Tag organic farm

An introduction to gardens, weeds and groundhogs

gotofarms 5 Comments

I confess, I am not a farmer. Until now, I had not grown much more than a bunch of kale.

The mighty groundhog poses for a picture after feasting on the community gardens in Druid Hill Park. I was looking for a just ripened tomato for a sandwich when I encountered him.

Maybe you can tell, by Farm-finds, that I am in awe of farmers who nourish the earth, using the least harmful methods, those tough men and women who dig and seed and nourish the earth with their smart ways. And bottom line, I love to eat local food– like the luscious white peaches, heirloom tomatoes and plump blackberries, whose tastes that defy poetry. The closer I get to the source of the food, the more local, down to the dirt, the better it is. All thanks to the farmers whom I know.

I have been into the beauty of the cultivated land, not the hands-on, dirt-digging, chicken shit spreading, weed pulling gardening. That is, until this spring, when my friend Rob, renowned for his heirloom tomato crops, recruited me to help in his garden. Rob’s book, Raising Kids and Tomatoes, is full of wonderful anecdotes that made it all sound fun and delicious. Plus I am a recent convert to tomatoes, owing to a tomato sandwich, made with a Cherokee Purple from his garden last year.

Since he had back surgery, he needed someone to help plant and weed. I took the challenge and the chance to learn in depth about gardening, from the ground up. Was this a Tom Sawyer scheme?

Trying to support the overbearing tomato plant

Rob had a plot that he had heard about from our mutual friend Stephanie a few years ago–a space about the size of a pickleball court in the Druid Hill City Farm that he rents for $35 a year from the city in Druid Hill Park. You won’t find a more dedicated, ethical group than these urban farmers.

One of 80 in the park, each plot has access to water, wood chips, pathways–and weeds.

A view of the community garden at Druid Hill

I helped out with planting the seeds under a grow light and nurturing them to hardy plants to put into the soil, with a dollop of fertilizer and compost. The seeds of Heirloom Brandywine, Glacier and Cherokee Purple were dropped in holes.

May: tomatoes are growing furiously

By May, the plants were robust and healthy. To support the unwieldy growth, we placed the bushy plants in cages and staked the bold branches that were growing overburdened with little green globes. In exchange for my help, I got to plant flowers-- columbine, bells of Ireland, marigolds and beebalm along with the old standby--zinnia.

A week ago, the garden was looking good. Clusters of tomatoes had popped out, a smudge of pink on the curve, ready to redden with a bit more sun. Cucumbers, as big as baby baseball bats, lay in pleasant slumber growing under the vines. Basil was high as my thumb.

July: Weeds and groundhogs invade

But like a bad omen on the flower front, my flowers were struggling in a mass of weeds to survive. Cosmos, which I thought, would almost grow automatically if you put the seeds in the ground, were overwhelmed. The last of the marigolds which sported big yellow pompoms like corsages on stems were nibbled to the ground. And only one columbine out of the 40 seeds planted survived. Not a great record, one out of 40. The tomatoes, however, were low hanging fruit, ready to pluck in a few days.

Upon return from a 4th of July vacation, I was craving that tomato sandwich. I thought the tomatoes would be ready.

OMG! the tomatoes that were hanging in those inviting clusters had disappeared. A few shards of tomatoes were at the bottom with bites taken out.

I was furious at who and what could have stolen these gems. How how could a critter have gotten to the top of the plant? Had a human being stolen them?

Vanishing plants

According to Rob, there is a powerful ethic at the gardens. The urban gardeners don’t take any fruit or vegetables from one another, not even a strawberry. Everyone appreciates the sweat and muscle ache of gardening to harvest. More likely, judging from the size of the bites and the numbers of bitten green tomatoes on the ground, a ground hog was on the loose, as was the case last year.

It is so discouraging! What is the point if we are just feeding the ground hog?

Word of the invasion soon spread that day, and fellow gardeners sprang into action. A burrow, probably home to a whole family of the critters, was located and a strategy was hatched to set a trap. True to their strong sense of ethics, someone would be checking the trap every day so the culprit could be freed in woods far away from our tomatoes and other inviting delicacies. I wasn’t feeling so kind; I could have kicked it to the moon. Striding through the plots and observing other bitten fruits, Julia, the director, in well-worn overalls, suggested other ideas; bright whirley gigs can scare them off, she said. Also she may bring in some used kitty litter to line along the borders; groundhogs don’t like its smell.

