Did You Ever Feel Like Killing a Teenager? A Funny Country Tale Starring a Teen and Wi-Fi

Okay, so you wouldn’t actually do it (although probably no jury would convict you. Just sayin'). But be honest—you’ve thought about it. We all have. If you’re a p
arent, grandparent, or unlucky neighbor within a three-block radius of a teenager, you’ve probably had a moment where you thought, “This is how it ends. I’m going to snap, and the local paper is going to call me ‘a quiet person who mostly kept to herself'.”

Here’s my moment.

My 17-year-old grandson decided to build himself a computer. And I don’t mean “order one on Amazon.” I mean build one—from scratch—like some nerdy Frankenstein, piecing together a motherboard, CPU, and a graphics card big enough to control NORAD. Honestly, it was impressive. He spent hours researching, comparing specs, and watching more tutorials than any human should. I didn’t know whether to applaud or call in NASA.

Then he spent even more hours on my computer, eating up my internet while he shopped for deals, checked compatibility, and watched tech reviews until I started hearing them in my sleep. He even used my credit card—with my blessing—to order all the parts.

And to his credit, he paid me back. Every penny. Right there, I had myself a proud Grandma moment. Short-lived, but proud.

And now. . . enter the part of the story where homicide becomes a legitimate thought.

Being a brand-new computer, it had no games—which is apparently a felony in Teenager Land, punishable by whining, sulking, and walking through the house like a Dickens orphan. So he bought his favorite game—no idea what it was, probably something with zombies, machine guns, and absolutely zero plot—and popped in the disk.

The computer whirred to life, lights blinking like it was about to launch missiles. The screen said it was installing and “needed to download a few files.” Fine. Normal.

Except what it meant was: “Surprise! This disk is just a shiny plastic coaster. We’re now going to download 87 quadrillion bytes of game data directly from the internet, using up ALL your bandwidth—and possibly the neighbor’s, too.”

And grandson? He went to bed.

Peacefully. Like a sweet, innocent child. A sweet, innocent child who had just lit my internet on fire, roasted marshmallows over it, and strolled away.

By the next morning, it was still downloading. And by the end of that day, WildBlue—our internet overlords—had had enough. They slapped us with a data violation and throttled our internet speed down to something that made dial-up look like a NASCAR race.

So now? I can check my email if I start at 6 a.m. and don’t mind waiting through 43 seconds of buffering per click. Watching a video? Please. I’d have better luck chiseling it into stone tablets and watching it rock-by-rock.

Click a news article? Sure—if I want to load the headline today and the story sometime next Thursday. And YouTube? That’s not even a website anymore—it’s a spinning wheel of dashed dreams.

So until our usage average dips below “acceptable” (which should happen sometime after the spring thaw), Grandson is on my list. The list. The “I love you dearly but also wouldn’t mind if you got a paper cut and spilled lemon juice in it” list.

What I’ve Learned:

1. Teenagers can build a supercomputer from scratch but think internet bandwidth is infinite, free, and magically produced by garden fairies.

2. “Install from disk” now means “Download the entire internet while Grandma sleeps.”

3. WildBlue has no heart, no soul, and apparently, no pity.

4. Never trust a tech-savvy teenager alone with a high-speed connection. It’s like handing a toddler a chainsaw and saying, “Be careful.”

5. And finally… even when they torch your internet and make your online life a living hell, if they take initiative, follow through, and pay you back—you keep ’em.

But you change the Wi-Fi password. . . and you don’t write it down.

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©2010 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Hello World! Newborn Goat Kids Never Get Old

Well, after a bit of a dramatic entrance involving getting stuck on the way and needing a good old-fashioned pull, the first kid of the spring season is officially here! Leave it to goats to turn something simple into a full-blown production. Nothing like a little barnyard drama to kick off kidding season.

