Walton Conway
The Day Lily
The Day Lily
Betty Miller Conway
Frogs and Toads

I almost stepped on it during a misty walk with Piper the other night. Big as a dessert plate with brown and black mottling and bulging eyes, the toad was peacefully sitting on our rock sidewalk. His colors blended into the stone so artfully that at first, I thought that he was a stone. He blinked in the glare of my flashlight and then stared me down. Not in a confrontational way, or defensively. It was more of a “I’m here minding my own business waiting for a fly-by dinner, please do not disturb” kind of look. I didn’t disturb him, and luckily Piper did not put him in the chipmunk category and bother him either.

Frogs and Toads
Betty Miller Conway
Big Yellow School Buses

The line of traffic stretches all the way down King Street as hordes of SUV’s, many with luggage carriers, snake their way towards campus. It is a warm August day, and everyone has their windows rolled up to optimize the refrigerated air in their cars. But occasionally, I see an open window defying the heat and exhaust smell as asome enthusiastic young personl in an Appalachian State University t-shirt leans out and waves excitedly at someone else in the car line.

I sigh as I sit (not so patiently) in this long line of traffic. Apparently, I have chosen a bad day to go the feed store

Big Yellow School Buses
Betty Miller Conway
Doorknobs

My youngest left for a new job in Idaho last week. I put my winter coat over my flannel pajamas and followed her to the barn as she said goodbye to Josephine the pig and gave the donkey a quick pat. Her dad handed her a can of corn, and she dutifully threw it to the chickens, the kernels making an orange arc in the air before landing in the muddy barnyard. Then I stood waving, shivering in the cold March wind, as she drove down the driveway and out of sight around the first curve on Willett Miller Road.

She left her doorknob collection behind of course…

Doorknobs
Betty Miller Conway
The Weather Woman

The wind is howling, and the snow is whirling around my windows trying to get in. The forecast is ominous: a foot or more of snow and ice for the North Carolina mountains! But I am prepared. I have filled all the bathtubs with water, bought enough provisions for a winter in Alaska, charged all the phones, and replaced the batteries in our flashlights. I made sure that Walton brought in enough firewood to last at least a month and that he put the scraping blade on the tractor. The animals are safely in the barn with plenty of hay, and our matching set of insulated Carrhart coveralls is hanging in the mudroom, ready for wear. There will be no eggs today.

The Weather Woman

Naming Rites

Naming Rites

When I was a kid, we had a half-grown calf named T-Bone. The name, while prophetic, was not meant to be cruel.  On the contrary, it was meant to save heartache.  When my dad brought home that calf, he wanted to be sure that my sister and I did not treat it as a pet.  The idea was that he would fatten it over the summer and then send it off to the butcher in the fall.  Then, he explained, we could have T-Bone steaks in the winter. 

The plan failed miserably. T-Bone turned out to be an endearing little fellow with big brown eyes and ears that begged to be scratched.  Since he was alone on the mountain hillside, he would eat his fill of green grass and then lie in the shade near the yard fence and watch us come and go.  He loved to lick salt right out of our hands.  He did this cute little sideways cartwheel of joy when he saw us coming. 

Not surprisingly, when winter came and it was time to send T-Bone to the butcher, my dad had a mutiny on his hands.

Mother Hens

Mother Hens

t is a cool, quiet evening on the farm.  Twilight.  The lightening bugs are just starting to flicker, and the dark is settling in and making itself at home for the night.  It’s my turn to do night rounds, so I walk quietly from shed to shed, making sure all of the poultry and animals are in for the night and then shutting their doors to keep them safe until morning.  Josephine, the pig, has to be cajoled into her bed with a handful of corn, but otherwise all of the creatures are in their places and peaceful.  By the time I get to the last cage it is fully dark, and I can see a sliver of moon rising over Willett Miller Road.  As I shine the flashlight into the cage, the light catches the nest box, and I hear the warning cluck of a mother hen.  She is sitting there glaring at me—puffed up like a brown and black feathered balloon.

Aislinn's Challenge: Old-Time Living at the Pioneer Homestead

Aislinn's Challenge: Old-Time Living at the Pioneer Homestead

Staying at the Pioneer House was one of the best experiences of my life.  I am no longer intimidated by the thought of no electricity, indoor plumbing, or Wi-Fi.  In fact, I would consider doing something like this again.  It was a very refreshing and fun experience.  Interacting with the animals, whether it was feeding chickens, petting dogs, moving rabbits or watching the horses from the front porch, was a highlight for me.  I know having animals is a lot of work, but it is fun too.   I hope to have a lot of animals when I grow up.  We did have to make adjustments in what we ate and when, but we decided that cooking on the wood-fire stove was less difficult than we thought it would be.  Getting time to spend with each other playing games was something I really relished…. 

