The Adventures of Blossom & Marmalade
If anyone ever wonders what a homestead really looks like…
It isn’t perfectly filtered Instagram photos.
It’s sweat dripping into your eyes while trying to hold a board straight.
It’s wondering if you’ve gotten more splinters today than you’ve had in the last five years combined.
It’s looking at your husband and saying, “Whose bright idea was this?”
Then realizing…
It was probably mine.
Saturday’s adventure was building Blossom’s milking stanchion.
Not buying one.
Building one.
Because apparently Russell and I looked outside, saw the blazing Montana sun trying to melt the county into a puddle, and decided that standing on a concrete slab for hours sounded like a fantastic way to spend the day.
For anyone who’s never stood barefoot, or even booted, on a concrete pad in July…
Imagine standing inside an oven while someone points a hair dryer directly at your face.
Now pick up a 6×6 timber.
Congratulations.
You’re homesteading.
Russell did the lion’s share of the heavy lifting and carpentry, and watching him turn rough-cut lumber into something this sturdy was honestly pretty incredible.
Every measurement mattered.
Every angle had a purpose. Every brace made the structure stronger.
My contribution?
Holding boards.
Handing him tools.
Offering incredibly valuable advice like…
“I think that one goes over there.”
“Why, is that like that?”
“Oh, wait, I see it now,”
He was very patient.
Always.
By lunchtime we were both covered in sawdust, sweat, and enough tiny splinters that I briefly considered evolving into a porcupine.
The only two individuals who seemed completely unaffected by the weather were our supervisors.
Blossom took her responsibilities very seriously.
She wandered over every few minutes to inspect the progress, stretching her nose toward the fresh-cut lumber before rubbing her face against the posts as if she was officially approving the craftsmanship.
I like to imagine she was thinking,
“Yes…this will do nicely. Continue, peasants.”
Then she’d calmly step back into the grass, chew her cud, and supervise from the shade.
Management is exhausting, after all.
And then there was little Marmalade.
If curiosity had four legs and enormous ears…
It would be Marmalade.
She toddled around the concrete pad with those long, gangly baby legs, sniffing everything we touched.
A drill.
A board.
A shadow.
Probably a bug.
Every single thing deserved a thorough investigation.
Every few minutes she’d trot back to Blossom, make sure Mom was still nearby, and then head right back to see what the strange humans were building.
Watching her discover the world is enough to make you forget you’re hot…
Almost.
There was something special about seeing the two of them watching us build the place that will soon become part of their everyday lives.
Someday Blossom will quietly walk into this stanchion for her morning milking.
Someday Marmalade won’t be the curious little calf watching from the sidelines.
She’ll be a grown cow of her own.
That thought stopped me more than once.
Because this wasn’t just another project.
This was building part of our future.
Every board carries the promise of fresh milk.
Every brace holds up another dream.
Every drop of sweat is an investment in a simpler, more self-reliant life.
At the end of the day we stepped back, sore, sunburned, dusty, and more than a little proud.
The stanchion still has a few finishing touches ahead of it.
So do we.
But standing there, looking across our little Montana valley with Blossom and Marmalade nearby…
It already is home.
Some people collect things.
We’re collecting stories.
And if those stories happen to include sawdust in our hair, sore muscles, splinters in places splinters should never be, and a Guernsey foreman who insists on inspecting every board…
Well…
I’d say we’re doing just fine.
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