Compost, Fencing Fixes, and the Good Kind of Tired
Some days, this homestead hands you more than you planned for—but not in a bad way. It’s not always disaster or drama. Sometimes it’s just the kind of extra that wears you out in the best possible way.
Today was like that.
I went to bed last night thinking I’d turn compost and move a few wheelbarrows to the back garden beds. Maybe check the lower pasture fencing. Easy stuff.
Well, the compost pile had other plans. And so did the goats.
The Steam Beneath the Surface
The first real chore of the day was turning the main compost pile.
I uncovered the tarp and was met with a satisfying puff of steam—the kind that fogs up your glasses and tells you your microbes are partying in there. This pile’s been cooking for about six weeks now, built mostly from winter bedding, kitchen scraps, spent hay, and layers of wood chips.
Turning compost isn’t glamorous, but there’s something meditative about it. Fork, flip, breathe. The sweet smell of decomposition—earthy and alive—rises up and wraps around you like a hug from the soil itself.
I added in two new layers: yesterday’s chicken coop bedding and some goat manure from the shelter clean-out. Gave it a quick douse of water and covered it back up like tucking in a sleeping child.
I swear the land smiled back.
Compost to the Garden Beds
Once that was done, I started hauling the finished compost from the older pile to the back garden beds—the ones reserved for tomatoes and peppers this year.
I made four trips with the wheelbarrow, each load darker and richer than the last. Every shovelful felt like progress. Like future salsa and pasta sauce and trays of roasted vegetables still months away but already on their way.
It was warm by mid-morning, and by the third trip, I’d peeled off my flannel and rolled up my sleeves. Sweat dripped down my temples, and my shoulders ached, but I didn’t stop. There's something so deeply satisfying about the visible result of your labor.
The smell of good compost is almost sweet. Earthy, yes, but clean—like forest floor after a rain.
I spread it evenly, raked it smooth, and stood back to admire the bed. Ready for seedlings. Ready for life.
Goat Trouble (Of Course)
Just as I finished my fourth trip, I heard a bang—followed by a very familiar bleat.
I dropped the rake and jogged toward the sound, already muttering, “Please no, not again.”
Rosemary.
Again.
She had her head wedged through the lower corner of the north pasture gate, somehow bending the fencing staples loose and pushing one full panel halfway off its post.
I swear, if she had thumbs, she’d unlock the feed room and throw herself a buffet.
Thankfully, she wasn’t hurt—just stuck and irritated. I freed her, reinforced the gate with a board and some extra wire, and stood there, hands on hips, while she gave me that smug look goats are so good at.
I love her. I do. But some days, I think she was born just to test my patience—and my carpentry.
Midday Meal and Rest
After the fence repair, I treated myself to a break:
- Sliced sourdough with a boiled egg, dandelion greens, and a smear of last summer’s tomato jam
- A glass of lemon balm tea, still warm from the thermos I brought out to the garden
I sat on the barn step, boots off, socks steaming in the sun, and let the breeze cool me down.
It’s moments like that—feet sore, belly full, sun on your face—that remind me I wouldn’t trade this life for anything. It’s work, yes. But it’s work that matters. Work that leaves your hands tired and your soul full.
Afternoon Thoughts and Tomorrow’s Plans
With the compost spread and the goat crisis averted, I used the last of the afternoon light to walk the back fence line. No damage, thankfully. But I marked a few posts that need reinforcing before I bring in pigs. That project’s coming soon—probably sooner than I’m ready for.
I also made a note to start hardening off the tomato seedlings in the porch cold frame. We’re nearly to that sweet spot—warm days, cool nights, and the soil begging to be planted.
The to-do list is long. Always is. But I’ve learned to treat it like a river—let it flow, take it one crossing at a time.
Supper and Reflection
Dinner was simple, eaten cross-legged on the floor near the brooder:
- A skillet hash with potatoes, garden spinach, and a fresh egg cracked in
- A chunk of goat cheese
- A handful of pickled onions I forgot I had in the cellar
The chicks were settling in for the night, quieter now, all tucked in under the lamp. They’ve grown already—more alert, more feather fuzz, more personality.
I sat with them until the sun disappeared completely.
The barn was still. The goats were quiet. The land hummed low and soft, like a lullaby.
Final Thoughts
Today was the good kind of hard.
Not dramatic. Not overwhelming. Just steady work, small problems, clear outcomes. The kind of day that makes you sleep like a rock and wake up sore in the best ways.
It’s easy to get discouraged out here when everything feels behind or broken or in progress. But days like today remind me—slow work is still forward motion.
Compost turns. Seeds wait. Fences sag and get fixed. Goats misbehave and then curl up quietly under a cedar tree.
And through it all, I keep showing up. With dirty boots, tired muscles, and a grateful heart.
Until tomorrow—
Amanda @ Wister Creek