Wild & Rooted Blog

Where wings find roots. Growing fruit, habitat & hope.

Macaw Mama — Part Three: The Messy Middle
Bogart and Jazz, a pair of twenty-seven year old bonded macaws.

Week two of adopting our bonded macaws has been hard.

The only way I can describe it is like living inside a Tom Hanks movie — equal parts The Green Mile and Forrest Gump. I have felt every emotion under the rainbow, and a few colors I didn’t know existed.

There have been beautiful days.

Days where Bo tracks the target stick around the cage, waits for the click, accepts his walnut piece, and repeats “achoo” after me three times in a row like we’re sharing an inside joke.

And then there have been the other days.

Mornings where I am greeted not with curiosity, but with a lunge.

When Adopted Parrots Begin Testing You

Around the two-week mark, something shifts in adopted parrots.

In the first few days of bringing home a rehomed parrot, they are often quiet, observant, almost polite. They are assessing. Surviving. Figuring out where they are.

Then, around week two, many parrots enter what behaviorists call the testing and defense phase of adaptation.

They realize: “This is not temporary.”

And that’s when the real emotions surface.

This is exactly where we are.

The Bonded Pair Dynamic

Bo and Jazz are a strongly bonded pair — a male green-winged macaw and a female blue-and-gold macaw who have lived together for years.

Bonded parrots share more than space. They share security, instinct, and territory.

Because they are temporarily housed in the same cage while we finish preparing their permanent space, that cage has effectively become a nest.

And nests are guarded.

Bo has decided that his job is to control access. He directs me with his beak — when I may approach, when I may change water bowls, even when I may pass. It’s not personal. It’s instinct.

Jazz, my quiet and stoic girl, emerged from her shell this week too — but not in the way I expected.

She began exploring the cabin for nesting material. Towels became treasure. She pulled one from a sawhorse, cooing softly while arranging it with her beak and claws. Bo joined her, of course.

It was adorable — until it wasn’t.

When it came time to remove the towel and guide her back to the cage, she charged. Wings spread. Beak forward. And even though she is technically “the smaller bird,” I was frozen on top of a chair while she guarded the floor below.

This is the moment where I understood something critical:

There is no disciplining a wild animal acting on instinct.

There is only management, understanding, and behavior adjustment — mostly mine.

Jazz finds towels to make a nest, while Bogart stands guard.

How Shared Caging Affects Adjustment

Research on adopted parrots moving into a new home shows that the adjustment timeline often follows predictable stages:

Week 1 — Shock & Observation
Eating. Watching. Assessing.

Weeks 2–4 — Testing & Territorial Defense
Lunging. Guarding. Hormonal behaviors. Bond reinforcement.

Weeks 4–8 — Decompression & Stability
Reduced guarding. Curiosity returns. Trust begins forming.

We are squarely in stage two.

Because Bo and Jazz are a bonded pair sharing a temporary cage, their territorial instincts are amplified. Shared housing in a new environment can unintentionally create a “them versus me” dynamic.

Instead of integrating into a new flock, they consolidate into each other.

The environment I created — unintentionally — reinforced nest behavior.

Jazz hunted for materials.
Bo guarded the perimeter.
I reacted defensively.
Trust dipped.

And the more I tried to regain control, the more control they attempted to assert.

It became a cycle.

The Emotional Toll of Parrot Adoption

The emotional whiplash has been real.

Great days followed by lunging.
Peaceful evenings followed by territorial mornings.
Jekyll and Hyde personalities that left me questioning everything.

I have felt:
- Hopeless
- Overwhelmed
- Physically unwell from stress
- Afraid I made a mistake
- Afraid they would never love me
No one talks enough about the emotional impact of adopting large parrots.

Macaws are intelligent, sensitive, hormonally complex, and deeply bonded creatures. When you adopt a bonded pair, you are not stepping into a blank slate — you are stepping into an established relationship.

That takes patience.

Bogart and Jazz work together to remove a food station from their cage.

What Is Going Right

Despite the chaos, there are strong signs of healthy adjustment.

They eat beautifully — fresh fruits, vegetables, pellets, and nuts used strategically for training.

Reducing high-fat nuts has already helped regulate hormonal behavior.

We increased their quiet, dark sleep time to minimize hormonal triggers.

They scream when I leave the room — which, in parrot language, is not rejection. It’s a contact call. Flock cohesion.

They are not fearful.

They are adapting.

Meanwhile, my husband and I are preparing their permanent space in the barn — painting with non-toxic paint, building their separate cages, hauling the massive java tree upstairs.

