Feed Store Conversations, Green Abundance, and Rest Between the Rows
Some days, the work is in the going. Not in the planting or the hauling or the fixing, but in the errands—those necessary trips to town that break the rhythm of the homestead while quietly reminding me just how much I rely on this land… and the people around it.
I headed to town early this morning, hoping to beat the weekend rush at No.3 Farm Supply. It’s the kind of place that smells like cracked corn and cedar sawdust, where the same three roosters roam the parking lot like they own the place, and every visit takes at least an hour—even if you only meant to grab grit and feed.
Brooder Prep and a Serendipitous Chat
I needed a few essentials to finish getting ready for the incoming batch of meat chicks—bedding, electrolytes, and a backup heat bulb (because I’ve learned the hard way that heat lamps wait for the coldest night of the week to burn out).
While sorting through pine shavings, I bumped into Eli Simmons, a longtime neighbor I hadn’t seen in a while. He raises hogs just north of town and always seems to have some combination of mud and wisdom on him.
“Thought I might see you soon,” he said, nodding toward the chick aisle. “You gettin’ into broilers?”
I nodded. “Thinking about it. And pigs too.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You ready for that kind of noise?”
I laughed. “Not sure. But I’m clearing space and asking questions.”
“Well,” he said, stroking his beard like he was pondering the meaning of life, “I’ve got a litter due next week. If you want a couple weaners come May, I’ll put your name on the list.”
I didn’t hesitate. “Yes, please.”
And just like that, the possibility shifted into a plan.
The Slow Return Home
I took the back roads on the way home—windows down, arm out the driver’s side, passing green fields and quiet creeks. The dogwoods are blooming, their white petals fluttering like shy flags against the bare woods, and the first flush of wild mustard is brightening the fencelines.
It’s not quite full leaf-out yet, but the land is leaning hard in that direction. Every day, it feels like the trees get a little louder in their greening.
I pulled into the driveway just past noon, greeted by the familiar chorus: chickens clucking near the run, goats bleating like they’ve been starved (they haven’t), and Hazel’s chicks peeping steadily from their warm corner of the coop.
I carried in the feed and supplies, poured myself some cold tea, and sat down to rest for a minute. That’s when I noticed just how tired I was.
The Work We Don’t See
I’ve been pushing pretty hard lately—prepping garden beds, wrangling fence repairs, laying plans for animals not even here yet. And while I love this work, there’s a kind of fatigue that creeps in quiet when you’re always moving forward.
So today, I gave myself permission to rest. Not the collapse-on-the-couch kind of rest, but the active kind—walking the garden slowly, barefoot in the soft dirt, letting myself wander without a task in hand.
I noticed things I might’ve missed otherwise:
- The first bloom on the red clover cover crop
- A carpenter bee inspecting the porch rail like it was sizing up a mortgage
Sometimes, I think the land teaches us to work. But other times, it gently asks us to pause.
Supper from the Soil
Tonight’s meal was humble and full of gratitude:
- A handful of sugar snap peas, just barely ready
- A slice of goat cheese on toasted sourdough
- A boiled egg and fresh greens with a drizzle of cider vinaigrette
It wasn’t fancy. But it was mine. Every part of it except the salt, oil, and vinegar came from this place. That feels important.
That feels like something I want to remember on days when things don’t grow, or when the feed bill stretches thin, or when the pigs (inevitably) escape.
Because days like today remind me what’s possible when you partner with the land instead of just managing it.
Final Thoughts
Today wasn’t flashy. But it was full.
A chance meeting with a neighbor turned into a promise of piglets. A quiet drive revealed how quickly the world is changing colors. And a moment of rest reminded me that the best kind of growth isn’t always visible—it’s often happening inside.
The brooder is ready now. The corner of the pasture is clear. And somewhere out there, a litter of piglets is rooting in fresh straw, completely unaware they’ll be coming to Wister Creek soon enough.
I’ll be ready.
For now, I’m going to watch the sun slip behind the ridge and let myself breathe deep in the stillness. Tomorrow, there will be more to do. There always is. But tonight, I’m choosing gratitude. And tea.
Until tomorrow—
Amanda @ Wister Creek