Corrupting the Youth

Socrates and I - we're like two peas in a pod. We both like to hang around all day in comfy clothes, have a little bit extra around the middle, and have been accused of corrupting the youth. For him, of course, the outcome of such accusations didn't go well. (Note to self : stay away from mobs and Hemlock.) Thankfully (at least, so far) no one in any official position who could cause me anything more than minor annoyance has questioned my motives when it comes to teaching. Faithful readers, I am going to let you in on a little secret that some of you might not know - though I am fully trained, licensed, and equipped to be a standard classroom teacher, I would rather take a sound beating than do so.

Let me be clear - I have nothing but the utmost respect for public schools and their superintendents, principals, teachers, etc.... But, I've seen their job, and I do not want it. I don't envy them the gags and tied hands that come with mandated curriculum, the endless carrot and stick of chasing standardized test scores, and the ceaseless internal politics inherent in the system. No, I'd rather circumvent all of that and spend my time corrupti...er, uh, teaching the youth. At first, I started with my own. After all, who better to experiment on than flesh and blood? I'm ultimately responsible for them anyway, so I figure I have the right to corrupt them as much as I want. The thing is - they loved it. Positively thrived. We did all sorts of unorthodox and heretical things - like teaching division before multiplication, coloring outside the lines, introducing ancient history before we even studied basic maps skills, and going out into the world around us to learn about the world around us. It was nuts, but it was working. And, aside from the occasional query about socialization or prom, most people were cool with our choice in lifestyle and education. That is, until the chicken incident.

When I was 25 years old, I embarked on a grand new adventure.. And, because we like we like to do stuff together, my then five-year-old and one-year-old came along for the ride as well. In fact, it was totally a family affair, with three generations of us present and excitedly peering over what I immediately recognized as one of the most powerful science lessons I'd ever taught - the innards of decapitated hen. That's right, the family that butchers together, stays together... or something like that. We processed around 20 birds that day, but the real 'meat' of the experience for me (couldn't help myself there - sorry) was the learning.

Do you know how cool the inside of a chicken looks? Are you aware of the amazing similarities (and differences) between chicken anatomy and human anatomy? If you are, you'll know what a privilege it is to see God's handiwork laid out in front of you even as you experience it silently humming away inside of you. If you're not, you're probably still worriedly wondering where your gizzard is. At any rate, just as our roundabout explorations of division and multiplication had taught me more about math than I had ever previously known, and our forays into the real world taught me more about life than I had learned in my 17 years of formal education, that one day showed me the reality of the scripture that says we are fearfully and wonderfully made better than just about any other thing I had experienced during my first quarter-century of life. Wow. I was hooked.

I started telling everyone I knew about the experience. My children excitedly chimed in in the background, "tell 'em about the guts, mommy! Tell 'em about the guts!" However, instead of being met with enthusiasm or curiosity, people looked at me like I was covered in innards, and not just talking about them. Apparently, not everyone is on board with allowing children to see nature at its best. In fact, one person suggested that I was damaging my children's psyches, and another went so far as to suggest that this was borderline child abuse. There I go again - corrupting the youth. Socrates, my friend, I feel your pain.

Well, wasn't this a fine mess I'd gotten myself into? What was I to do? On the one hand, I could choose to deny myself and my children the opportunity to learn about the glorious handiwork of our Creator in order to shield them from whatever unpleasantness it was that such opportunities supposedly contained. On the other hand, I could - well - just not. I could just not care what people thought. I could just just not worry about the opinions of others. I could just not take the conventional road. Hmmm... what to do, what to do?

Our next butchering experience was even more fantastic - hogs. Wow! We then moved on in quick succession to sheep and goats. It was glorious. Not only did we get to enjoy (and learn about!) the lifecycle of animals raised in fresh air and sunshine, but we also got to give our beloved livestock a quick, painless, and humane end. (And, of course, there was also all that fresh, yummy, healthy meat.)  My kids can tell a spleen from a kidney. They know not to contaminate the work surface with bile. And, more importantly, they also know where to find the bile and what it looks like. We have poked and prodded, stuck our fingers down aortas, tested the strength and stretch of various tissues, and even laid out whole body systems to explore.

After a while, the enthusiasm my children had could not be contained, and they began (once again) telling friends and family about their experiences. Slowly, reluctantly, even painfully people started coming around to at least being willing to be curious, if not entirely certain about whether to join in the fun or run for the hills. Eventually, with much coaxing and encouragement, butchering day at our house became a social occasion. There would be curious eyes and tentative fingers everywhere as we talked our way through anatomy and biology and chemistry and theology. It had happened - I had branched out beyond just corrupting my own youth, and had started doing so to my children's friends as well. When would it end?