Stability is coming.

The Reality of the Two-Week Mark

Two weeks feels like forever when you are living it.

But in macaw time, two weeks is barely an introduction.

If the adaptive timeline holds true,

In the coming weeks we should see:
- Reduced territorial lunging
- Less nest-seeking behavior
- Increased curiosity
- More individual interaction
Not because we forced it.

But because consistency creates security.

Adopting bonded macaws is not about instant affection.

It’s about becoming steady enough that they choose you.

And right now, we are in the messy middle.

But we are, according to every piece of research I’ve read, right on schedule.

You can follow along as Bogart and Jazz continue settling into their new life and finding their rhythm here at Crooked Limb Farm. We’re sharing the real, unfiltered journey of bonding, setbacks, and small victories over on Instagram @RootedwithFeathers
February 22, 2026
Wild and Rooted Blog

My experience building a regenerative farm from the ground up.
Macaw Mama — Part Two: The Work Begins
Bogart and Jazz are doing well here.

But it isn’t all sunshine and roses.

The two-hour drive home, the unloading, the reassembling of their cage — it was all layered with exhaustion and adrenaline. They were as pliable and sweet as they had been when we first met them, almost as if we were all suspended in the same fragile bubble of transition.

But bubbles settle.

Because the opportunity to adopt them came before we were fully prepared, our first few days were filled with rapid adjustments — ordering larger cages, natural perches, a double java tree stand, toys strong enough to withstand beaks built to splinter wood. In the wild, macaws fly miles each day. They forage. They solve problems. They choose where to perch and when to retreat.

And here we were asking two twenty-seven-year-old rescue macaws to absorb a new home, new rhythms, new caretakers — all at once.

That kind of change doesn’t land quietly, especially when you’re transitioning adopted parrots into a new home environment.

Which brings me to training — specifically, how we begin positive reinforcement training with adopted macaws.

I believe deeply in training animals. Training is the bridge between species — not about control, but about clarity. It’s where expectations become visible, and where both sides slowly learn the rhythm of the other.

It is the space where the animal clearly understands what I’m asking, and where I begin to understand what they are ready — or not ready — to offer.

Bogart practicing the sound of a sneeze, “Achoo!”

My husband approaches animals with softness and openness. He leans toward freedom first. I lean toward structure. Somewhere between us, stewardship forms its shape.

In our home, I am the limiter of treats. The establisher of schedules. The one who sets boundaries.

Our ducks and geese understand this dynamic well. The shake of a tambourine means it’s time to single file into the duck house. A gentle “shoo” sets a boundary. The word “acorns” sends them reporting for pest control duty. We have an agreement.

If my husband tries to shoo them, they assume he’s playing. He laughs. I do not.

And now, I find myself mapping out that same kind of understanding with two macaws.

We’ve had real wins.

And we’ve had setbacks.

If I’m honest, some of those setbacks were mine.

Temporarily housing them together while we waited for larger cages likely added tension — something common when integrating bonded macaws into a new household. Introducing my phone too quickly certainly didn’t help — Bogart fluffs at the sight of it. And I moved too quickly with my hands, assuming that previous training would translate seamlessly into daily life with us.

It didn’t.

I’ve been bitten three times — each one a lesson in understanding macaw body language and boundary-setting.

The first was inside his cage while I was changing bowls. He wrapped his beak around my index finger and squeezed. Not full force — but firm enough to alter how I move.

The second was a calculated grab of my hair while he perched above me, a reminder that proximity does not equal permission.

The third was entirely my fault.

On day five, I introduced the clicker to begin pairing the sound with a reward — the foundation of clicker training for parrots. A click means a treat. Simple. Clear.

Except I clicked too close.

The sharp sound startled him. He dropped the treat and grabbed my fingers. The damage was negligible, but the message was not.

So I stepped back.
Bogart accepting a Nutri berry treat from a long teaspoon.
Jazz accepting a Nutri berry treat for a long teaspoon.
We are still clicker training, but for now I offer treats with a long spoon instead of my hand. A click means a treat — delivered calmly and predictably. When their larger cages arrive, they will be separated but side by side. They will still share communal time and enrichment, but individual space will allow individual relationships to grow — an important step when building trust with rescue parrots.

We will crawl before we walk. Walk before we jog.

Target training will come later. Advanced behaviors later still.

Right now, the work is quieter.

