The Unvarnished Truth: Why My Farm Looks Like a Glorious Dumpster Fire (and Maybe Yours Does Too)
Ever scroll through the seemingly endless stream of picture-perfect farms and homesteads on Instagram or other social media platforms? You know the ones – bathed in golden light, every fence line straight, every tool neatly hung, exuding an almost ethereal, magical charm that makes you yearn for your own slice of rural paradise. But then, the stark reality hits. You glance around at the farms in your own neck of the woods, or perhaps even your own, and they often bear a striking resemblance to… well, this.
Yeah, welcome to Gold Shaw Farm, currently resembling a dumpster fire of epic proportions. We've got junk artfully (or perhaps haphazardly) arranged in the yard, piles reaching impressive new heights, buckets and boxes scattered like confetti after a very messy party. My farm, in its current state, is less "pastoral idyll" and more "post-apocalyptic yard sale." There's a busted rake leaning precariously against a fence that's seen better centuries. My ADHD-fueled chore management system is, shall we say, a work in progress. I'm fairly certain my neighbors slow down their cars not to admire the burgeoning crops, but to marvel at the sheer, unadulterated chaos of my personal "dumpster poblano." And yes, those cattle panels behind me? They're not winning any beauty contests either.
The internet, my friends, is a curated highlight reel, not the gritty, unedited reality of life – especially farm life. And there are actually a couple of very valid reasons why farms often look… well, lived-in. Particularly why my farm often looks like it's starring in its own disaster movie. Today, I want to pull back the curtain a bit, talk about this phenomenon, and maybe even attempt to do something to improve the aesthetic situation here at Gold Shaw Farm. Of course, any semblance of order will require the unwavering assistance of my trusty livestock guardian dogs. "Hey guys, how's it going inside? Let's go! Come on! You already just peed on that manure pile!" The truth is, I don't want my farm to look like a garbage heap. I acknowledge the mess, and I also have to admit that it's largely my doing. Kind of. "Rise and grind, weirdos!"
One of the simultaneously best and worst aspects of farming is the sheer breadth of skills it demands. You're not just a caretaker of animals and land; you're also a part-time veterinarian, carpenter, engineer, and marketer. "Release the quacken!" You'll inevitably find yourself dabbling in plumbing, mechanics, and generally becoming a jack (or Jill) of all trades. Consequently, some farmers will naturally excel in certain areas while others… well, not so much. I think the fundamental mindset and skill set that determines whether your farm leans towards "rustic charm" or "industrial wasteland" often boils down to your inherent personality.
Think back to elementary school. The teacher would hand me a piece of paper – homework, a permission slip, whatever bureaucratic artifact of childhood – and my immediate organizational strategy involved shoving it directly into the abyss of my backpack. No folder, no Trapper Keeper, just raw paper against the chaotic contents within, and hoping for the best. The next day, when retrieval was required, it would emerge looking like it had survived a paper shredder malfunction. That, in essence, has been my prevailing organizational philosophy for most of my life. "We got to help Bean the duck find her way to the food and water. Come on, Beanie, it's that way." Bless her heart, she needs a little extra navigational assistance sometimes.
Meanwhile, I had classmates whose desks were paragons of order, their lockers meticulously organized with those fancy pencil holders and strategically placed textbooks. For me, as a kid, the primary goal with my locker was to slam it shut with enough force to compress the contents into a vaguely contained mass so I could make it to my next class on time. That's pretty much how I've navigated my entire existence. Anyone out there in the comments section relate to that beautiful struggle? "Good morning, boys! How's it going?"
Over the years, I've somewhat come to terms with this aspect of my personality. I recognize that this is how my brain is wired. But that doesn't negate the occasional pang of shame or embarrassment when I contemplate my inherent messiness. The number of times I've vowed to turn over a new leaf, the countless New Year's resolutions broken before January even hits double digits – it's practically an annual tradition. As my wife often playfully (and pointedly) reminds me, "You said 'new you,' you knew me, but it's 'Maring' you're still the same train wreck in sweatpants!" (The sweatpants comment is a recurring theme, apparently their olfactory profile leaves something to be desired).
So, when people ponder the pervasive messiness of farms, one of the primary reasons, arguably the main reason, often boils down to the farmer themselves and their inherent organizational proclivities. As I mentioned, farming demands a diverse skillset, and sometimes, operational excellence and tidiness simply aren't in your personal wheelhouse. "Hey, what sort of mischief are you goats getting into here? Yeah, you have to check out everything that's up here. Please don't…" Abby, bless her diligent heart, does her best to keep the perpetually curious goats in check, but their inherent sassiness often prevails. "I love you, buddy. Yeah, yeah, rubbing Linney's head. Yeah, scratch it, scratch Lauren's head, he loves the scratches and scratches, yes he does." While the goats enjoy a varied diet of weeds, tree trimmings, and alfalfa, what their mischievous little hearts truly desire is the forbidden fruit of chicken feed. They're always on the lookout for any opportunity to pilfer a pellet or two. "Lauren, what are you doing, kid? Oh, like, yeah, see, there's one lone chicken layer pellet right here that was sitting right there, and he smelled it out and he was trying to get it. Come on, Barnaby, get down!" These boys are far too much trouble to have wandering unsupervised this morning, especially with the amount of cleaning work I need to tackle. "Come on back in the pen, boys."
