Today's Trauma

Phil came back after checking the cows at midday. "Clara's missing."

This was especially bitter for me, as I had gone to bed last night, exhausted by the exertions of the day, with a nagging feeling that I should have brought Clara and her mother to the dry lot before the baby's first rainfall, which fell overnight. Phil and I had actually tried to walk Bianca over the day after she birthed, hoping her daughter would follow properly, but Clara was too disoriented, too little, to follow, and the distraught mama cow was intractable. At some point, the stress of trying to walk a stubborn cow a half mile, while also gently steering an uncollared and wobbly calf, became too much. We left it for another day.

I woke up convinced that yesterday was the proper day. But, really, in the dark after planting, it hadn't seemed reasonable.

And so now we had a missing calf, perhaps wandered several farms away in the inch of rainfall, perhaps chased by dogs or shot by hunters.

I hate thinking about losses to our herd. Each animal is so full of potential; each has such a precious pedigree (at least to me); each has been a gift.

I walked through the woods that bordered the neighbor's field, calling Clara and listening, wishing, for an answering call. I even checked Hog Creek, hoping she hadn't stumbled there and drowned.

Phil took the truck and circled the 15 acre field, cutting through sections, driving carefully through the tall, dried grass.

We converged after some time, having seen no signs of her, having heard no peeps.

I was ready to go and ask the neighbors, far-flung though they may be, to keep an eye out for her. Phil pointed out that Bianca, by far our most vocal cow, seemed unworried, but her udder seemed quite full, and she was devouring large mouthfuls of newly delivered hay. Would a hungry mama really be that worried about a missing calf? Wouldn't she need to satisfy her own needs before she would grow alarmed? Wouldn't her bag need to fill and become uncomfortable before she started calling?

I joined Phil in the truck and we headed toward a different section of woods, crossing a part of a field we hadn't been on before. Phil had just finished saying how uncomfortable he felt driving through the tall grass, where visibility for a small red calf might be slim to none, when he said, "Whoa!" and stopped the truck instantly.

At the side of the truck, actually touching the running board, was the recumbent calf. Why she hadn't jumped up when the one ton dually approached I still don't know. It wasn't until I had exited the cab and come around to the driver's side that she jumped away from us—heading under the cab. Phil, with his quick hands, grabbed her, and I carried her on my lap as we drove her to our dry lot.

As I rather suspected, sitting in the arms of a strange person in a truck's cab while roaring up a slope and along a bouncy gravel road was enough for the calf to come loose. First the yellow, milky poop of an infant, followed soon by a thorough drenching from the same place, meant that we were both glad for the ride to come to an end.

The image of that baby, lying serenely in the direct path of the back wheels; the knowledge that the front tires must have missed her delicate legs by literal inches; Phil's unbelievable vision that spotted the calf practically underneath his window at the last second before tragedy ... all of this was almost too much to handle.

In the future, we'll pay better attention to the actions of the mother. Bianca was unworried; we could have been, too. When we walked over to bring her to the dry lot, she was quite unwilling to go with us. She knew where she had left her baby, and she wasn't interested in going in the opposite direction. But a half hour of tugging brought mother and baby together.

For the moment, peace returns.

And, finally, on a completely different note: Joe has recently begun to make himself mustaches from tape. I don't know why. It seems like a painful method to create an unusual facial hair style. But it definitely makes me smile.

We Move the Peach Orchard

The biodynamic calendar said that this was a "specially good" fruit day, so we have planned for a few weeks to transplant as many of our peaches as we could.

Phil had plowed swales a few weeks ago, but started this morning replowing. That went shockingly well: the ground was dry enough to easily work, and he quickly cut most of them. The bolt broke with about thirty feet to go, but that wasn't worth the time to fix it. So we were off!

Phil dug up the first few varieties. I had made notes of which trees were in the ground, and checked each tree to see if it was damaged. Thus, each row was to be an orderly single variety or two. Isaiah dug the holes in the new location, while Phil and I placed the trees and shoveled the dirt back on them.

And the transplanting went so well! Today was warm but overcast, absolutely ideal for transplanting trees. Roots do badly in direct sunlight, so the lack of sun was a definite boon. Especially because some of the peach tree roots were ridiculously large—it was impossible to fit them in a bucket for moisture and protection.

To say that we are pleased with the new layout is a definite understatement. I think it fits the land, aesthetically and emotionally, so much better. Phil is thrilled with the improved access. He can drive the tractor down the rows, and turn at the ends, without feeling tippy. Future spraying, future mulching, future harvesting: it's all much more reasonable now.