I suppose there must have been a point at which Socrates knew he had crossed the line. Somewhere along the way he had gone from being an educational pariah to a local hero because of his unorthodox traveling classroom and his endless rhetorical questions, but he had to push it. He couldn't be content just raising awareness, introducing new ideas, and living outside the status quo.  Boy, do Socrates and I ever have a lot in common! I, too, have kept pushing. I speak openly, now, about how much fun it is to home school. I no longer fear to tell people that we choose real-world experiences (even butchering!) to augment our learning. And, just last week, I did the unthinkable and brought a set of sheep lungs, complete with trachea, to forty or so young children between the ages of five and twelve. That's right - I was no longer taking the children to the guts, but had branched out into taking the guts to the children.

It was a beautiful specimen - very pink and healthy and fully intact. The initial 'ewwww's changed to 'oooohhhh's when the kids first got to see the lungs up close and experience their beauty and magic. The best part of the day were the excited 'aaahhhhhh!'s that came when I inflated the lungs to their full capacity. Now those kids fully and deeply know what I learned and my kids learned during our first day of butchering - indeed, we are fearfully and wonderfully made.


So, I guess I have a choice to make once again. Am I going to learn from my buddy Socrates and back off before the disapproving crowd rushes in, or will I (like he) continue to corrupt the youth every chance I get? Tough decision. Hmmm.... what to do, what to do? I guess I'll have to get back to you on that. Next week I'm supposed to be teaching about the nervous system, and if I'm going to have a brain to take in, I need to start making phone calls.

(p.s. - I really did inflate a set of sheep lungs, and it really was a rockin' experience. You can see the video for yourself here. Science and learning are cool.)

Beauty in the Beast

Warning - this post may be offensive or uncomfortable to some, as it deals in detail with the process of butchering animals. It may also lead you to question how firm my hold on reality is, which is ok with me. What's so great about reality, anyway?

Yesterday I helped butcher goats. Due to time, space, and material constraints, we were not able to do the whole process ourselves. Instead, we took them to a local Amish home, where two generations of experienced (and newly-certified) Amish men killed, gutted, skinned, and cut up the three goats that had been living in my pasture for the past 2 months or so. (If that last statement is too graphic or matter-of-fact, stop reading now. You won't like the rest).

These folks, like so many other Amish families (and like almost all families 100 years ago) still do their own meat processing. Seeing that quality butchering at a reasonable price was a need that was not being met, they started doing custom butchering for others as well. Because of their skill and efficiency, their reputation had grown. This summer they often handled upwards of 100 chickens, 30 goats and/or lambs, and other animals (including hogs and small beefs) each and every Saturday morning. The customers they served were usually immigrants from other nations who had been unable to find the type and cuts of meats they were accustomed to before they discovered the Miller farm. Saturday mornings there were like a combination of the U.N. and the original Jewish temple - with people and animals of all kinds milling about, chaos being kept in check only by a handful of calm and careful Amish men and women. These people had 50 years of experience, hundreds of satisfied customers, and were serving a need for an otherwise under-served population. It was a dream come true - a system that was working well for all involved - so the Government decided to step in.

In order to get certified, they had to spend hundreds of dollars modifying their slaughter house, close down for months (leaving people without a place to get quality, clean, custom meat), and jump through the usual red-tape covered hoops. Yesterday was their first day back in operation. They had to start by having the inspector there to teach them how to butcher animals. My heart went out to them. It's a good thing pride isn't encouraged in the Amish faith, because otherwise having an outsider come and tell you your business might have been too much to swallow.

The upside was that by yesterday afternoon the inspector trusted them enough to let them go it alone, albeit with the warning that she could and would be stopping by unannounced any time she cared to in order to ensure that they were doing things correctly. I'm sure they'll be careful to keep the Clorox use high, and the beard covers firmly in place. (Yep -  you read it right. Think of a hair net, only upside down. The string goes over their ears, I believe, with their long beards tucked neatly into a little facial hair snood. Kind of stylish, in a strange sort of way...)

Anyway, because of the new regulations that they have to follow, I couldn't even watch the meat being processed, let alone help. I was a bit disappointed to have not been able to participate in the slaughter itself. It's not that I delight in killing anything, but I have been responsible for these animals for a good part of their lives (I even helped bottle feed them when they were but a few days old). Since I took on the responsibility for these creatures, I like to be able to ensure that their end is as humane and dignified as the rest of their lives was. More than that, however, is the strange beauty to be found inside of each and every beast.

