CSA Sign Ups

Last year was… a lot.

Heartbreak, healing, a few puppy-chewed shoes, and more than a few moments where I wasn’t sure I’d do the CSA again. But then the sun started rising earlier, the garden beds started calling, and the cows kept showing up—nuzzling their way into my heart and reminding me that the simple things still matter.

And so, with a little grit, a whole lot of grace, and probably a cow kiss or two, I’m excited to announce:

CSA sign-ups for 2025 are officially OPEN—but only until May 1st or until we’re full, whichever comes first!

Here’s what’s included:

10 weeks of fresh, seasonal produce (June 5–October 9)

Pick-up options:

Thursdays at the farm (6–7 pm)

Fridays in the Polaris area (11:30–11:45 am—very limited spots)

Each weekly basket includes approx. $30 worth of fresh vegetables, herbs, and the occasional farm surprise

Access to a private CSA Facebook group with recipes, tips, and “unboxing” previews

Special Touches Just for You:

Every CSA box this year will include a unique little surprise—starting with a custom-made sticker that reflects the season’s spirit.

The first box will include our “Fueled by Grit, Grace & Cow Kisses” sticker—a sweet reminder that hope grows here, even in hard soil.

To Reserve Your Share:

We require a 50% deposit to hold your spot. The number of shares is very limited, and spots will close when we’re full or on May 1st, whichever comes first.

To sign up, please contact me directly via:

Email:  calicoty@hotmail.com 

Private message through Facebook or Instagram

Important: Please do not send payment to anyone else or through unofficial links. There are far too many online scammers these days. If you're not contacting me directly—you’re not in the right place.

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If you've been part of our CSA before, welcome back!

If you're new, I'm so glad you're considering walking alongside this little farm. Your support makes it possible for me to keep planting, praying, and pouring out jam jars full of heart.

Let’s grow something beautiful together.

Life in Fog

Winter 2025 has been the hardest and darkest season of my life. I’ve lost not only my husband and best friend but also my sense of direction and purpose. My life’s model has always been to strive toward being a Proverbs 31 wife. I wasn’t perfect, but I truly believed I was walking that path—and Scott always encouraged me in it. He never pushed, but he nurtured my dreams and ambitions, helping turn them into plans that could only be accomplished with God’s hand guiding us.

Losing our Danny Dog the very next day was another blow—one that, on its own, would have devastated me. But because his loss is tied to my greatest loss, I can hardly separate the two. So many people have encouraged me to get a new puppy. Even Scott, in his final days, wanted one. When we came home from the hospital for the last time, he sadly said, "I guess I'm not going to get a new puppy." That memory still breaks my heart. He had wanted us to get one for months, but with all his doctor appointments, I told him it was just too much—I simply didn’t have the bandwidth to train a puppy on top of everything else. Logically, I understand why I said that. But emotionally? It’s one of my biggest regrets—not fulfilling one of my darling husband’s last wishes.

As much as a puppy would bring companionship and distraction, I struggle with the idea of adding one right now. Scott always came up with the cutest, most clever names for our farm animals. If there is a Rainbow Bridge, I hope Buster, Freckles, Kristl, and Danny are all there, showering him with the love I wish I could give him now.

But what is my purpose now?

Scott loved the farm—our "festivals," events, and the vision of self-sufficiency while still sharing Christ’s love with our neighbors. For years—long before TikTok—he was watching YouTube homesteaders and telling me, "You should do that. You could educate and entertain." But my own self-doubt and camera shyness held me back. What could I possibly have to say that anyone would want to hear? Even in his final weeks, he encouraged me to start YouTube. I dabbled in TikTok, but even that felt vain. I’m not a "look at me" kind of person—I’d rather be the one just getting things done in the background.

In those last weeks, I was so busy balancing farm life and caregiving that I wasn’t as present as I should have been. I can barely remember what was so "important" that it pulled me away. I was in denial, convinced that, like in 2014, 2016, and 2020, Scott would bounce back. But God saw that Scott was tired and took him home. And now… I’m left here, asking, "Now what?"

I know God is still here. But this grief is like a thick fog, surrounding me and blocking my view. I know life exists beyond it, but it feels too dark and uncertain to venture out. I’ve always been someone who is going and doing, but now, the only time I leave my farm is for my GriefShare groups—two of them—and online counseling. I’ve reached out to a few friends, but life has moved on for them, while my grief remains raw and messy. I’ve never felt so alone and this isolated. God is here, but I struggle to find meaning and purpose in this new life I never asked for.

Sidenote: If you know someone grieving—please, don’t just say, "Call me if you need anything." They won’t. They can hardly function. If you truly care, you need to reach out. You need to offer, initiate, and sometimes insist. Don’t be afraid of their tears. Talking about their loved one won’t remind them of their loss—everything already reminds them. But your presence may help them feel less alone. The sweetest gift you can give is to ask about their person, to listen as they process the memories, and to stand with them as they face the daunting question: "What happens now?

184 Days...6 Months

Grief is so hard. It’s been six months today since my world shattered. As Scott’s caregiver, I thought I had been preparing myself—months, even years, of anticipatory grief. But now I see that I was bargaining with God. “If I do everything right, he’ll rally again, and we’ll have more time. Just like the other times."

