Seeds on the Porch, Fencing Plans, and the Gift of a Neighbor’s Voice
Today started with soil under my fingernails and ended with the sound of laughter across a porch rail. If that doesn’t sum up the rhythm of homestead life, I don’t know what does.
It was one of those rare Fridays where the pace slowed just enough to let me breathe, reflect, and get my hands in the dirt without constantly checking the clock.
No emergencies. No broken gates. No goat jailbreaks.
Just seeds, sunlight, and a reminder that even out here—where I do so much alone—connection still matters.
Morning: Seed Starting with Coffee and a View
I set up my seed trays on the front porch today, instead of in the barn or shed like usual. The sun was warming the wood planks, the birds were in full song, and the goats were still dozing in their shelter like little lumps of trouble wrapped in fur.
I had six trays lined up and ready, pre-filled with starter mix I made last week from sifted compost, peat, and a bit of sand.
Here’s what went in today:
- Basil, both Genovese and lemon
- Holy basil (tulsi)—my first time trying it
- Calendula, because it never fails to lift my spirits (and help the chickens with minor skin irritations)
- Zinnias, just because they’re joyful
- Cucumbers, both pickling and slicing types
- Marigolds, my favorite pest patrol
Each seed pressed gently into soil with the back of a pencil. Each row labeled with a popsicle stick and hope.
It’s simple work, starting seeds. But it never feels small. Because in those trays are future meals, future bouquets, future medicine, and memories waiting to bloom.
And doing it from the porch—coffee on the railing, goats snoring softly in the distance—made the task feel like a gift, not a chore.
Chick Check and Tiny Feathers
I paused around mid-morning to check on the brooder, and sure enough, the chicks are entering that awkward half-fluff, half-feather phase. A few are already testing their wings, launching themselves off the feeder with all the grace of a potato.
No pasty butt. No sluggish behavior. They’re thriving.
I cleaned the waterer again (because they will scratch bedding into it within seconds), topped off feed, and gave the bedding a good fluff. Then I sat nearby for a while and just… watched.
There’s a peace in that.
Some folks think you have to constantly be doing to be productive. But homesteading has taught me that sometimes, the best work you can do is observe. Quietly. Consistently. That’s how you catch problems before they become crises. That’s how you learn what your animals, plants, and land need.
Afternoon: Pacing the Pig Pen
With seedlings tucked in, I turned my attention to the next big task on the horizon: pigs.
I’m planning to bring in two feeder pigs next month. It’s been a few years since I raised them, but with meat prices the way they are, and my compost pile thriving, it just makes sense.
I spent the early afternoon pacing the spot I’ve chosen—a shaded clearing near the edge of the east pasture. There’s natural shelter from trees, a slope for drainage, and easy access to the water spigot.
I brought a notepad and sketched a rough plan for the fencing layout:
- Four 16-foot panels
- One hog panel for the gate
- T-posts spaced every 8 feet
- Electric wire about 8 inches up (after the first week—gotta train them)
I still need to haul the panels out and set the corner posts, but walking the space, imagining the pigs rooting around, made it real.
It’s always like that. You dream it, sketch it, pace it… and then one day, it’s happening.
A Porch Visit and a Familiar Voice
Just as I was putting tools away, I heard a truck roll up the gravel drive.
It was Eli, my neighbor from two ridges over. He’s in his sixties, retired from the Forest Service, and sharp as a tack. We don’t see each other often, but when we do, we talk.
He brought me a spool of heavy-gauge wire he found in his barn, “figured you might need it for that pig pen,” and stayed for coffee.
We sat on the porch—me still in my dirt-covered overalls, him with his faded ball cap—and talked about everything from pasture rotation to the best place to get hog feed in bulk right now.
But we also talked about life.
He lost his wife three winters ago. Still wears his ring. Still keeps her photo in the glovebox. And today, he told me he’s thinking about planting daffodils by her grave this year. “She always liked the ones with the orange centers,” he said.
It stopped me for a minute. Because here I am, fretting about fencing and garden spacing, and Eli is thinking about remembrance and beauty.
It reminded me that this homestead life isn’t just about survival. It’s about meaning. About honoring the people, memories, and places that made us who we are.
Supper and Stillness
Dinner tonight was eaten late and with quiet gratitude:
- Goat cheese and chive omelet
- A fresh salad of spinach, dandelion greens, and violet blossoms
- A biscuit left over from yesterday, reheated with a bit of butter and wildflower honey
I sat with my plate on the porch steps again, watching the sun turn everything gold.
The seed trays were still lined up where I left them, soaking up the last bit of warmth.
And I thought to myself: this life—hard and honest and sweaty and raw—is enough. More than enough, really.
Final Thoughts
Today didn’t rush me. It didn’t test me. It just let me be here.
To plant. To plan. To listen.
The chicks are growing. The seedlings are tucked in. The pig pen is in motion. And I was reminded, through a neighbor’s voice, that connection—human to human—is just as vital as compost and feed and sunlight.
Tomorrow, I’ll tackle that fencing in earnest. Probably fight with a post or two. Maybe finish the row cover hoops over the carrot bed if time allows.
But tonight, I’m holding space for both the practical and the poetic.
Until tomorrow—
Amanda @ Wister Creek