A Cheep Surprise by the Muscovy Brooder

(I forgot to post this last week.)

Yesterday morning, while making the usual rounds at feeding time, I heard something unexpected: extra cheeping near the Muscovy brooder.

Now, I’ve known for a while that one of the hens had been sneaking off to lay somewhere in that area. I just could never seem to find the nest, and it had been quietly driving me nuts for weeks.

But the cheeping was getting louder… and more desperate.

I followed the sound until I finally found it—a single, determined little peeper nestled among a clutch of eggs. Not far from that? A second, cold nest. My heart sank for a second, but I scooped up the warm chick without hesitation.

Momma hen was nowhere to be found, and while I know she’ll likely return soon, there’s a wildcard in the yard, my daughter’s Malamute. And let me tell you, I trust that dog about as much as I trust a great white shark not to bite.

This little one is special. Really special.

The mother? One of my original Cornish hens.
The father? Could be the White Leghorn rooster… or the Alaska Ninja Roo. Either way, this chick is a mix I hadn’t planned on until next year at the earliest, but nature clearly had other plans.

So today, Momma Hen’s getting a private suite, and any new hatchlings that follow will join her there safely. For now, the lone chick is in with this year’s freshly arrived original Cornish batch, warm and content.

And yes—I’m definitely marking today on the calendar. I’ll be watching this one and its future siblings closely. Who knows what kind of traits and temperament they’ll carry?

And the best part?

I’ve got a broody Cornish hen.

Can we say AWESOME?

July 5, 2025 0

A Note to the Woman Who Feels Broken

Standing on the Edge | Wednesday Dispatch

You don’t owe the world strength today.

If all you did this morning was rise enough to feed what depends on you, that is enough.
If you lay back down in pain, exhaustion, or ache, that does not make you lazy or less.
It makes you human. It makes you tired. It makes you in need of gentleness.

I know, because that was me yesterday morning.

I saw to the goats and flocks, the dogs & cats, made sure everyone had feed and water, and then I crawled back beneath the blankets. My body ached in too many places to count. The weight, not emotional or even mental, but physical- the weight of pain was nearly too heavy to bare.

Sometimes, being broken doesn’t look dramatic.
It looks like feeding the animals and then curling up in bed with a heating pad.
It looks like whispering “I’ll try again later,” and meaning it with all the tenderness you have left.

And later, I did.

I rose again. Slower this time, but steady. By noon, the bouts of intermediate sun had burned off the last of the morning rain, and I made my way out to the duck and goose pen. The air smelled like mud and wet feathers. They greeted me with chatter and splashing, more curious than demanding.

There was no grand moment—just a quiet rhythm returning. One scoop of peat moss, one emptying of their mucky pool, one task at a time. And with each small thing, I felt a little more like myself again.

The happy honks and quacks as crisp clean water filled their pool, and fresh soft peat moss covered their mud soaked run were evidence enough. They were happy. That’s all that mattered.

The animals don’t expect perfection from us.
They trust us in small doses, with muddy boots and soft voices.
Maybe we should trust ourselves the same way.

So, to the woman who feels broken: you are still good.
You are still trying. You are still here.

And that is not failure.
That is faith.

One step at a time, even if the first is from your bed to the barn, or wherever you need to go.

— From the edge of the world, with care and understanding
🪶 Eden’s Edge

Be gentle with yourself, be forgiving of yourself, and above all—love yourself, even on the rough days. 🌿

June 25, 2025 0

💥 Why I Built a Farm I Can Barely Run

The truth behind Eden’s Edge, food injustice, and fierce determination in rural Alaska

People tell me I’m crazy. That farming with chronic illness, seizures, and a body held together by pain is reckless. That being on disability means I should sit down, stay quiet, and accept what I’m given. Don’t live. Give up. Accept doing nothing. Being nothing.

I tried that once. I almost didn’t survive it.

So instead, I chose sweat, straw, and the stubborn heartbeat of something bigger: feeding people who are constantly overlooked.

🥚 The Problem

Food banks hand out moldy produce and spoiled bread.
Pantries run dry before the end of the month.
Seniors live on cereal and fear.
Veterans go to bed hungry.
And if you’re disabled, like me, you’re expected to be grateful for whatever scraps come your way.

That’s not okay with me. So I started growing food — real food — and giving it away.

🐐 The Solution

I raise:

Chickens for eggs – Future meat production
Rabbits and goats for meat
Ducks and geese for joy (and more eggs)
Sheep for future lamb production (I have a ram lamb and yearling ewe!)
And a whole lot of hell when needed

I deliver food directly to those who need it — no shame, no strings, no secondhand rot.

This farm isn’t fancy. It’s not outside funded. It’s run on grit, compassion, and a whole lot of duct tape, blood, sweat and my tears.

✊ Why I Keep Going

Because when a senior cries over a dozen fresh eggs…
When a vet hugs a frozen rabbit and says it’s the first meat they’ve had in a week…
When a kid sees a goat for the first time and laughs…

I know this work matters.

💬 This is Just the Beginning

If you’re new here, stick around. Read the stories. Meet the goats. Share the mission.
And if you’re in a position to help — with feed, livestock, funds, or connections — I’d love to hear from you.

Because at the edge of the world, we grow more than food. We grow hope.

Inspiration is the ultimate goal. Disability doesn’t define who we are. Or limit what we can accomplish.

June 21, 2025 0