the FARM stuff. All the T-posts we've been ripping up, fencing material that can be salvaged, dozens of hay and straw bales, tools, stock tanks, brooder lamps, and the myriad other things we've accumulated that are too dirty or too bulky to be packed with our household goods. I will drive that truck up on Tuesday before Thanksgiving, towing our old pickup truck (great for hauling stuff around the farm and around town, but I'd never trust it on a 300 mile drive). Mrs. Yeoman Farmer will follow the U-Haul with our minivan, with kids taking turns getting to ride in the big truck with me.

We close on the MI property on Wednesday, the day before T-giving. After closing, we will unload all the farm stuff into the Big Red Barn and return the U-Haul.

Friday and Saturday after T-giving, our family and friends will help us put up fence posts and gates, so we can establish a basic pasture and separate the sheep from the goats from the chickens in the barn.

We'll drive back that Sunday, and then spend the next week packing all our household goods. We'll load another U-Haul, then drive it up towing my 1975 Fiat Spider (great car, but I'd never try to drive it 300 miles...especially not in December). Again, MYF will follow in the minivan. If all goes well, we'll have everything unloaded on December 1st.

It's still uncertain how we're getting the livestock up here. A neighbor has a large livestock trailer, but it must be pulled with his own truck (can't hitch it to a U-Haul). He may be able to drive up with us on December 1st, and then I'd ride back to Illinois with him the next day to retrieve the last of our vehicles. But that's still up in the air.

And somewhere in the midst of all this packing, I need to get the last of the turkeys and laying hens butchered. All this adds up to little time for blogging, but I will put up some posts with updates as we get closer to the big move.

Upon Further Review...

The sale stands! Our buyer called this morning to tell us that they will, in fact, be able to complete the transaction and purchase our house. It's a long story, but the bottom line is that we should be moving on or around December 1st. It'll probably take several trips, but that's the target to put everything in motion.

The wonderful news came midway through an urgent novena we were making to St Jude, begging that he help get this transaction back on track. Looks like the remaining days of our novena will be lifted up in thanksgiving...and in asking that everything continue smoothly. Mrs Yeoman Farmer and I will probably not exhale the collective breath we've been holding until the money is actually sitting in our checking account.

But we'll still be reciting the Te Deum in our house tonight.

Premature Celebration

The wide receiver breaks free, sprints to the end zone, eludes the final defenders, and makes a spectacular diving catch. The referee signals "Touchdown!" Points go on the scoreboard. The crowd goes wild.

And then the opposing coach throws his red flag on the field, to request a video review. The video plays over and over, from different angles; from this angle, it looks like a good catch --- but from that angle maybe it isn't. How will the replay official call it? Are we going to get the points or not?

That's exactly how I feel right now. After spiking the ball in yesterday's post, celebrating our new house in Michigan, we've received some troubling news: our buyer has changed his mind about purchasing our house. His circumstances changed unexpectedly (and recently), which we completely understand --- we just wish we'd learned this before, rather than after, we placed a bid on our new farm in Michigan. We cannot move from here without selling the Illinois property, so unless we come up with another buyer quickly it's looking like we'll be stuck here for the winter. The seller in Michigan will not hold their property for us (e.g. they won't do a "contingent sale"). If we aren't confident we can close next month as promised, we're going to have to withdraw our offer. There was another offer that came it at the same time as ours (or so the listing agent says...we're still not sure if that was a ploy to get us to increase our bid), so if we must back out those other folks will almost certainly get it.

But the final page hasn't yet been written; the play is still under review. There are two other local families who are interested in looking at our property, and we're scrambling to show them the house this weekend. And if there's anyone else out there who'd like to come take a look --- speak now or forever hold your peace. Because yes, we are in a position to make a deal.

We Got The House!

Just got word this morning that we won the bidding on the house in MI that we've been most interested in. It's a classic, hundred-year-old farmhouse that's been totally renovated and updated inside. It has about 700 more square feet than our current house, and sits on 15+ acres (three times our current acreage).


More details will follow, and now it seems there are a thousand things we must do all at the same time. But we are very excited that it looks like we'll be getting out of Illinois before the worst of winter sets in (our tentative move date is December 1st).


Here is the house:


A key feature is the big red barn. It's in excellent condition, and will house all of our animals.


And, best of all, the property includes a nice office building for me. And it's even larger than my current office building.



As I said, more details will follow as we get them.