Late night feeding… I wasn’t kidding when I told you guys that sweet Magnolia had lost her voice because I was trying to stay away and get her to stop obsessing over me. Can you hear her squeaky cries? Makes me feel sad and giggle at the same time. Oh, Maggie… 😂 #MagnoliaTheGoat #beamansfork #goats (at The Farm at Beaman’s Fork)
Living my best (simple) life with @cobramestatesusa! Harvested olives, toured an olive oil factory, and then of course tasted a lot of olive oil and some farm to fork food! More on my stories! #gloriouslyunrefined
After his parents’ 1957 divorce, Edmund Kemper was devastated to discover that he would be raised by his mother in Montana. Mother and son had an acrimonious relationship: Clarnell Kemper subjected the young Edmund to near-constant emotional abuse, and the boy retaliated with increasingly antisocial behavior, such as killing her cats. In the summer of 1963, Edmund ran away from home in search of his father in California. There, he found that his father had remarried and had another son, and was not exactly pleased to see him. Edmund managed to stay with his father and his father’s new wife for a few years, but soon the couple declared the boy unmanageable, and they sought to send him back to his mother. Edmund’s mother, however, had just remarried, and didn’t want her son ruining her newlywed bliss. So, it was decided that the teenager would live with his paternal grandparents on their farm in North Fork, California. Edmund resented this arrangement, feeling cast aside by both of his parents. He also disliked his grandmother Maude, with whom he had many arguments. Tension grew steadily between them, and Edmund plunged deeper into disturbed fantasy as a measure of escape from the tedium of farm life.
One day, Edmund was sitting at the kitchen table while his grandmother went over proofs of her latest children’s book. The fifteen-year-old had been especially sullen and restless that day. He wanted to go out hunting with the gun that his grandfather had given him, but his grandmother had ordered that he stay inside and do work around the house. Maude Kemper noticed her grandson looking at her with a strange intensity in his eyes that she had seen many times before. It scared her, and she told him to stop. After a moment, Edmund picked up his gun and whistled for his dog, announcing that he was going to shoot some gophers. His grandmother returned her attention to her work. Upon exiting the house, Edmund turned around and watched her through the screen door. His grandmother’s back was to him as he raised his rifle and shot her in the head, killing her. He fired twice more at her back and came inside to wrap her in a towel and drag her body into the bedroom. Recognizing the enormity of what he’d done, he waited until his grandfather got home from grocery shopping and shot him as he was unloading the truck, explaining later to authorities that this was to spare his grandfather the pain of seeing his wife dead. Then, Edmund called his mother on the phone and told her that her honeymoon would have to be put on hold, as he’d just murdered his grandparents.
The Boy installed our automatic door for the chicken coop today ❤️🐓 It will open and close with daylight or by the time we set it for. It also has a manual button which is what he used here to demonstrate, starring our best (and oldest) hen Tender as the ever so tolerant actress. 😂 @beamansfork #brinsea #chicken #farm #backyard #backyardchickens #solar (at The Farm at Beaman’s Fork)
I am 20 years old and I hate myself. My hair, my face, the curve of my stomach, the way my voice comes out wavering and my poems come out maudlin, the way my parents talk to me in a slightly higher register than they talk to my sister, as if I’m a government worker that snapped and if pushed hard enough, might blow up the hostages I’ve got tied up in my basement. I cover up this hatred with a kind of aggressive self-acceptance. I dye my hair a fluorescent shade of yellow, cutting it into a mullet more inspired by photos of 1980s teen mothers than by any current beauty trend. I dress in neon spandex that hugs in all the wrong places. My mother and I have a massive fight when I choose to wear a banana-printed belly shirt and pink leggings to the Vatican and religious tourists gawk and turn away. I’m living in a dormitory that was, not too long ago, an old-age home for low-income townspeople, and I don’t like thinking about where they might be now. My roommate has moved to New York to explore farm-to-fork cooking and lesbianism. So I’m alone, in a ground-floor, one-bedroom, a fact I relish until one night a female rugby player rips my screen door off the hinges and barges into the dorm to attack her philandering girlfriend. I’ve bought a VHS player and a pair of knitting needles and spend most nights on the sofa making half a scarf for a boy I like who had a manic break and dropped out. I’ve made two short films, both of which my father deemed interesting but beside the point. And I’m so paralyzed as a writer that I started translating poems from languages I don’t speak, some kind of surrealist exercise meant to inspire me, but also prevent me from thinking the perverse looping thoughts that come unbidden. I am hideous. I’m going to be living in a mental hospital by the time I’m 29. I will never amount to anything.
I don’t care to make a bunch of money. I don’t need a big house, a fancy car, a husband, kids, fancy dinners, or opulent trips to a timeshare on some beach.
I need to feel the rising sun’s warmth as I kneel in frost-chilled dirt. I need the satisfaction of nurturing tiny spinach plants, later plucking their plump leaves, and then handing them to people in my community.
For me, fulfillment will never come in the form of a dollar sign.