People often ask Heathar and I about what it’s like to live in the country, in rural America, in a place where they feel isolation might swallow them or even worse, define them. Living rurally is a great way to catch the projections of city dwellers. They cast their fears out onto me, onto us, to see if they land. Often I let their fears fall at my feet, like baseballs that were not thrown far enough to a willing receiver. In order to catch them, I would have to bend forward and break the stance I am in. I don’t bend. I don’t break my stance. They ask if we feel lonely, if we feel removed from the world. They ask where we buy groceries. They ask if the roads are safe to drive at night. They ask if the acequias flow in spring like they are supposed to. They ask if we are scared of the fires that are coming. They ask if we feel safe, if we have a gun, if we lock our doors, if we lock our truck, if we lock our gate. They are very concerned about how the locks work.

I didn’t think I would ever be that kind of queer woman who would say she needs a man, wants a man. In fact, the other day I said to some friends at dinner, “If I wasn’t queer, I doubt I would be married at all.” To which my friends relied, “Yea, because men suck.” Well, yea. Kind of. But it turns out, I am a queer woman who needs a man and who wants a man. I want many platonic boyfriends. I want platonic boyfriends who can build me rock walls, who can break down cement, who can make dump runs, who can wire the electrical properly in my house, who can dig septic lines, who can use chainsaws and who can dig trenches. Yes, I want so many platonic boyfriends. I dream about testosterone now. In fact, I dream in hormones. Because Karen, it turns out that when you live in rural America (maybe rural anywhere), when you run a five acre farm and homestead and when you have endless outdoor projects — you need bodies that tire less easily than a menstruating woman’s. You need bodies that don’t bleed. You need bodies that don’t go through a luteal and follicular phase. You need bodies that are endlessly willing, productive and strong.

Today, I looked up from mucking the cow pies that are starting to loosen in the unseasonably warm, early, glorious, terrifying spring — that are already starting to fall through the cracks in the pitchfork, that require a second and third scooping in order to collect all the pieces of manure — and turned my head toward the cottonwood tree that had come to life. I looked up from mucking the cow pies and saw the cottonwood tree filled with small, cackling black birds. Don’t ask me to explain them more than that. They are black birds that are not ravens or crows. Perhaps you know them? Perhaps you will tell me what these birds are? Perhaps I am overcomplicating it. They are a kind of bird that is black, something like a jackal of a bird. There were one hundred of them, or some other dramatic amount, standing on the naked and bare cottonwoods stems, making the tree look like it had budded and flowered all at once. The birds were having a raucous meeting in which everyone was talking all at once. They know nothing of politeness. No hands were raised. No one was taking turns as far as I could tell, but what do I know of bird meetings? Perhaps in the world of birds, they speak more in chorus, in rounds where the music makes you think the world may be ending or just beginning.

I recently learned that there are six raw milk dairy farms in New Mexico — including our farm. Other small dairy farms are producing raw goat and sheep milk which I have yet to try but will very soon (let’s gooooooo!). If there are approximately two million people in the state of New Mexico, that means only six small farms are responsible for producing some of the most nourishing food on the planet. The Raw Milk. The Golden Nectar. The Life Blood. The Serum of The Gods.

For those of us who have grown up as women and been socialized as women, we have been expected to bear the responsibility of controlling reproduction when it is unwanted. As we know, the western medical system focuses on the female reproductive system when it comes to birth control: pills, IUD’s, implants and tube tying is on us — the women. The morning after pill and abortifacients are on us — the women. The herbs, prayers and tinctures are on us — the women. The womb massage, yoni steams and strong, bitter teas are on us — the women. As women, we become accustomed to the weight of making sure we don’t get pregnant if we do not want to be. And yes, we need to take responsibility for our reproductive systems, they are ours after all. 

According to some vets, and by some vets I mean our particular vet, it is within the industry standard to get a dairy cow pregnant again at three months postpartum. This seems quick to me but that is, of course, from my very human perspective. I would need at least five years before having another child if I were a going to have one child and then a second child. We could have gotten Rose pregnant again in May or June, July or August. September, even. But figuring out how to best inseminate your Jersey cow without using a bull, is something that takes some calculating and planning, mostly around the vet’s schedule. When Rose ovulated in August, the vet was out of town and when she ovulated in September, it was on a weekend, after vet business hours. Rose’s October ovulation fell on a holiday and so, November became the ovulation window of fate. Fate and an opening in the very busy schedule of our vet.