I have a friend named Zach who runs a farm just a few miles from here, and he is my polar opposite in this regard. He's incredibly organized, meticulously tidy, with a brilliant operational mind that can orchestrate tasks with remarkable efficiency. Visiting his farm often leaves me with a profound sense of inadequacy as I witness his perfectly arranged tools and clutter-free spaces. It genuinely makes me wonder, "Why can't I do that?" Case in point: these chicken feeders have been sitting on this counter for weeks now, and I haven't bothered to move, clean, or store them. My mind is perpetually racing in a million different directions, and these inanimate objects practically become invisible, no more significant than a fallen leaf – something not deemed worthy of immediate attention. And don't even get me started on this water pump situation – a truly embarrassing testament to my cluttered and messy tendencies. Again, all my fault.
I've tried, countless times, to embrace a new, more organized existence. Whether it's exploring new organizational systems or attempting to glean wisdom from Marie Kondo-esque decluttering guides. Before even starting this farm, I devoured Ben Hartman's "The Lean Farmer," a book brimming with phenomenal advice that I have consistently failed to adhere to. Ultimately, I'm realizing that this level of meticulous organization isn't my natural default state, and I need to acknowledge that and find alternative ways to operate.
But the other reality is, it's inherently challenging to be a farmer and not accumulate a certain degree of… well, "stuff." Back in my city-dwelling days, living in a house under a thousand square feet, my wife was constantly on my case about my clutter. I even attempted the Marie Kondo method, diligently sorting through my possessions, determining what sparked joy, and assigning everything a designated place. For a glorious two to three months, I actually managed to maintain it. But as time wore on, my resolve weakened, the system crumbled, and I inevitably reverted to my natural state of organized chaos (mostly chaos). The reason this is relevant to farm life is that the "joy sparking" metric doesn't quite translate when you're surrounded by functional, practical items that you feel you need to hang onto "just in case." And more often than not, that "just in case" scenario actually materializes. Take this watering system I used for the ducks this morning. Every single component was recycled from other forgotten bits and pieces I had been storing around the farm, thinking they might prove useful someday. "Gosh, I got to… I don't need that hat, 'cause it's really getting kind of warm. It's like, I don't know, 45 degrees now at this point this morning, too warm for a toque."
While the potential for future use offers a valid excuse for some of the farm's… "inventory," I also have to admit that I often take it to an extreme. That pile of hoses has been languishing there for probably three weeks now, simply because I've been too busy and distracted to deal with it. This highlights another key aspect of farm messiness: on a small farm, especially a solo operation with numerous interconnected tasks, your time and attention are constantly being pulled in a million different directions. The task that inevitably gets pushed to the bottom of the priority list is the one you enjoy the least. And while I appreciate the aesthetic of a beautiful, clean farm, the work required to achieve and maintain that state is decidedly not my favorite.
Along with my struggles with tidiness and organization, I also have a tendency to be somewhat… inattentive to details. Case in point: I was attempting to set up a cattle shelter for the winter. All the females will be housed over here, and after a couple of years of observing my Scottish Highland cattle, I've learned they have a strong aversion to actually going inside the barn. They much prefer the great outdoors. So, rather than constructing a permanent structure, I opted for a temporary solution this year. About four months ago, I ordered these corral covers that are designed to stretch across standard cattle panels, creating a simple shelter. My plan was to set up a few of them along this area. This approach also offers the flexibility to easily segregate a mother and calf if needed during the winter. I found what looked like the perfect solution online. Imagine, right there, one of these setups, offering basic protection from the elements. However, in a moment of classic Morgan oversight, I completely misinterpreted the product description. When it said "frame and cover not included," I assumed "frame" referred to the cattle panels themselves. What it also meant was the actual hardware required to attach the cover – poles, supports, the whole shebang – wasn't included either. So, what I have here is essentially a collection of ropes, tarps, and ratchet straps, and I'm now facing a scramble over the next week or two to devise some sort of makeshift solution.
But as I'm pondering this predicament, it perfectly illustrates the point we were discussing earlier. As a farmer, you feel compelled to hold onto a multitude of seemingly random items because you never know when they might become essential. Right now, I don't need those extra gates, but I likely will in the future, so discarding them feels wasteful. Similarly, I dismantled a temporary equipment shelter a couple of years ago that I haven't needed recently, and the components are just sitting in a corner. I wonder if any of that could be repurposed? Nope, unfortunately, the span of that structure is ten feet, and my corral panels are twelve feet wide. So, that's not going to work. It looks like I'll be embarking on a quest to find a twelve-foot arch to create a proper corral cover for my cattle.
I had envisioned this whole video being a neat little narrative where my packrat tendencies ironically saved the day. But alas, that is not the case. By the way, in case you were curious, the boys – my bull and steer – will have access to the barn over here. So, while the ladies will require some form of cover before the anticipated snowfall next week (hence the urgency of moving them down here in the next couple of days), the gentlemen will have more traditional shelter. I have a few days to figure this all out, and I can practically hear your silent (and probably justified) judgment echoing in the comments.
But I suppose the important takeaway from all of this, whether it's my disorganization or my occasional inattentiveness to crucial details, is the recognition that we all have our own unique blend of strengths and weaknesses. My ADHD brain doesn't exactly streamline the processes of organization, tidiness, and putting things back where they belong. It prefers the thrill of bouncing between a dozen different tasks rather than focusing on the minutiae that prevents logistical snafus, like, say, the fact that the cattle shelters I thought I purchased lack the actual structural components needed to, you know, be cattle shelters. At the same time, I believe I possess other strengths. So, if you're out there watching this and identify with my struggles, if you too feel the weight of your own "dumpster fire," give yourself a little grace. Take a breath. Sure, strive for improvement, try to keep things from descending into complete chaos, but also acknowledge your own unique talents and the qualities that make you, you. Don't beat yourself up too much. That's what I'm going to try to do, right alongside the frantic search for twelve-foot arch supports. Thanks for watching, everybody.