With adopted parrots — especially ones who have already lived long, full lives elsewhere — I try to hold a realistic timeline in my mind. The first stretch is simply about trust. Sometimes that begins to settle in a few weeks. Sometimes it takes six. Comfort, the kind that lets everyone exhale and move without bracing, often starts to appear somewhere around the two- to three-month mark. And true bonding — the steady, mutual understanding that isn’t built on novelty or food but on consistency — can take six months. A year. Occasionally more.

There is no shortcut through that unfolding. Only calm repetition. Clear signals. And the quiet accumulation of days in which nothing frightening happens and something small goes right.

So we are not behind.
We are simply at the beginning.

It is about trust. About mutual respect. About recognizing the difference between affection and access.

They are intelligent. They are communicative. And they are watching us just as closely as we are studying them.

In Part One, love opened the door.

Now, we begin the steady work of building something strong enough to last.

If you’d like to follow along as Bogart and Jazz settle into this next chapter of life as adopted macaws, you can find them on Instagram at @rootedwithfeathers, where the daily wins, lessons, and occasional side-eye are all part of the unfolding story.

Because love may bring them home —
but patience is what will keep us growing together.
February 12, 2026
Wild and Rooted Blog

My experience building a regenerative farm from the ground up.
Macaw Mama — Part One: When Good Intentions Take Root

Yesterday, I became a macaw mama.

My husband and I love our ducks and geese, and while there are plenty of charming animals that find their way onto farms, we both agreed our next addition would be something different. A parrot. So, on our anniversary, we took the first step toward parrothood and placed a deposit on a baby Hyacinth Macaw.

My husband has always loved Hyacinth macaws, and because we’re not fans of animals being alone, we planned for a companion as well. When it came to choosing that future partner, I waffled. Not because I didn’t want one—but because all macaws are beautiful, and I couldn’t decide whether a blue-and-gold or a green-wing would be the right fit. Each breeder we spoke with had a different opinion. Google had opinions. AI had opinions. None of them quieted the deeper question that kept resurfacing.

Our Baby Hyacinth Macaw: Zuli

Parrots are not casual commitments, especially when it comes to adopting macaws or other long-lived companion birds. They require time, attention, and specialized care. Their long lives mean that even when people begin with the best intentions, circumstances can change, and birds often outlive the stability that once surrounded them. I found myself thinking not just about bringing a parrot home, but about what happens to parrots when life unravels—and why rehoming parrots has become such a quiet necessity.

That’s when I began following the Exotic Avian Sanctuary of Tennessee on social media.

Not long after, the founder shared a rescue story that stopped me in my tracks.

A call had come in about a man who had been hospitalized and placed on a mental health hold. A family member, checking on his property, discovered birds living in his barn and feared they wouldn’t survive much longer. When photos were sent, it was immediately clear the situation was urgent.

The birds were housed in a small tack room inside a barn so cluttered with debris it was difficult to even reach the door. The air was heavy with mold and decay. Several cages were rusted shut—some so neglected they hadn’t been opened in years. Food and water had been poured in wherever there was space, layering old mold, waste, and time on top of one another.

What struck her most wasn’t just the physical neglect, but the silence. No singing. No chatter. Just birds who had lived long enough in isolation that they seemed to have accepted it.

Photo from Exotic Avian Sanctuary of Tennessee of the Goodlettsville 23 (G23) Rescue

In total, twenty-three birds were removed that day—budgies, doves, a pigeon, a cockatoo, an Amazon, and a hybrid macaw. They were relinquished into the care of the sanctuary, where they could finally rest, stabilize, and begin the slow work of healing.

That story stayed with me—not just as a tragedy, but as a quiet question I couldn’t unhear.

There were photos shared alongside the post, including one of a stunning miligold macaw. Something inside me pressed hard, urging me to reach out and ask about meeting him. But healing takes time, and the miligold needed emotional stability before anything else. So I tucked my hopes away, though adoption continued to whisper in the background of my heart.

Then, in the middle of this historic ice storm, I received an email from the founder of the sanctuary.

She asked if I would be interested in rehoming two macaws from a retiring farmer.

I didn’t hesitate to ask my husband what he thought. To my surprise, he was open—open to talking, to meeting, to seeing what this might look like.

On day nine, late Tuesday evening, our electricity was finally restored. By Friday, we had plans to meet Jazzy and Bobo.

Friday morning, I woke with a low hum of anxiety. I wasn’t sure what to expect, and I worked hard to keep my expectations tempered. The one-hour-and-forty-minute drive stretched past two hours, the road somehow lengthening instead of closing the distance.

But when the barn door opened and I looked to my left, I saw them perched quietly on the rail.