I know, it sounds gross, but you've never experienced the fullness of God's handiwork until you understand just how fearfully and wonderfully made His creation really is. I've reached inside chickens, stood before halved hogs, and watched as the insides of a lamb cooled in the chilly fall air. Each and every time I am in awe. Everything fits so precisely. Each piece has its own function, but also its own color and texture. There is a palette of colors unique to the inside of us that is even more fantastic that the ones we display each and every day on the outside. Have you ever seen the muscle of a gizzard? It is iridescent, like a subtle rainbow striated by white lines that radiate out from the center. As the gizzard cools, the shine reduces, until it fades almost to a dark wine color by the time you're done processing the animal.

The subtle beauty of a gizzard is in stark contrast to the surprisingly bright color of bile, found in the gall bladder of animals. It ranges from a vivid, kelly green in chickens, to a color and consistency reminiscent of pure green tempera paint in lambs,  to an almost glowing neon color in hogs. The fact that it's potent and bitter and nasty (and can contaminate entire carcasses with just a few drops spilled) is beside the point. When you see it, glistening inside the gall bladder or spilled out onto the ground, you can't deny how beautiful it is. Ever seen the bubblegum pink of a lung? The pale, ribbed lining of a stomach? The rich and deep burgundy of a liver, with its smooth, rubbery texture? The color-filled cones and rods behind the eye? The soft and irresistible grey of a brain? They compel you to look, to touch, to experience.

It's often said that children, like in the story of the Emperor's New Clothes, are the truth tellers of society. I know that my children have been influenced a bit differently than others. They delight in all aspects of raising animals, including butchering. My middle daughter clamors to see the spleen (her favorite part - both pulpy and dense at the same time, and an attractive, deep ruby color), but I am willing to bet that most children, removed from the stigma imposed by society, would find beauty inside animals. Heck, even grown ups who were taught to fear death and loathe butchering have found themselves strangely engrossed by the insides of a healthy animal when given the chance to experience butchering day at the Farrier Farm. The ones who used to come to have their animals slaughtered under the careful hand of the Miller clan in their breezy front yard all those Saturday mornings this summer found that to be true as well. Not only did they get to have their meat and eat it too - and in ways that upheld both their traditions and culinary desires - but they also got a lesson in  in life and in beauty.

Am I crazy? Beauty in butchering, in blood and bone, in death? Turns out, there is a strange irony in all of this (besides just the irony of Amish families having to wear beard covers. Is that a religious violation?  Hmm...). When push comes to shove - I've discovered that guts don't turn stomachs nearly as much as people think they will. The beauty, dignity, and flavor of an animal well raised and butchered isn't nearly as distasteful to the folks around here as the invasive monkey wrench of over-regulation that brought a well-oiled machine to a halt.

I know, I know - The powers that be may be trying to save us from the horror of death, the gore and mess of dismemberment, the risk of coming into contact with the reality of what it means to be a carnivore. But, the outcome of their actions really is that now there is yet one more barrier between folks who are interested in experiencing life on its most natural and simple level, and the beauty that is to be found in that lifestyle. In my neck of the woods we just traded beauty of the beasts for the beastly protection of oversight, and it wasn't a pretty process.

Rondo Meets Bambi

Last night my husband hit a deer. That's life in the fast lane in Iowa. It was bound to happen eventually, of course, but I didn't particularly care for the timing of it all. Not only was I in the hospital staying with a friend for the night, but Mark had all three girls with him, and he was driving my BRAND NEW CAR (a 2009 Denim Blue Kia Rondo) - the first brand new vehicle I've ever owned. Needless to say, the convergence of circumstance could have been better, but no one was hurt, which is all that really matters in the end. Well, that's not exactly true. I know for a fact that the deer was scared poopless, since the evidence of it was all over the driver's side door, but I'm guessing that she sustained other injuries as well. I'm still waiting for a call from her insurance company since she fled the scene

Or, perhaps she didn't flee the scene... Here's where the personality difference comes in. After ascertaining that everyone was fine, my first thought was to ask my husband to track down the deer. I can't help it. I am a scavenger by nature, and though I've never actually brought road kill home for supper, that's only because I couldn't verify that it was fresh enough. Mark, on the other hand, doesn't even care for the fact that he has to see the animals that he eats while still on the hoof (so to speak). He prefers his meat to come pre-cooked and wrapped in cellophane or a burger box. Thankfully, we've been married long enough that I've learned when to think out loud, and when to keep my mouth shut. The mental image of him on the side of the road, staring at our damaged car, checking the girls over, and clutching his cell phone to his ear, waiting for reassurance from his loving wife, helped me do the right thing. No amount of deer burger is worth my husband's sanity.