Three in One:  The Tale of a Split Rail Fence

Three in One:  The Tale of a Split Rail Fence

Honey, it’s high time you cut down that ol’ dead tulip tree down by the ponds,” says Maw as we’re getting out of bed on a beautiful spring Saturday.  “That thing's gonna fall one day and you know it’s gonna clobber one of my pretty horses.  Probably Snowie, and she’s my favorite.”

“But Jake and the boys are coming over and we’re going fishing down at the river today,” I plead.  “Fishing season’s just opened up and if we don’t get down there in a hurry all the easy catching will be caught up and we’ll not have anything for dinner but beans and maybe a cake of cornbread.  And you’ve been telling me for some time you’ve been craving a little meat on the plate.”

“There’ll be time for fishing by and by,” she says.  “I’m more worried about that ol’ tree.  

Spring Saddle Cleaning

Spring Saddle Cleaning

Some women clean their houses the first pretty day of spring.  Not me--I clean my saddles. It’s a ritual that my pragmatic husband thinks is kind of silly.  After all, he reasons, if he had a day free to spend at the barn, he would ride horses (dirty tack and all) instead of worrying about what their saddles look like.  I get his point.  Riding horses is way more fun than dragging six or more saddles, bridles, and assorted leather trappings out of a dusty tack room and washing, oiling, and polishing all the leather. It takes most of the day, and sometimes by the end, I’m about too tired to lug those fifty pound saddles back in and heave them up to their perches in the tack room, knowing that they will only get filmy with dust and moldy with horse sweat again.

Nevertheless, I do it every spring. It is a habit I learned from my father. A horseman all his life, he was never was able

The Timekeeper

The Timekeeper

The pocket watch had a shiny silver-toned back, a big honest face, and it ticked loudly. I was maybe five or six when I got it, but I remember it clearly.  It was the sixties, but you would have never known it in the little mountain town of Boone where I grew up. Time moved slowly there.  I purchased the watch at the local dime store down town.  It was extra special to me because I had bought it with my own allowance money. I think that the watch cost a dollar.  I’m not quite sure why I preferred a pocket watch over a doll or stuffed animal, but I carried it around in my blue jeans pocket with pride, and I smiled every time I heard that loud, echoing ticking with its never ceasing reminder of the passing of time.

Pig Tales

Pig Tales

The year that she turned six, my youngest daughter put a pig on her birthday list. The pig was part of a list that also included sparkly gel pens, a new purple backpack for first grade, and a pink leotard for her just-enrolled dance class. But the pig was at the top.  Since Lina was so young, I figured that she could not be serious.  After all this practical little girl with long braids and steady eyes—the kid who never begged for anything--surely didn’t really want a pig. I tried to talk her into a Barbie instead.  It would be so much easier, I pointed out, since we wouldn’t have to feed it. No deal.  Lina looked at me with earnest eyes and explained that any girl could have a Barbie—but that she wanted a pig.  We had a farm so we needed a pig, she reasoned, and a pig would be “way, way better than a Barbie.”

The Mountain Minor

The Mountain Minor

We are thrilled to host The Mountain Minor filming on the farm.   We appreciate their passion for our  Appalachian region--and for the very authentic and sincere story that the movie relates.  Our farm dog Heidi (aka the dog star!) adored being the center of attention, and our family loved the sound of fiddle music filling up the holler and elevating everyday farm life into a concert.

Spring on the farm

Spring continues to unfold around us in greens and golds. We are reminded of the Robert Frost poem :

Nature's first green is gold, 
Her hardest hue to hold. 
Her early leaf's a flower; 
But only so an hour. 
Then leaf subsides to leaf. 
So Eden sank to grief, 
So dawn goes down to day. 
Nothing gold can stay. 

Wishing all of you happy planting and beautiful beginnings ...

A Real Mountain Woman

A Real Mountain Woman

A real mountain woman is supposed to be tough enough to wring the head off of a chicken and serve the bird up to a whole passel of younguns. She has to know how to use a shotgun, an ax, and an outhouse even as she sings old ballads and tells enchanting tales by the fire at night. In short she’s supposed to be more comfortable with the world the way it was a hundred years ago than the way it is now. 

Willet ponds farm, LLC

 
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Located in Todd, NC
(828) 297-6573