And just like that, my heart swelled—full and immediate. It was instant love.

The fear of long-term commitment, the uncertainty of adopting older parrots—not one but two twenty-seven-year-old macaws who had lived more than half of my life already—it all fell away.

Before we left, standing there with the weight of the decision still settling in, I learned more of their story.

Jazzy and Bobo would be coming to us as they entered their third home.

Their first home had been with a woman who loved them deeply and cared for them for many years. When a new puppy joined her household, she made the difficult decision to limit their previously open access to explore outside their cage in order to keep them safe and secure. This necessary shift—from a home where they had enjoyed more freedom to one where they needed to remain safely caged—was made out of protection and responsibility. Over time, and due to her own health challenges, she recognized that they deserved a home where that freedom could be restored and their daily lives could expand again.

When they were eventually rehomed to the retiring farmer, their environment changed significantly. There, they experienced a more open daily rhythm—spending increased time outside their cages, engaging with visitors, enjoying outdoor misting, and becoming part of the gentle cadence of farm life.

That mattered to me. Not because it made this easier, but because it reminded me that animals, like people, carry the imprint of every life they’ve lived before they reach you.

In becoming their third home, I’m holding space for all of that history—and quietly hoping we might also be their last.

With that hope comes intention. As they begin this next chapter, Jazzy will become Jazz, and Bobo will return to Bogart. Not to erase who they’ve been, but to mark where they are now. A gentle shift. A way of saying: you’re here, and this life will be held with intention.

Animals seem to know when things are different. On instinct, Bobo—soon to return to Bogart—sidestepped closer to the wall and offered my husband a non-aggressive warning air bite as he excitedly reached out. My husband loves animals even more than I do, and the presence of a bird with jaws strong enough to require steel toys did nothing to deter him. He encouraged him to step up, beginning the slow work of trust.

A Careful First Meeting: Bogart Meets My Husband

I’m slower. I move at a snail’s pace when it comes to earning an animal’s affection. I prefer to let them find their way to me, to set the rhythm of our relationship. Together, I think my husband and I make a good pair of stewards.

Jazz, the blue-and-gold, and my husband became smitten almost immediately. She responded to him in her own macaw language, and somehow they seemed to understand one another—even if, to outsiders, their words sounded nothing alike.

When it was time for Bogart and me, I felt the warmth of his small palm against my hand—something entirely new. He gave me a once-over, then stepped back onto the rail, maintaining eye contact as he moon-walked backward until I had to stop him from tumbling off the edge.

It’s hard to separate animals from the people who love them, and I know that day was heavy for the farmer. We felt something similar when we had to rehome our turkeys after the waterfowl began bullying them. Even though they went to a friend’s regenerative farm just down the road, my husband still carries a quiet ache from that decision.

I tried to offer the kind of reassurance I wish I’d had then—to let her know this wasn’t a goodbye, but an until.

The ride home felt just as long as the drive there, but for entirely different reasons.

This time, the backseat wasn’t empty.

We brought them home carrying decades of history we didn’t yet know how to hold.

Love may have opened the door—but the real work was only beginning.

As they begin this next chapter, we’ll be sharing glimpses of Bogart’s and Jazz’s life here on Instagram at @rootedwithfeathers.

February 7, 2026

Wild and Rooted Blog

My experience building a regenerative farm from the ground up.
How I came to Farming

My earliest memories of growing food began in the garden my father planted while we were being homeschooled. Digging through fuzzy recollections, I remember the corn we hung to dry, the giant zucchini plants that seemed to take over the beds, and the enormous weed we carefully nurtured because we were convinced it was a cauliflower.

Even then, there was something grounding about growing food—about watching effort turn into something tangible, even when we didn’t fully understand what we were doing.

Sometime in my late twenties, while living on Hollywood Boulevard in a large studio apartment, that early memory resurfaced as a craving to plant. At the time, I was researching indoor vertical gardens and ways to grow my own food naturally—small acts of grounding in a life that felt increasingly untethered.

Fast forward to finishing my master’s degree and moving cross-country to Nashville, Tennessee, where I met and fell in love with my husband. His former career had been as a nursery owner, and his work now spans landscape design, installation, and construction. One of the first questions he charmed me with was, “What’s your favorite flower?”

At the time, I didn’t have an answer. There were too many that I loved. The lotus flowers I’d seen in temples in Malaysia. Orchids in Singapore. The tulips my dad sent me when I was a child. The roses my husband courted me with.

I still don’t have an answer to that question.