Did we mind the kitty litter? she asked.

Not at all. Anything to stop the rampage.

All this action was encouraging but it didn’t bring back the tomatoes.

Taking action to defeat the groundhog

Looking over the garden-jungle, I was so depressed. i sat on a weed-covered mound and stared at the jungular grass mass, tight as a rug, that had replaced the cosmos. Weeds were now up to my knees. They could cover the world!

Are you discouraged? I asked Rob. He was glum, sitting on a stool pulling up weeds around the ravaged tomato plants. In vengeance, I attacked the stubborn things with a hoe and piled them into the wheelbarrow. The sweat poured down my face, the dirt lodged under my nubbed down fingernails as I dug out the roots and shook out the soil and dropped weeds in the wheelbarrow to cart to the compost pile.

Within the hour, I sowed 25 Cosmos seeds in the bare square of soil. Hope springs eternal.

In that action, replanting, I built my hopes back up, that this time the seeds would survive and we would rescue the seedlings before they could succumb to any critters, drought or weeds. The marigolds were gone, cosmos mowed down, but — the zinnia were flourishing in such a undaunted display of bright pink, orange and yellow it renewed my spirit.

The zinnia are flourishing

There were still some green tomatoes left to ripen. I collected enough basil for pesto, and four cucumbers, for a sandwich or cold soup.

Mayo, plus onion and thinly sliced cuke is good, but not as good as the tomato version!~

Three days later. . . I went out to the garden to cut some zinnias for a friend. The tomato plants, bending with the weight of green fruit, were towering over the trap, set up by a neighboring gardener. There was the culprit groundhog, round as a basketball, appearing to lick his mouth after his feast, in the cage. He looked up at me, as if to say, thanks for all the great tomatoes. Around him, I assessed more damage:tomatoes with tiny bites taken out. He must have had a feast before the cage door shut.

I called Rob, who then notified Julia, who will make sure he finds a happy home away from the garden before the day is over.

It's  only a matter of a few days before those green gems ripen and I have my tomato sandwich; the Cherokee Purple, on textured white bread slathered with Duke's.

Groundhog trapped, at least for a day

On my way out, I announce triumphantly to a toiling neighbor-gardener that we had caught the groundhog. In his plot, he was surveying cabbage which the groundhog had dined on earlier, maybe as an appetizer. I thought he’d be happier about the news. He’s experienced, persistent as the critters and the weeds, as you have to be in this business.

He said he had a garden in the Shenandoah Valley a few years ago. He trapped two groundhogs and took them five miles away to another place way up in the mountains in the woods.

“The next day both were back,” he said, turning back to weeding.

Tomatoes ready to ripen–without the groundhog

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On my way to the Cotswolds

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At Paddington Station in London, feeling lost like Paddington Bear.

After a break for the winter doldrums, I’m relaunching Farm-finds with a trip to the Cotswolds, the heart of the beautiful English countryside. I came to London for a family wedding and figured I would take off a few days to walk a part of the Cotswold Way, a 102-mile walking trail, the main route between Bath and Chipping Camden for the last 500 years. Thousands of hikers tackle the whole trail, which has become one of the most popular in England.

I am just doing segments. My base will be Broadway which couldn’t be further from the NY Broadway. A honey-colored village without neon lights or billboards. I rode the Western Rail line from Paddington station to Moreton-in-Marsh (pronounced Morton and Marsh) for an hour and a half. The names of the villages –Bird Lip, Dursley, Chipping Camden–ring like places plucked from Harry Potter. Getting deeper into the country, I had to catch the bus from Moreton-in-Marsh to Broadway with just two minutes time. We hurtled down the road through tiny villages on roads about as wide as one mini-van.

Connections by public transportation are spotty. The bus driver couldn’t even tell me his schedule for my return trip. Cars rule here, unfortunately, but I was scared to drive on the “wrong side of the road” by myself.

The bus driver was skilled in driving down two-way roads to my destination Broadway, which fits the definition of charming and quaint. Its “fancy” shops feature Wellies and cheerful teacups. The town museum has a painting exhibit on dogs.

Broadway Tower, a “folly,” is my first destination, a 5-mile walk up and down hills. One of England’s great landscape designers, “Capability Brown,” built it in the middle of his 200 acre-estate in the 1800s.