Had it been me, though, I know things would have gone differently. I would have waded through the ditch, field dressed the deer with my fingernail file kit, drug the carcass onto the roof rack (isn't that what they make roof racks for, after all?), and had the girls help me cut it, wrap it, and get it into the freezer before putting them to bed. After all - if psychiatrists say you can overcome your fears by facing the thing you've got a problem with, then butchering Bambi seems like the ideal way to get over the emotional trauma of having hit a deer, doesn't it? Sounds right to me.

In the end, I can see that I chose correctly when I kept my hunter-gatherer instincts to myself. I really don't have time to process a deer right now, and don't need to be jumping in over my head on yet another project with a pressing deadline. A few deer roast would have been nice, but a hassle-free weekend with my family sounds even better. Since my girls didn't get the chance to have some 'do-it-yourself' therapy, perhaps it's best if we don't have any reminders of the incident hanging around. Besides, I drove by this morning and checked the ditch. Bambi was gone, and so my roadkill record remains clean (for now).

Reprieve

Well, the lambs and goats in my pasture have gotten a stay of execution. They were scheduled to be butchered yesterday, but got a temporary reprieve since my dad ws sick and unable to come help butcher them. "What's that you say? Butcher them!? Surely you mean drive them to a processing plant, don't you?"

Nope. See, we do all our own killin' and guttin' and skinnin' and cuttin' up around here, thank you kindly. When people find that out, the responses range from skeptical but impressed, to ready to call Child Protective Services. One man even called me Laura Ingalls Wilder, saying my survival skills are such that after a nuclear WW III it will just be me and the cockroaches left. (Don't know what I'd have left to butcher if that were the case, but whatever...)

I will admit, that I was not always the 'do-it-yourself' kind of gal that I am now. Contrary to what people might think, I did not grow up raising or butchering animals. In fact, the first thing I actually participated in killing and dismembering (so to speak) was a chicken on my parents' farm about 5 years ago. Funny how far I've come since then!

No, it wasn't that I was cleaning gizzards from the time I was in diapers that brought me to this place. Instead, it's that I am fortunate enough to only have been one generation from people who were cleaning gizzards in diapers. Thankfully, my parents grew up in the time-honored, family-farm tradition of small-town Iowa, and they never forgot their roots. My mom and dad worked their whole adult lives so they could end up literally where they started - cleaning out the barn, baling hay, fixing fences, bottle feeding calves - all on the farm my dad grew up on. They paid their dues so they could earn back their independence.

Their decision to pack it all up, move back to the farm, and start anew (or, perhaps more accurately, 'a-old') was a big turning point in my life. I had already made the decision long before then to live concientiously, but was only walking it out in the shallowest of terms. I knew commerical meat production was dirty business, so I became a vegan. I wanted to do right by the earth, so I only ate organic. I wanted to save fossil fuels and support my local farmers, so I bought at farm stands in our area. I had tried to stop doing the 'wrong' things, and I was doing some of the 'right' things, but I wasn't really doing the best things - not for my body, for the earth, for my community, or for my soul.

Ok, ok... Andrea's gone off the deep end again, equating digging in the dirt with a religous experience. I guess what I'm trying to say is that just doing your best to not live against your principles is a whole different animal than living your principles out each day to the fullest. I believe, at least for me, that true personal satisfaction (that deep-down, in-your-belly, lasting kind of satisfaction) only comes from the latter. 

So, these days I try to do better. I do right by the earth by doing the most I can with MY earth - my garden, my compost pile, my pasture. I support local farmers by visiting the farm stands, but also by getting to know my neighbors, helping them when their cows get out, peeling apples in the shop with them during apple cider season. That is a far more meaningful way to support local farmers than buying a bag of green beans every Saturday. And, I do right by my body by giving it the workout of hauling feed and water, pulling weeds, cleaning out the chicken house. I also choose to give it clean, healthy protein from the animals I raise and butcher.

In doing all of these things, I have found a simple prayerfulness and worship before the Lord that I never before had, a connection to my community I have sought for years, a rhythm for my family that brings us balance, and a connection with my past that grounds me and reminds me of who I am. I have found the expresesion of my desire for concientious living that I sought when I was younger. I have found a way to honor my parents' sacrifice by acknowledging that I, too, will do whatever it takes to continue the tradition and heritage that I received from them and from the generations before them. In short, I received a reprieve from the ordinary, and it sure has been a life saver for me...