Especially now, as my world has expanded into pollinator habitat design and growth. I’m excited about the blue globe thistle patch we’re adding this year. I love wildflowers and butterfly bushes for the abundance of winged creatures they attract. I love sunflowers because they become napping spots for bumblebees, and crimson clover for its brilliance in May. There is simply too much to love to choose just one flower. If it were up to me—and if funds were unlimited—I would plant them all. I love dressing up the land.

Long before the farm existed in any formal sense, my husband found this property the way some places seem to want to be found. Wandering down a gated, grassy road nearly a decade ago, he followed the sound and movement of water and fell in love with the winding creeks that traverse the land. When we began carving out a home among the trees, we also began imagining a life together here—one shaped by attention, shared work, and the possibility of earning a humble living from the land.

But that isn’t how I came to farming.

I came to farming through an unusual pathway.

My closest neighbors claim to be farmers. They’ve paired thirteen goats with a single livestock guardian each, created a junkyard at the corner of their property where they traffic in electrical supplies for commercial projects, and leave broken vehicles they have no interest in repairing. They’ve also extended their fence into a shared easement so their dogs can roam and howl twenty-four hours a day.

Our disputes with the Building Commissioner—who consistently avoids confrontation due to their relationship with a county commissioner and their conduct at public meetings—forced me to look more closely at the definition of farming, Tennessee’s Right to Farm laws, and how easily the appearance of agriculture can be used as a shield—particularly in wooded areas where the impacts are assumed to be invisible and inconsequential.

In proving what they were not, I found who I wanted to be.

Around that time, I began looking at our wooded paradise differently. Learning about value-added products, cottage food laws, and which plants could produce offerings worth preserving led me down the path of formally registering our land with the USDA.

I’ve always loved learning—perhaps a little too much. I took many courses that never resolved into a defined career, but instead opened my mind to creative thought and alternate perspectives. Farming, with its blend of book knowledge and hands-on application, has kept my active mind engaged. I exist now in a constant state of learning.

And my world expanded.

The farm is no longer limited by fence lines. It has grown into something like a small universe. Every day brings new questions—from weeds to insects to seeds, from soil health to the ways human intervention can both support and damage micro- and macro-ecological systems. Sometimes I don’t even realize how much knowledge I’ve absorbed until I give a farm tour and the words spill out—explaining why we choose to farm this way, why our orchards, flowers, and vineyards are organized as they are.

Somewhere in the years leading up to formally establishing the farm, a shift occurred inside me.

Anyone intent on producing food for consumption and community eventually reaches this fork. When you do, it begins to define who you are, what your purpose is, and how you approach food. To qualify for many USDA programs, grants, and insurance plans, a farm must make concessions—choices that sanitize the end product and, over time, damage the earth.

The alternative is choosing sustainability: biodynamics, livestock integration, natural weed and pest control, and thoughtful water practices.

I don’t believe one approach is inherently better than the other. Feeding billions of people requires multiple systems, just as holistic and modern medicine work best when they exist together rather than in opposition.

But for me, on this small scale, thinking about legacy matters. The ripple effects I want to leave. The life I want to have lived. The experiences I want to internalize. Those things outweighed the potential gains of farming purely for profit.

I’m willing to forgo perfect products in order to stay aligned with who I am—and who I’m becoming.

That choice means diversifying crops and weathering short yields. It means exploring alternate pathways to sustainability through partnerships and community engagement. It means learning how to maximize minimal impact, working with nature through espaliered designs rather than carving against it, and shaping a humble living within an existing ecosystem.

This is my farm.
And this is my blog.

I hope my journey encourages authenticity in your own food choices. Even if growing food yourself feels distant or impractical, I hope this connects you to local systems, introduces you to new friends and neighbors, and helps you imagine the world you want to live in.

January 29, 2026

Wild and Rooted Blog

My experience building a regenerative farm from the ground up.
Four Days Without Power

We are now post–ice storm, and four days post losing power.

The freezing rain brought with it a dependence on generators, which we expected in a storm of this magnitude. Days before the ice arrived, we filled the propane tank, stocked the pantry, made sure the cars had gas, put equipment on trickle chargers, and charged extra batteries. We did what we could to prepare so that the damages—whatever they might be—would be minimal.

But preparation does not always account for everything.

As the cold settled in, our carbon monoxide alarms began to beep, sending the dogs into a fearful tizzy. At first, we assumed a malfunction. We had already noticed that our electrician had not installed rechargeable batteries in the monitors, and it felt easier—safer—to believe it was just another inconvenience stacked onto the storm.