Broadway Tower sits atop the Cotswold escarpment, looking like it was just dropped in the field from the sky.

Then I’m planning to go by bus to Chipping Camden, another charming town with history and an art galley. I’ll walk 1.5 miles to Hidcote, an arts and crafts-style garden from there.

Finally, I’ll visit the incredibly successful and commercial organic farm, Daylesford, owned by Lady Bamford and her billionaire husband. Lady Bam is very savvy and trendy, the Martha Stewart of the upscale farm scene. On the farm in Daylesford, they grow wonderful organic produce with which they create amazing dishes to sell at their chic cafes in London, at their home base in Daylesford, and at a three-star restaurant in another Cotswold village. They’ve got lots of high-quality, high-priced products, from cutting shears to country inns. Organic, making a profit. How do they do it? I want to find out.

Travelling solo. I couldn’t convince my daughter, son or friends to come along due to conflicting schedules. I travelled all around Europe as a student, but I must admit as a single, older woman, it is a little intimidating. I’m calling on my old adventurous self. I like the idea of going my own way, walking at my own speed, dipping into shops and pubs on a whim. And perhaps as a nod to luxury, I’m staying at a nice hotel, the Lygon Arms, which claims Oliver Cromwell slept here– as well as the Duke of Windsor, Richard Burton and Liz Taylor and Prince Phillip. Its origins go back to the 1300s when the inn on this spot was known as the White Hart.

But, maybe for me, the extra benefit is the location right on the Cotswold Way.


As the coach road between Bath and Chipping Camden, the Cotswold Way is dotted with pubs and inns every five miles or less. I wanted to come, partly because spring comes a little earlier here than in Maryland and I am tired of winter. Also I have been carrying around memories of a visit years ago, when a group of us came out to stay in a B&B and do some walking. We were meandering along in these rich velvety green fields when a tumultuous rain soaked us to the bone. We ran across the fields, quickly found a pub, and dried off by the fire with a pint. We were talking and laughing and having the best time.

These signposts serve as guides through the fields

It’s a comfort to know you are always within a few miles of a pub and a pint with the beauty of the Cotswolds behind you.

Searching for an old-fashioned diner

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Old 360 Diner attracts the sheriffs department, EMT workers and locals for lunch.

Roaming around my home-country in Halifax County, Virginia, this summer, I have been looking for a good old-fashioned diner that serves good- old-fashioned food. I only had to drive about a mile and half to the Old 360 Mountain Road Diner, on the curvy two-lane Route 360 to Danville. There is no MacDonalds or Burger King on this road–only a deserted gas station on the left just before the parking lot, full of trucks, ambulances, jeeps and sedans.

Two sheriff’s cars were parked right in front. In Baltimore, this might have been a sign to quickly move to the next Burger King, but here the sheriff, police, Blacks and Whites, and workers are regulars, creating a friendly buzz of conversation. I settled at the counter beside Joy, an emergency worker, and assessed the menu. Meat loaf was the first choice but it already had sold out. So I settled on chicken fingers plate with two sides–green beans and macaroni–and sweet tea ($10.99).

By the time I received my plate,heaping with food, Joy and I were friends. She had told me her life story. She’s from Ringgold, up the road, and is on the emergency team that eats here regularly. I learned about her job, her children, her divorce and the calls for emergency around the area. Diabetes and heart attack predominate as the major calls for help. No joke, given the rich food I’m about to eat. I’m indulging but you can also eat your fill of vegetables, from okra to butter beans.

But who wants to skimp when you get these amazing chicken fingers?

Each of the four chicken fingers was as big as a drumstick. They were succulent, hot and full of chicken flavor, compared to fast food chicken fingers that taste like paper.

The chicken fingers plate with sides, iced tea, homemade ranch dressing and corn muffin was good for two meals. Just what I was looking for: great local fresh food and friendly conversation. And the price, $10.99, was right.

Barry, the owner, from behind the counter, told me he makes his own breadcrumbs. The genial host, with a broad face and grin, and sunburned complexion, won’t tell me what’s in the crusty skin, but I suspect it comes from the delicious cornbread muffins. He soaks the chicken breasts in buttermilk before he rolls them in bread crumbs and drops them in crackling hot oil.

