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Friday, July 24, 2026

Some days on a farm test your muscles.

Others test your wallet.

Today managed to do both.

The morning began with sunshine and the promise of an important delivery—this year’s hay. Along with picking up this month’s livestock feed, it was one of the most expensive days of the year here at Briden Farm. It’s enough to make any small farmer stop and wonder whether all of this is really worth it.

Then I thought back to yesterday’s grocery trip.

Eleven items.

Seventy-five dollars.

Not much, really.

The livestock feed costs money too, but the animals give something back. The goats provide milk that becomes cheese, and sometimes butter. The sheep and goats provide meat. The chickens provide eggs, and the pigs make good use of things that might otherwise be wasted.

Looking at it that way, the farm isn’t just an expense.

It’s also a producer.

The hay truck arrived later in the morning, followed by the tractor hired to unload the round bales. Everything went smoothly, except for one thing I’d suspected all along.

The tractor was simply too large to get the hay where I ultimately wanted it.

Once the truck and tractor had gone, and everyone had been paid, I stood looking at several thousand pounds of hay that still needed moving.

Over the past few years I’ve learned that farming isn’t always about brute strength.

It’s about patience.

It’s about leverage.

Sometimes it’s about moving a mountain… one inch at a time.

These larger round bales, roughly 48 by 52 inches and weighing somewhere around 700 pounds each, weren’t going to move themselves.

I laid down pallets where I wanted them.

Then I began.

A little push.

A little lean.

Shift my hands.

Find the balance point.

Let gravity become my partner instead of my enemy.

One by one, the bales tipped upright onto fresh pallets.

The four bales that had been sitting completely outside the entrance to the carport gradually worked their way under cover.

Then I turned my attention to the two large bales and one slightly smaller bale beside the barn.

Using a couple of boards as ramps, careful positioning, and plenty of patience, I slowly rolled each bale onto waiting pallets.

The smaller bale decided it had ideas of its own and rolled farther than I intended, but after a little persuasion—and quite a bit of leverage—it, too, ended up where I wanted it.

By the time I finished, I knew something important.

I could move these bales.

Not quickly.

Not easily.

But they could be moved.

There’s still room farther into the carport for another four to six bales once I gather more pallets and devise another way of flipping and rolling them deeper inside.

That’s a puzzle for another day.

Lucy kept us guessing once again. She seemed quieter than usual and I briefly wondered if kidding was finally about to begin. She happily ate her grain before I left, showing no obvious signs that the time had arrived, but Mary kindly agreed to keep an eye on her through the afternoon.

The day still had one more surprise in store.

As the afternoon unfolded, something else made itself available.

Time.

And just as importantly, Pete and Maxine arrived with their half-ton truck.

Instead of putting off this month’s feed until another day, we decided to go.

Twenty-five bags.

Twenty-five kilograms each.

More than 1,300 pounds of livestock feed.

Back at Briden Farm, every bag had to be unloaded.

Then about half of that feed needed to be mixed by hand before it could be stored.

Bag after bag.

Shovel after shovel.

Different grains blended together into a balanced ration.

The remaining bags were loaded into the wheelbarrow and hauled to the house.

One trip.

Then another.

Then another.

People often picture a farm with a large bank barn or a spacious feed room.

Briden Farm doesn’t have that luxury.

One of the challenges of a small homestead is simply finding somewhere dry and rodent-proof to store feed.

So, for now…

The feed comes into the house.

Not exactly what most people imagine when they think of country living.

But that’s the reality of making do with what you have.

Every farm has its challenges.

Every farm finds its own solutions.

By the time supper rolled around, I was feeling every hay bale, every feed bag, and every wheelbarrow load.

Supper was simple.

Leftover roast lamb, cut into pieces and fried with yesterday’s baked potatoes and a generous helping of sauerkraut browned in the same pan.

One of my favourite comfort meals after a hard day’s work.

I had hoped to take a picture for today’s journal, but somewhere during the day my iPad had disappeared.

Convinced I’d left it in the truck, I made the ten-minute walk through the woods to the neighbours’ place by the barn.

We searched the truck.

Nothing.

I checked the barn.

Lucy still hadn’t kidded.

The sheep were content.

The goats were content.

Still no iPad.

Rather than climb back over the hill through the woods, I chose the longer but easier route home along Bell Road and River Road.

Sometimes, when you’re tired, the easier path isn’t the shortest one.

Back at home I searched once more.

Then I remembered showing the neighbours one of the broody hens and her little family earlier in the day.

There, sitting quietly on top of the little broody house…

…was my iPad.

Exactly where I’d left it.

Some mysteries solve themselves.

As dusk settled over Briden Farm, I tucked the broodies and their chicks safely into their houses, closed up the chicken coop, and made one last round of the farm.

Everything was quiet.

Everything was settled.

Only this morning did I realize I’d forgotten something else.

For the first time since beginning these daily journals…

I forgot to publish Today at Briden Farm on the day it happened.

After a day of moving mountains of hay, mixing more than 1,300 pounds of feed, searching for a missing iPad, and putting a farm to bed…

I suppose that’s forgivable.

After all…

Sometimes life on a farm writes its own schedule.

And sometimes…

the journal simply has to wait until morning.