She made her debut yesterday afternoon—a single birth from a first-time mama who handled the whole event like she’d been doing it for years. Calm, steady, and with that natural instinct that always amazes me. No panic, no confusion, just a little huff, a push, a pull, and there she was: one strong, healthy doeling weighing in at 9.4 pounds. That’s a respectable size for a first-timer and a good start to the season.

Within no time, baby girl was up on her wobbly legs, ears flopping, tail wagging, and exploring her brand-new world like she owned it. You could practically see her curiosity bubbling over—sniffing the straw, bumping into her mama, and trying to decide what exactly her legs were supposed to do. Mama, meanwhile, was standing guard like a proud soldier, softly talking to her little one in that gentle goat-mama voice that always melts my heart.

And before anyone asks—no, I don’t do bottles. I raised my own kids; I’m not about to raise theirs too. Around here, mama takes care of her babies, and I’m just here to make sure everyone’s healthy, fed, and not getting themselves into trouble (which, with goats, is always a full-time job).

There’s something special about that first kid of the year—it feels like the true start of spring. The barn smells like fresh hay and new life again, and the long, cold winter finally feels like it’s behind us.

If this lively little girl is any indication, it’s going to be a fun, busy, and slightly chaotic kidding season. And honestly I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Hey, Mom, whatca eatin'?

That smelled interesting but I think I'd rather have what's under here!

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©2010 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Lamb.... It's What's for Dinner! Newborn Lambs Are a Great Way to Start The Day

These two little woolly freeloaders have decided that the hay feeder isn’t just for eating—it’s for living. Apparently, when you’re a lamb, nothing says “home sweet home” like lying smack in the middle of your lunch. They’ve tucked themselves in there like a pair of cozy dinner rolls in a bread basket—content, warm, and completely oblivious to the concept of “sharing.” Honestly, I can’t even be mad. If I could curl up in my food supply and call it a day, I might do the same, especially a big pot of chicken and dumplings. Those biscuit fluff balls have always looked so comfy.

They look downright pleased with themselves too—those innocent little faces saying, “What? We’re not eating it. We’re just keeping it warm.” Meanwhile, the rest of the flock is probably glaring at them from the sidelines, wondering when it’ll be their turn to dine without the bed-and-breakfast crowd hogging the buffet.

And before anyone starts worrying that I’ve been feeding my chickens steroids, no—your eyes aren’t deceiving you. That hen in the foreground isn’t some mutant poultry escapee from Jurassic Farm. It’s just a classic case of camera perspective. She’s closer to the lens, giving her that “giant chicken” look. She’s not auditioning for Attack of the 50-Foot Chicken, I promise.

The lambs, for their part, aren’t tiny either—they’re just tucked into their hay bunk like a couple of farm-raised hobbits enjoying a second breakfast. They’re perfectly healthy, happy, and already developing that fine sheepish art of looking adorable while making a mess.

It’s moments like this that make life on the farm such a comedy show. Every day, you find a new example of animals doing what animals do best—turning practicality into pure mischief.

Life on the farm… where scale is a suggestion, personal space is optional, and dinner might just be taking a nap in the salad bar.

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©2010 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

CNN Speaks Out Against White House

Somebody finally said what a lot of us have been thinking — and Jack Cafferty didn’t hold back. In this CNN segment titled “How Dare They,” he delivers the kind of no-nonsense truth that used to be the standard in journalism: blunt, clear, and without a single coat of sugar.

From the first few seconds, you can tell he’s had it. “When the people’s business becomes ‘Let’s manage the message’ instead of ‘Let’s serve the people,’ then we’re in trouble,” he says. Amen to that. Somewhere along the way, the line between leadership and public relations got blurred, and folks like Cafferty are the few still brave enough to point it out.

He reminds viewers that leadership isn’t just about power — it’s about responsibility. “When you ignore basic expectations — openness, integrity, consistency — you don’t just disappoint; you weaken the fabric of public trust.” That’s not a partisan statement; that’s plain common sense.