But every time I went upstairs in our barndominium to rest, the deepest, most peaceful sleep would take hold of me and pull me under.

It reminded me of Dorothy in the poppy fields on her way to Oz.

The last time I let my eyes close and surrendered to that bliss, I heard my husband’s voice from somewhere far away, yelling for me to wake up. There was a piercing alarm, but I buried my head deeper into my pillows and pulled the blankets over me, trying to escape the cold.

Instead, my husband dragged me from the bed.

He told me I had to get up. That there was carbon monoxide in the house. That the high winds had kicked fumes from the generator back into our home.

Like a drugged slug, I pulled on my Elmo onesie—ridiculous and incredibly warm—and with his help staggered down the stairs. I collapsed onto an ottoman and fell into a deep sleep so heavy that even the open windows and icy air couldn’t wake me.

At some point, I felt my fat basset hound jump up beside me, burrow under the blankets, and press himself against me for warmth. I woke briefly, hugging mounds of fur and weight, before slipping under again.

Morning came in fragments. From a distance, throughout the night, I heard my husband moving, checking on me, checking on the animals. When the icy air finally hit me like a bucket of cold water, the fog in my mind lifted.

It wasn’t until I stepped outside that I understood what had been happening.

My shallow breathing wasn’t anxiety or exhaustion. It was carbon monoxide poisoning.

We’ve since moved out of the barndominium and into a smaller building while we figure out how to relocate the generator. Only after leaving did I realize how labored my breathing had been—how intoxicating and dangerous the inability to breathe fresh air truly is.

Now we are on day four with no electricity.

As much as I want to avoid politics—to stick my head in the sand like an ostrich and just live my life doing what I love, being of service to the land and my local community—I have to say something.

Our local government has completely forgone us during this ice storm.

They stopped plowing “their regular route” two county roads down and more than four miles from the farm. So I got on my soapbox and chewed a few ears—from the Roads Department all the way up to the two main contenders for state representation.

It’s disgusting, really, when you pay equal taxes and don’t receive equal representation or benefit.

We may live in the woods, but we—and our neighbors, sitting in the dark and cold—deserve access to emergency medical services. We deserve safe passage in and out of our county roads. It should not be political for local government to ensure roads are passable during a historic storm.

Many of our neighbors are homesteaders. Some homeschool. Many are elderly. All are taxpayers. And all should be guaranteed access and safety during an emergency.

Most of us are on well water. Without electricity, there is no water. And even propane trucks can’t reach us when county roads are left untouched.

This may be a rant for another time.

Because feeding people nutrient-dense food and caring for your community should not be political.

But in the intensity of a historic ice storm—when the cold presses in, the power stays off, and the air itself becomes dangerous—the feelings are magnified.

And sometimes, survival demands that we speak.

January 28, 2026

Wild and Rooted Blog

My experience building a regenerative farm from the ground up.
After the Ice

I want to say that I am facing this devastation with stoicism. But I think what I’m really experiencing is shock—shock that hasn’t yet found a way to express itself as a single, tangible emotion.

Imagine the color spectrum with its seven colors: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. When you look at a sunset, you see all of them, plus everything in between. That’s the only way I can describe my emotional state right now. There are recognizable emotions—happy, sad, mad, hopeful, despair—but instead of landing in one, I feel like a blend of all of them at once.

Snowmageddon hit us with an unexpected fury, almost as suddenly as the tornado of 2021.

The days leading up to this ice storm were warm. And with Middle Tennessee weather being fickle at best—and local meteorologists hovering around fifty percent accuracy on any given day—I’m not sure what I expected. But it definitely wasn’t this.

We prepared as we would for any normal winter storm.

We ran the cars and machines to preserve the batteries. We stocked up and spread salt. We made plans for our ducks and geese. We completed routine winter chores throughout the vineyards and orchards—warming roots with extra soil and straw, checking that vines were lifted and secured to their wires, painting the bases of the fruit trees white to protect against freeze-thaw cycles and damage from field mice and other critters chewing on tender bark.

I worried about my lavender. I had planted varieties that don’t tolerate temperatures below fifteen degrees Fahrenheit. But emotionally, I was prepared to lose them—to replant in the spring or redesign the space with more cold-hardy varieties. My expectations there were low. I didn’t carry any additional worry or stress about it into the storm.

Maybe the first clue should have been the way people kept referring to it as Snowmageddon.