I remember logging his morphine dosage and thinking, Tomorrow, he’ll wake up. We’ll have more time to talk. I’ll get these (what I now realize were unnecessary) chores done today so I can give him my undivided attention tomorrow. Except, tomorrow never came. He was gone before morning.

The regrets are overwhelming. Things I wish I had done. Things I wish I hadn’t. Keeping quiet so he could rest instead of telling him all the things I needed to say. Staying strong and composed so everyone would think I handled it well. And now? I’m locked inside my head, my heart, and my soul—screaming with grief, sorrow, and fear.

I wish I could be raw and real. But I can’t. The only person who ever saw me that way is gone. And it doesn’t feel safe to show anyone else. They couldn’t handle it. Honestly, I’m not sure I can either.

Starting Again: Rebuilding Life, Faith, and the Farm

Hello, dear friends.

It’s been a long time since I’ve written here—three years, in fact, with only a few sporadic posts in the years before that. It feels like a lifetime ago, and in many ways, it was. Life has changed me, shaped me, broken me, and rebuilt me in ways I never imagined.

For those of you who’ve followed this journey from the start, you know this blog began as a way to share the daily joys and challenges of farm life—tales of cows and gardens, recipes pulled straight from the soul of an old-style homestead, and the warmth of a life connected to the land. And while that foundation remains, life’s storms have shifted my course.

I am a widow farmHer now. The last few years have been marked by loss—profound and soul-deep. My late husband, Scott, was my rock, my partner in all things. Caring for him in his final years taught me more about love, faith, and perseverance than I ever thought possible. It also left me standing in the wake of grief, trying to rebuild not just the farm we dreamed of together, but my own heart.

Through it all, this farm has remained a place of healing and purpose. The dairy herdshares continue to thrive, our CSA brings fresh produce to the community, and the roadside honor stand still carries the fruits of our labor. I’ve poured my heart into those 48+ flavors of jams and jellies, letting each jar be a small testament to resilience and creativity. And more recently, I’ve leaned into hosting community events, weaving the threads of connection with farm markets, craft fairs, and farm-to-table dinners.

But there’s more to this story now.

I’ve decided to relaunch this blog because I believe stories matter. Not just the joyful ones, but the hard ones, the messy ones, the ones that remind us we’re not alone in the brokenness. This space will once again reflect life on the farm, but also the grit and grace it takes to rebuild when life knocks you down.

The archives will remain intact, and I encourage you to read through them if you’re new around here to see how this whole crazy farm thing came about. Those old stories and pictures are the roots of what we’ve built here. Moving forward, I’ll be adding new content, including fresh stories and the day-to-day on the farm, as well as catching you up on everything that happened during the hiatus.

We are hoping to add some exciting new features: maybe some contests, recipes, how-to guides, Hen Parties (I think you’ll love these!), farm photography, and even guest bloggers. These are all ideas we’re playing with, and I’d love your input. If there’s something you’d like to see, learn about, or hear more of, please let me know in the comments. This space is as much yours as it is mine.

Alongside this blog, I’m launching a second one—dedicated to grief. It’s a space for raw honesty, where I’ll explore the heartache of loss and the hope that eventually emerges. Grief is not a straight path; it’s a winding road that demands courage, faith, and the willingness to take one step at a time. My hope is that by sharing my journey, it will resonate with others walking their own path through loss.

As I step into this new season, I’m reminded of what Scott always said when the work felt overwhelming: “Just keep looking up and moving on.” And so I will, guided by my faith, by the love of a man who believed in me, and by the promise that even in the ashes, beauty can bloom.

Thank you for being here—for reading, for caring, for walking alongside me as I rebuild this life.

With grit and grace,
Rea

1/16/25 Raw & Vulnerable

This is kind of a self-pity mind dump because I don’t know where else to put it. I don’t want to talk to my friends or family because I know they’ll offer help and company out of obligation. I’m not doing well, and I don’t want to be alone, but I also don’t know how to be around others.

I’m not functioning. Sure, I do the bare minimum occasionally, but I’m a completely different person than I used to be. The old me had goals and dreams.

I loved being with Scott. He motivated me. We wanted to do and try new things, to break free from the way things had always been done. He was an encourager no matter what crazy idea i had. I strived to be the Proverbs 31 wife so he could "sit at the city gate" proudly. Even at the end, caring for him, I found ways to make him proud.

But now? Now, I’m all alone. I’m unmotivated. And unlike Scott, there’s no one here to take care of me.

This week, I had a crazy fall. For a moment, I thought about just staying there, stuck in the fence, letting the cold take me. But the caretaker in me didn’t want Zach to find me like that, to feel responsible for something he couldn’t control.

I just want someone to reach out because they "want" to, not as a response to a text I send. If I stopped reaching out, I wonder how long it would take for anyone to notice. I just want to disappear.

On a side note: Thirteen years ago today, an internet friend of mine took her own life. I remember posting about it, feeling the weight of her loss, and even though my sweet husband didn’t know her beyond what I had shared, he stepped in with such compassion. He gently pointed our mutual friends toward the hope and love of our Savior.

It’s a small but beautiful memory of the kind of man Scott was—always looking for ways to extend grace, even to strangers, and always ready to shine the light of Christ in the darkest moments.