The segment builds to his knockout punch: “How dare they — the people who are supposed to be accountable to us — treat our democracy like a marketing campaign instead of a public service?” You can almost hear the collective “thank you” from everyone who’s been watching politics with gritted teeth.

This isn’t about party lines. It’s about remembering what the White House used to stand for: respect, duty, and honesty with the American people. Cafferty’s frustration mirrors what many of us feel — we were raised on the idea that doing the right thing mattered, even when it was hard.

He just said it out loud on national television. And maybe, just maybe, that’s exactly what this country needs to hear.

I don’t know about you, but when CNN starts calling out the White House, you know the pot’s really boiling. I’m not here to wave a flag for any side — just calling it like I see it. Somewhere along the line, honesty stopped being fashionable. Maybe it’s time it made a comeback. Out here on the farm, if the barn roof’s leaking, you don’t argue about whose fault it is — you grab a ladder and fix it. Washington could learn a thing or two from that.

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Survival Seeds: Saving Heirloom Seeds in Your Food Storage Plan

Jim and I have spent the past few years chatting (and sometimes debating) about the importance of growing and storing non-hybrid, non-GMO vegetables. As hybrid seeds and genetically modified crops take over the market, it just seems smart—old-fashioned smart—to invest in seeds you can actually replant year after year. I bet you've thought about it too, or maybe you're already ahead of us and growing your own stash of heirloom goodness.

We’ve browsed more websites than I care to admit—some of those seed packages are priced like you’re buying a gold mine, not a tomato. One of them actually made me wonder if I’d accidentally clicked on a mortgage refinancing site. But then we stumbled across a gem: Hometown Seeds.

They sell a survival seed package that’s about 1½ pounds of 16 different vegetable seeds, all sealed for long-term storage. It comes with planting and storing instructions and, get this, it’s affordable. Like, actual people on actual farms can afford it affordable. They're even running a sale right now, and I have to say, the customer service was downright refreshing. A gal named Joni sent my order out, and it was in my mailbox four days later. That's faster than it takes me to find my gardening gloves.

Now all I have to do is wait for spring. I’m already picturing rows of healthy, non-GMO, non-hybrid vegetables waving in the breeze. And the best part? I can harvest the seeds from this year’s crop and use them for next year’s garden. That’s the kind of recycling I can get behind!

And no, before you ask—that beautiful garden photo isn’t mine. That’s from Hometown Seeds' website. Mine looks a bit more... realistic. But I’m thinking of printing out that photo and posting it right in the middle of my garden for inspiration. Or maybe intimidation. “See this, lettuce? This is your potential. Shape up.”

So if you’ve been toying with the idea of survival seeds, this might be the perfect time to start. It’s one small step toward food independence—and one giant leap for your zucchini plants.

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News in the World of Science: (Satire, In Case You Didn't Guess)

Every once in a while, someone in the lab of life comes up with a discovery so absurd it makes perfect sense — and Pelosium fits the bill. Allegedly discovered by “unbiased” researchers with suspiciously sharp tongues, this mythical element supposedly has an atomic mass that doubles every election cycle and repels accountability at the molecular level.

Of course, the beauty of the Pelosium satire isn’t just in its poke at politics — it’s in how neatly it captures the frustration so many of us feel watching the political stage. The names change, but the symptoms remain: overreactive behavior, instability when exposed to truth, and a half-life conveniently timed to the next press conference. You don’t have to be a chemist to recognize the reaction — we’ve all seen it fizz, sputter, and smoke before disappearing into thin air.

Good satire works like a mirror. It reflects what’s already there but distorts it just enough to make us laugh instead of cry. “Pelosium” doesn’t need to explain itself — we all know exactly which elements of public life it’s lampooning. It’s the same formula that powered Mark Twain, Will Rogers, and every sharp-witted columnist since: tell the truth, but make it funny enough that people will actually read it.