When clients mentioned it while we were discussing schedules, it sounded funny—overly dramatic, even a little ridiculous. Northeastern states regularly endure temperatures in the negative thirties. Snow is simply part of life there. After an unseasonably warm winter, a little cold weather in January felt overblown.

But I was wrong.

And I think that is where the shock comes from.

Around five in the morning, I heard the generator kick on. That isn’t unusual here, where poor infrastructure means strong winds, heavy rain, or the occasional drunk driver can take down an electric pole. My husband was already awake, caring for the dogs and livestock.

When I looked out the window, I saw what I expected—gray, dismal skies and a blanket of powdery snow.

It wasn’t until I went outside to help with the second round of letting our feathered flock stretch their wings—take bowl baths and make their usual lap around the inner yard—that my husband pointed out what was really happening.

After the snow came freezing rain.

And our trees were down.

Hundreds of trees—many planted restoratively after the EF5 tornado of 2021—were lying on the ground, burdened by the relentless weight of ice. Everything was coated. The dormant roses looked like glass. I touched a magnolia leaf and watched it fall, shattering when it hit the ground.

In that moment, I felt my heart break.

We haven’t fully assessed the damage yet.

Like so many across Middle Tennessee—and throughout the states in the path of this historic ice storm—we’ve been without power, focused on keeping our family, pets, and livestock safe and warm.

What I have seen during short walks around the property has been nothing short of heartbreaking. After the tornado in 2022, my husband and I committed ourselves to rebuilding with intention—creating a pollinator sanctuary and food forest rooted in resilience and care. We poured countless hours into planning orchards and vineyards, removing dead and diseased trees, and revitalizing these woodlands with new life.

So much time dreaming, planning, and planting has gone into this farm.

Walking outside right now is absolutely crushing. Everything is frozen, bowed under the weight of ice. The sound of trees exploding—branches breaking and shattering—is devastating.

I keep asking myself what more I could have done to prepare.

Was there something else?

Anything?

I know we are not alone in this. So many are suffering right now. Please keep Middle Tennessee—and all the icy states affected—close in your thoughts and prayers.

For now, we are moving slowly. Taking inventory where we can. Giving ourselves permission to grieve what has been lost before deciding what comes next.

There will be time for rebuilding, for re-imagining, for planting again. But today, we are simply bearing witness—to the damage, to the quiet, and to the weight of this moment.

January 26, 2026

Wild and Rooted Blog

My experience building a regenerative farm from the ground up.
Where To Buy Ducklings And Hatching Eggs Online

Spring had sprung, and the internet was aglow with oodles of cute duckling photos. If you are like me, then you probably call Tractor Supply and the Co-Op regularly to check if there is poultry in stock, so you can ogle the baby birds and dream of having a flock of your own. This year, chicks and ducklings were in high demand, with poultry literally “flying off the shelf” within hours of getting settled into the pine shavings of their temporary feed trough. I experienced numerous disappointing trips to Tractor Supply, excited to hear the peeps, only to be let down by an empty brooder still warm after the sale. Maybe it was for the best, though, because I ended up buying every book and magazine on ducks in stock and even impulsively diversified my flock dreams by adding goslings and turkey poults.

In the beginning, we had only planned on a small starter flock of six ducks. But, when my husband held a tiny Khaki Campbell in his hand, he melted. We began an enthusiastic negotiation over which breeds were best for our farm. I had read that Indian Runner ducks were widely used for pest control in vineyards and orchards. Since this breed doesn’t fly well, the thought of little bowling pins zooming around the vineyard appealed to me. My husband, on the other hand, was charmed by videos of chatty call ducks and their miniature, chubby, dove-like appearance. Because the best negotiations resolve with both parties mutually satisfied, I ordered each of us our very own flock of Call ducks and Indian Runner ducks in a variety of colors. A quick search online and through social media channels led me to Metzer Farms, a family hatchery with facilities both in Gonzales, California, and Memphis, Tennessee. If it is at all possible that the duality of two things (a blessing and an overabundance of temptation) can exist and be true at the same time, then I would point anyone on the search for a diverse flock in that direction. Their website is incredibly thorough, specializing in waterfowl, including 32 breeds of ducks and 13 breeds of geese. Metzer Farms also provides breed charts with information ranging from temperament, weight, APA class, foraging ability, to flying ability. The vast amount of options, including sexed and straight-run ducklings, ended up being a bit overstimulating for me, and I filled up my online cart with a plethora of beautiful birds blissfully ignoring the red flags and warnings that popped up in various Facebook groups.