Barry, owner, manager and cook at Old 360 Mountain Road diner

How do you prepare catfish? I asked Barry.

He uses pliers to peel away the tough skin and volunteered he could cook a fish for me if I put my catch on ice and bring it up to the restaurant within two days. I bragged about my catch from two days ago: a big black catfish that was a thrill to reel in.

But it didn’t look that appetizing. Its gills pulsating, on the ground, I could see part of its mouth was missing, probably from an earlier catch. We threw it back in the pond.

How many restaurants would cook your fish? BYOF.

I stored this info in my head as inspiration to try again to land one of the more savory catfish. Like many who live out in the country in these parts, Barry has a pond at his home and prefers crappie and blue gill and bass. You’ve got to fish the little ones out or they will take up space from the big ones, he advised.

About 2 p.m., closing time. No dinner is served here but it’s not necessary with the huge lunch I just ate. I asked for a breakfast menu that includes pancakes, sausage, country ham, bacon, eggs, and fresh buttermilk biscuits.

“Umm, that looks good,” I said. This could get to be a habit. My cousin James eats breakfast here everyday.

“You’ll be back tomorrow,” Barry replied.

Driving back from the Cole brothers berry farm (the next post coming up) the next morning, I stopped by for a biscuit. $1 grilled with butter and so good. I may be returning for lunch. I noticed the day’s desserts feature chocolate meringue pie, brown sugar pie and coconut pie ($3 a slice).

Robby Wooding: Restoring land

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“Let your food be your medicine,” Robby Wooding says, after chomping a handful of stinging nettles.

He offers me a hand full, but I decline. On the tastebuds, I think it would be a bit too prickly. But Wooding rolls the nettles up so they don’t sting. Strolling around the lush farmland that has belonged to his family for 200 years, he makes short cryptic comments.

“It’s highly nutritious,” he continues, “and good for making pesto.” And it is an alternative remedy for allergies.

The stinging nettles are just one of the medicinal herbs that Wooding has grown over 15 years ago for his herbal business. While the business is no longer going, the herbs are still thriving on Wooding’s farm, located down the road and across the Banister river from our place in Halifax County.  Goldenseal, a member of the buttercup family used to aid digestion, grows here in the field. Ginseng, panacea for all kinds of ills, may be found in the forest. Wooding won’t reveal the location of the ginseng, a plant that was prized as far back as 196 AD for its curative powers. He makes various tinctures and teas of herbs as his health demands.

Wooding has taken a roundabout route to come home here after trying to survive as an artist in New York City.

“I got out of here [HalIfax] as fast as I could,” after high school he says, as he relaxes in a chair in a country kitchen that looks like his great grandmother might pop in any minute with a tray of biscuits.  (She was born in an adjoining room.) In high school he loved abstract art and intent on making it as an artist, he went to Rutgers for a graduate degree.

In New York City for five years, he painted in between jobs in construction But he couldn’t break through the art market. He finally decided to come back to the old homeplace, where his family has successfully raised tobacco and other crops for the last century.

They made a decent income on tobacco before price supports were discontinued. The question was: what could replace tobacco as a money crop? Following his belief in the healing power of plants, Wooding decided to try raising medicinal herbs. “I was trying to get an alternative to tobacco. There was an ad in Progressive Farmer for ginseng,” he recalls. He bought 100,000 plants and sowed them in the forest to begin Southern Herbals.   For fifteen years, Wooding’s herbal business attracted a following from Charlottesville and the surrounding area. But the sales did not amount to a living wage; he went back to school to become a nurse.

He worked to keep the farm up, using some old tractors to bush-hog the land. He raised hay for feed but it was a huge undertaking to keep up. Then the farmer who was helping him out retired. He was about to give up, until my cousin told him about Merlin, the same Merlin who helped us to restore our farmland.  And then the magic occurred. At least, it seems like magic, when you look out at the lush fields, full of clover, butterflies and bees on a spring day, but in fact, Merlin and his three sons work hard to plow, plant and sell the organic agricultural produce.

With its authentic wood buildings, the farm looks as it did 100 years ago. Wooding does little painting or upkeep on the buildings that somehow still stand.