So yes, the periodic table may never officially recognize Pelosium, but the rest of us can. It’s the element of absurdity that somehow keeps the whole political reaction going. A little volatile, a little ridiculous — and absolutely essential if we’re going to keep laughing while the lab burns.

Heaviest Element Yet Known to Science Discovered

Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory in California has now identified with certainty the heaviest element known to science. The new element, Pelosium (PL), has one neutron, 25 assistant neutrons, 88 deputy neutrons, and 198 assistant deputy neutrons, giving it an atomic mass of 312. These 312 particles are held together by forces called morons, which are surrounded by vast quantities of lepton-like particles called peons.

Pelosium is inert, and has no charge and no magnetism. Nevertheless, it can be detected because it impedes every reaction with which it comes into contact. A tiny amount of Pelosium can cause a reaction that would normally take less than a second, to take from 4 days to 4 years to complete.

Pelosium has a normal half-life of 2 years. It does not decay, but instead undergoes a biennial reorganization in which a portion of the assistant neutrons and deputy neutrons exchange places. Pelosium mass will increase over time, since each reorganization will promote many morons to become isodopes. This characteristic of moron promotion leads some scientists to believe that Pelosium is formed whenever morons reach a critical concentration. This hypothetical quantity is referred to as critical morass.

When catalyzed with money, Pelosium becomes Senatorium, an element that radiates just as much energy as Pelosium since it has half as many peons but twice as many morons.

Read more on this discovery.

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©2010 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Hey, How About Some Hay? A Humorous Conversation Between a Goat and a Horse

Some things on the farm just make you stop, smile, and wonder why the rest of the world can’t be this simple.

This morning I walked out to the barn, expecting the usual chorus of hungry complaints, and instead found an unexpected little slice of peace on earth: Talon, my grand, feather-footed Gypsy Cob, was calmly sharing the hay feeder with Casanova—the resident ladies’ man of the goat pen.

Now if you’ve ever met Casanova, you know he’s not exactly the ask permission first type. He usually just hops in, takes what he wants, and figures he can charm his way out of any trouble. And Talon? Well, he’s not the hot-headed sort, but let’s just say he likes his personal space—and he has hooves the size of dinner plates to defend it.

But today? No drama. No fuss. Just hay munching in perfect harmony. I swear I caught them mid-conversation, too:

Casanova (with a mouthful of hay):
“Say Talon, you ever think about the deep stuff? Like why humans complicate everything?”

Talon (calmly chewing):
“Buddy, I get breakfast, I get dinner, I have a roof and a fan. What’s to complain about?”

Casanova:
“Exactly. They’re always in a tizzy about fences and politics and whatnot. We’ve got boundaries too, but you don’t see me yelling about zoning regulations.”

Talon:
“You literally jumped the fence last week, Cas.”

Casanova (shrugging):
“Dude, I was chasing love, not legislation.”

It made me wonder: wouldn’t the world be a whole lot better if people were more like animals? (Well, some animals. Let’s not model our diplomacy after roosters in puberty.)

They don’t care if you’re tall or short, hoofed or horned, shiny or shaggy. They just want a fair shot at the hay, a dry place to nap, and maybe a friend to chew beside.

So next time life gets complicated, do what Talon and Casanova did—belly up to the feeder, keep your opinions light, and remember there’s room for more than one kind of critter at the table.

Because if a Gypsy Cob and a love-struck goat can figure it out, the rest of us don’t have much of an excuse.

When a 1,200-pound horse and a rascally goat can agree on breakfast, maybe there’s hope for the rest of us.

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©2010 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Building Stairs—Every Barn Needs an Upstairs

I consider myself a decent carpenter. I can hold my own with a saw, I know which end of a tape measure to use, and I’ve only glued my fingers together once. But up until now, I’d never built a set of stairs. And honestly, how hard could it be? It’s just a bunch of boards going up at an angle, right?

Wrong. So very wrong.