When it came time to discuss shipping dates and the construction of the duck house, that is when reality reared its ugly head and burst my dream bubble of fields of free-ranging ducks. The first issue that arose was my husband’s concern that our planned duck house had morphed into a duck barn. He patiently sat down with me and looked at my loaded online cart, then helped me narrow down our flock goals to a manageable number. It was hard to let go. Planning around the golden hen to drake ratio (5:1), we agreed that Silver Appleyards and Welsh Harlequins would not only be an attractive addition to our regenerative farming practices but also have the optimal temperament to become family pets. I would give a five-star rating to Metzer Farms for helping us evaluate the best duck breeds for our needs, and also making it incredibly easy to navigate order changes and arrange shipping dates online. While Customer Service is available, I was able to alter and tailor our order online until I got it exactly right for us. That included later adding a flock of Cayuga ducklings and a flock of Roman Tufted Geese to the mix, but that is a long story for another blog.

So, what happened to the original idea to add Indian Runner ducks to the muscadine vineyard? The absolute variety of color choices available rendered decision-making impossible. I ended up diving into the exhilarating world of hatching eggs and ordered from Greenlands Farm, a 3rd-generation homestead in North Carolina. I found their selection of rare and beautiful flocks, including the Gray (Mallard) Trout Indian Runner ducks, exciting. I had absolutely zero experience ordering ducklings from a private hatchery and zero experience hatching eggs. However, the customer service from this family farm was exceptional from the timely responses to my email inquiries, to the perfectly packed hatching eggs, to the personal handwritten note that came with the instructions. My first candling revealed no cracks in the eggs post-shipping. My second candling illuminated 19 of 18 ordered hatching eggs to be fertile and developing well. I can’t speak for all hatching eggs available online, but I had an excellent experience with Greensland Farm. Find out more about my hatching experience using the Harris Nurture Right 360 incubator in my hatching eggs blog.

The last experience I want to share is about ordering turkey poults from Cackle Hatchery. This was a bit of an impulse buy. My husband lured me to Tractor Supply on Easter by telling me they had turkey poults available. And like a fish on a tackle line, I took the bait. There I was staring into the feed trough that had been converted into an incubator, experiencing for the first time in my life a turkey poult. They were tiny, sleepy, and very cute. I knew right then and there, we had to raise turkeys on our regenerative farm. I wasn’t overly concerned about the type of turkey, just over the moon chasing impulsive thoughts of how fabulous it would be to have turkeys running around the yard. My husband put the brakes on my plans, but while he said ‘no’ right then, he didn’t appear opposed to the idea in general. “I want white turkeys,” he said. “Otherwise, how will we know if there are wild turkeys in the yard eating our fruit or if they are our turkeys?” He’d made an excellent point. So, I set forth on my mission to find the right turkey for our orchards. We settled on the Royal Palm Turkey. At the time, these exotic-looking poultry were only available at Cackle Hatchery. Cackle Hatchery is a 4th-generation family-owned operation in Lebanon, Missouri. To be honest, I was skeptical about ordering from them. I had seen an anonymous post floating around several of my Facebook poultry groups sharing a negative experience. I am not one to be deterred by anonymous critics on the internet, particularly when their opinions or malicious posts are followed by hundreds of Cackle Hatchery supporters sharing their own positive experiences in the comments feed. However, my doubts crept back in when it was challenging to communicate with customer service about adding additional turkey poults to my order. In hindsight, it was probably for the best. The arrival date came without a hitch. I received my mailing notifications and shortly thereafter four adorable, butter-yellow poults arrived in a well-ventilated, protective, and durable package. And, to my surprise and exceeding my expectations, the poults were alert, intelligent, and curious from the moment I settled them into their brooder. The posts and podcasts I had researched all claimed that turkey poults are notoriously difficult to raise, but these little unsexed gems have been the stars of our new flocks integrating themselves seamlessly into our daily activities. Check out my blog on raising turkey poults for more information.

All in all, as I sit here today, sharing this variety of experiences with you while I watch my feathered friends foraging around the yard, I feel blessed. I may have hedged my bet on adding healthy birds to our farm plan by ordering from reputable hatcheries, but sometimes genetics and shipping live animals can result in mishaps, disappointments, and heartbreaks. If you are Nashville-local and looking to add flocks to your homestead, but want to buy local, reach out to us! We are excited to offer our ducklings, goslings, and turkey poults. Head on over to our webpage, to see our beautiful flocks.

June 9, 2025

Wild and Rooted Blog

My experience building a regenerative farm from the ground up.