Tractor shed
Corn crib
Chicken house
A tobacco curing barn in the middle of the clover

It’s taken a few years for this former tobacco farm, which was notorious for depleting the soil, to reach this pinnacle of fertility. For the past month, the farm has sported a rich crop cover of purple vetch, rye grass and red clover dense as an Oriental carpet laid across the rolling hills. Just this week, the cover crops were turned over into in a rich soil mix for soybeans. Next year, they will plant sunflowers, Wooding hopes, as part of the crop rotation, that keeps the fertility in the ground.

In other more formal gardens, the purple vetch and clover would be rooted out as weeds. But here they are nourishing the soil using regenerative methods without pesticides.

The little bit of pesticide used for the hay had wasted away after three years, the period required for organic designation. 

Wooding is grateful for the renovation of the land that has revived without chemicals or other additives. “I am so thankful. I was at the point of despair. Merlin came and drove around the fields.” He had a super tractor, compared to the old vehicle Wooding had used before.  There is the addition of lime and chicken poo, plus the cover crops. This year the crop will be soybeans to be marketed to organic producers.

What if you get an outbreak of insects, or overwhelming tall grasses, or other invaders? How can you avoid using pesticides?

“That’s simple,” says Wooding.  “Don’t do it!”

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Turkeys, sheep, geese, lambs, alpaca: a peaceable kingdom

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Newborn lamb at Breezy Hill

The newborn lamb, just two hours old, was already standing. I wasn’t sure if it was real; it was so soft white and cuddly as a baby’s stuffed animal. All around the spacious pen, exotic turkey, peacock, geese, ducks, and sheep mingle  There was no crying– only a lot of baahing, quacking, and ringing wind chimes to herald the arrival of one more creature to this peaceable kingdom at Breezy Hill in Woodbine, Maryland.

Amid the chaos, Heather Lysantri, resplendent in a purple and orange tunic, strides out of her 2-story home across the lawn, to greet me. But first she goes right into the middle of the animal fest to check on the state of the newborn which still has its umbilical cord hanging

“It’s ok. It’s nursing,” she says as she settles down at a picnic table in front of the rebuilt silo, to talk about how this animal kingdom has blossomed. Five lambs have been born this spring, she says. And six more cria (baby alpaca) are on the way.

This is a way of life that goes beyond a hobby even though both Heather and her husband Alex Lysantri still maintain full time jobs to support the farm and their two children. “We still have to find the time to build it up,” says Heather. “We had originally set this up for horses. Then we discovered alpacas.”

 Neither she nor her husband Alex has taken a vacation together for years. It has become a mission, far from the original career goal of her 20s when she envisioned a career as a professional pool player in New York City.

But farming was in her blood, ever since she herself grew up on a farm in Bluemont, Virginia. She and Alex, who was familiar with raising chickens and other domestic birds in Cyprus where he grew up, were intent on finding a farm to raise horses. They bought Breezy Hill in Woodbine, Maryland, through a short sale in 2009.

Alex and daughter

Heather lined up riding lessons for her young children and for herself. On the third lesson, two weeks before moving to the farm, Heather fell off a horse and broke her humerus, the upper arm bone. “It was a long and painful recovery,” Heather recalls. The injury took the idea of a horse-riding center off the table.

Perseus

At first glance, alpaca would seem to be an odd, if not random, choice. Heather recalls years before they bought the property, she had talked to a man who promoted alpaca for the business potential of their wool and their pleasant disposition. She and Alex investigated and decided to invest in three alpacas for sale in nearby Frederick. It was a good deal– for three when they then cost much more on the market for just one. “Back then it was a pretty exotic market.  You could get good money for breeding them and you could sell their fur for fiber products, “explains Heather.

But the first group of alpaca turned out to be “awful.”  One was obese, one was old and the worst one suffered from an ill temper known as berserk syndrome. Berserk is one of the many idiosyncratic features of alpaca, usually known to be docile pets. It occurs in males that have been bottle-fed. “When they reach full maturity, they think everything with legs is a threat. They chase, they bite. He charged us all the time,” Heather pauses. “We traded them for five peacocks.”

A few of the ribbons won by Breezy Hill alpaca

As for the alpaca that year, the couple realized they needed to invest in better stock. They bought five alpacas” above pet quality.”  The herd has now grown to 20 with many ribbons and medals for wool and quality of the animals.

We walk down to see the alpaca which live and forage free-range in the paddocks behind the house. They seem happy and goofy as they nuzzle and ogle us with their big brown eyes and flickering eyelashes. They have just been shorn of their fluffy, warm coats, a routine in May. They yielded huge bags of fur that Heather will blend into threads and yarns for weaving.