Naturally, I started where all great DIY disasters begin—Google. I read articles, scrolled forums, and stared at diagrams until my eyes crossed and my herb tea went cold. Nothing made sense. It was like reading IKEA instructions written by a medieval mathematician.

So I turned to YouTube, the place where regular people explain things in plain English, often while holding a coffee cup and being barked at by their dogs. That’s where I found a video from Lowes, and let me tell you—if a picture’s worth a thousand words, that video was worth a thousand brain cells I didn’t even know I had. Suddenly, it all started making sense!

Armed with this newfound wisdom and a healthy dose of overconfidence, I cut the stringers. Carefully. Slowly. Nervously. But hey, they looked right, and two of them are officially up and holding! Tomorrow, I’ll put up the third one and maybe even slap on a few treads—if the good Lord’s willing and the drill battery holds out.

Now, before you ask, no, there is not a second floor in the barn yet. There’s just a big ol’ beam the stairs are currently attached to. So yes, right now we’ve got stairs to nowhere. Which honestly feels fitting, since our house still has the infamous “door to nowhere” upstairs—just waiting on that balcony we swore we’d build in 2009.

It’s nice to know the barn and the house are keeping things consistent. One has a door to nowhere. The other has stairs to it.

Maybe someday we’ll connect all these architectural ambitions and make a real second floor. Until then, at least I know how to build the stairs... even if I don’t know where they’re going.

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Road Salt: A Necessary Evil in Northern NH

Ever wonder why vehicles from southern states don’t have much rust—if any at all? Or, to flip it around, why northern vehicles often look like they’ve survived a saltwater shipwreck? Two words: road salt.

Up here, it’s our winter seasoning of choice—generously applied to roads to melt snow and ice. But the downside? On wet days, that salty slush splashes up into every crevice of your vehicle like it’s trying to brine it for roasting. And on dry days, the salt dust doesn’t just lie there quietly. Oh no—it floats through the air like some kind of ghostly winter fog, swirling around and coating everything in its path.

Yesterday, I made a Home Depot run to Littleton—a three-hour round trip. I came home with a truckload of materials to keep the barn-building project chugging along. But apparently, I also picked up enough road salt to de-ice the entire driveway, front yard, and probably a goat or two if they stand still long enough.

Winter in the North: come for the snow, stay for the corrosion!

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Death Metal Rooster — Guess He Has a Lot to Crow About

I’ve heard a lot of roosters in my day—everything from the crack-of-dawn alarm clock variety to the ones who crow at midnight just to remind you that sleep is optional. But this guy? He’s in a league all his own.

Some creative genius out there decided to take a video of a rooster with the longest crow I've ever seen and pair it with death metal music—and the result is pure comedic brilliance. The first time I watched it, I nearly choked on my herb tea. This bird doesn’t just crow—he screams like he’s the lead singer for a band called Cluck Sabbath. The timing is perfect, the head tosses are right on beat, and that rooster sells every note like he’s about to go on world tour.

I’ve always said that chickens have personalities, but this one has a full-blown stage persona. You can almost see him throwing back his comb and belting out songs about corn rations, barnyard rebellion, and freedom from the frying pan. If there were pyrotechnics in the background, I wouldn’t have been surprised. Somewhere, a group of hens is probably his backup choir, clucking along in rhythm while the cows file in as his audience.

What makes it even better is how perfectly it captures the reality of farm life—chaotic, noisy, and hysterical in ways outsiders could never fully understand. Those of us who live it know that roosters take themselves very seriously. Every crow is an announcement, a declaration, and, in some cases, a warning to anyone within a five-mile radius. This video just gives that ego the soundtrack it always deserved.

So, turn up your speakers and enjoy the show. It’s proof that even in the barnyard, there’s room for rock ‘n’ roll—and that sometimes, the most unexpected performers steal the spotlight.

Rock on, feathered friend. You’ve officially redefined “cock-a-doodle-doom.”

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