She points to Motion, who has won 13 championships, including the Grand Champion in the White class, a kind of best in group award. Today, shorn of fur, he looks skinny and awkward as a boy with his first crewcut.

Motions shows off his conformation

“He’s got perfect conformation,” Heather points out. The distance of his legs is equal to the distance across his back, from his tail to neck. But more important, his wool is prime, “all in clumps, fine and soft.” She’s got a huge bag of Motion’s fleece to enter in this fall’s shows.

Alpacas crashed the gates in mating season

As native of the Andes, the alpaca cannot cope with the extreme heat and cold of Maryland when they are delivering offspring. Heather and Alex separate the boys from the girls except for the mating season so they can time the births in temperate weather of spring or fall. However, one day when the couple was driving home last year from an alpaca show, they noticed that the alpaca had broken through the fence.

 “We had two gate crashers,” recalls Heather. “One alpaca was very horny. I saw more and more pairing.  It resulted in five babies.”  One mother and baby died in the summer due to the heat.

The alpaca are organic, feeding on grass and some special grain made for their nutritional needs.

How do they produce champions? “Mostly, it’s the genetics,” says Alex, a mix of strong males with smaller, less perfect females. “Nothing is guaranteed. They judge on conformation and density of the wool.”

Alpaca eat a healthy grain blend and forage on grass.

Alex is legendary in the neighborhood located in the Maryland Agricultural Reserve for his knack with birds and animals. He sells chickens, roosters and peacocks from pens behind the barn. His customers call him for advice, which can range from how to shield birds from predators to why a hen is not laying eggs.

Alpaca care has had its learning curve, but the Woodbine couple has mastered the fine points. They call the vet for emergencies but have found meds for horses and alpaca are interchangeable.

Overall, the alpaca offers many products for business: wool and offspring. But the most exciting potential lies in their manure, which Heather calls “black gold.”

Black Gold in the manure mine

 “I attended a poo seminar, and I was blown away by this class. They could pay all their expenses of raising the alpaca by selling manure,” explains Heather. Alpaca manure, an all-natural, organic fertilizer, deters deer and insects in addition to boosting growth of all kinds of vegetables and flowers. At the seminar, the program leaders planted tomatoes in the manure to demonstrate its power to boost crops. “They had cables going up to the second floor” of the building to support the massive tomatoes,” says Heather.

Alex and Heather bought the gear and supplies to make bricks of the manure, which they expect to invest in once they retire. Every morning they rake the pasture and pile up the manure in the compost which they will spread over the fields.

They have discovered the power of alpaca manure for themselves. Last spring Alex carefully tilled the fields for grazing and lined them with alpaca manure. After a rain, the field filled with little yellow buttercups. Nothing but buttercups—toxic for the alpaca and most grazing animals. They uprooted the buttercups, reseeded and refertilized with the black gold for a healthy, organic grazing field.

From shearing to cape

The couple set up a studio and shop in the property’s converted barn and silo. They send some of the raw wool off to be sorted, fluffed and cleaned to Painted Sky Mill in Pennsylvania . The debris is removed from the fiber to ensure that the best is used for yarn, leaving the rest for roving or bond spinning. Heather keeps some of the fleece to process herself into threads and yarns. These go into a variety of fiber art

which is sold in the Little Boutique, where we end up. The shop displays socks, scarves and other warm products. Some are made by commercial shops, such as the stuffed alpaca toys, but all contain alpaca wool, known for its warmth and softness.

The most stunning operation occurs in Heather’ studio, located behind the shop. It houses a Felt LOOM Proseries machine that blends the refined alpaca fleece with other materials to make some beautiful, brightly colored designs. Heather may add some mohair or silk for texture, or to add structure.

“I love this machine!” Heather enthuses.

She places the fleece on top of a material decorated with peacock feather eyes. The loom, with over 900 needles, weaves the wool with the material into a warm, felt-like cover.

Heather displays the alpaca-blended textile

It seems a big jump from the plastic bags of fleece lined up outside the door to these works of art. But like the alpaca, it’s soft, warm and engaging.

Breezy Hill is open for tours. You can contact them at breezyhillalpacas@gmail.com or call (410)489-5802.