We had finished twelve trees when we stopped for a late lunch (every tree was large, and Isaiah was sometimes digging holes to China, which required a LOT of backfilling). We did seven more and then Phil and I discussed what to do. The cloud cover had continued to gather, but we had probably another hour before the light completely failed. We decided to do nine more peach trees that were hard to access in inclement weather, leaving a few more along the driveway for the future.

Phil dug a tree, I carried it to its new spot. Again and again. After about the fourth tree, I realized that we had a problem: one more tree than expected! So we did ten trees.

Isaiah was such an expert by this point, he would look at the position and rootball on the tree, often dig a single scoop, let me set the tree, and then dump out the bucket of dirt. This left very little shoveling, and meant that we completed the task as dark fell. Twenty-nine large peach trees transplanted.

Back in the house, I realized I had misread my diagram notes, and thus every row (except the top) has a tree that belongs to a different row. It made me laugh ruefully. So much for my perfect planting.

But it's okay. I'm learning to be okay with myself when I make a blooper.

And Now, Thirteen Cows

Phil came back from moving cows this morning. Despite the cold night, baby Clara slept wedged between her mother and Catherine, so she was warm and happy.

Bianca's placenta was dragging, but not entirely released. We must boost the nutrition for our poor animals!

And then Phil realized that Catherine was not able to stand up. She thrashed a bit, got up on her hind legs, but couldn't get her front legs under her. Apparently, she hobbled on her knees before settling back to lie down. Her right front leg was bent at an unnatural angle, enough that Phil didn't want to touch it. (And he's not as squeamish as he used to be.)

Back home, he read that cows with a broken leg who weigh under 500 pounds can have comfrey, a bone-knit herb, and a splint on their legs. We have not yet planted comfrey, and Catherine is certainly not under 500 pounds. So we called the vet, who was not terribly encouraging. Downer cows have only one option. But he agreed to come out.

This was not welcome news. Although Catherine is the most stubborn cow we have, she has a good body conformation, has been an excellent mother, and gave 2 1/2 gallons of milk a day for the previous owner. (She gave us a few tablespoons. Another symptom of bad nutrition.) At least she wasn't down from our management. Gopher holes are just a random accident, not much to do either in prevention or treatment.

I started to think about the ramifications of having to process a cow: after the killing, the processing of a cow will be a massive amount of work. And we have no space in the freezers, but we could make a trip to Costco tomorrow. Which would require huge reshuffling in the barn, and maybe more electrical work. I am looking forward to the day when we have beef to eat again, but this doesn't seem like the right time.

Phil prayed that, somehow, we wouldn't have to kill her.

When the vet came, we headed over to see her, far down in the neighbor's pasture.

And there she was, standing.

She walked naturally. Phil grabbed her collar and the vet palpated her hip, her knee, her foot. ("She's a calm one," was his comment. "I don't usually get to touch the feet of a cow just standing in a field.") No problems whatsoever.

So my title isn't really accurate. Thanks be to God, we still have fourteen cows. But if you felt a little sinking in your heart, you have experienced a little of the sorrow of farming.

Catherine's baby bull, born in July, would have been okay without continued nursing. But he does still get some good nutrition from his mom: his nose was smeared with milk when he looked up afterwards.

The vet did recommend that we get our cows more food. So Phil rolled the hula bale out along their pen. They will graze for an extra day or so in that spot.

I planted bulbs (and Phil helped some, too). We are about halfway done with the apple orchard now, and 35% done.

Thirteen and a Half Cows and a Runaway Hay Bale

Hunting season has arrived in full force. We heard multiple gun shots over breakfast, but when we heard dogs close by, Phil went out. He was walking by the cows when he noticed that Bianca had something hanging out her backside.

"We have thirteen and a half cows," he said as soon as he could reach the house.

Now I watched Bianca's breeding,nine months ago, and she wasn't due until December 4. I had intended to walk her over to the dry lot next Friday—the other Milking Devons with fixed due dates have birthed within hours of the expected time. I understand that ten days early is fairly extreme for a cow.

Would the baby be okay? Or was Bianca miscarrying? What a blessing that Phil "just happened" to be walking by the pen at that moment.

We headed over to look, and when we reached her, she was already licking a very new, wet, living calf. Keen-eyed Phil stood in a strategic spot and, when Bianca licked to lift the baby's leg, he saw teats! Another girl! Welcome, Clara!

The boys and Phil left shortly. I find myself though absolutely in awe of that beautiful first hour. Good Bianca licking the mucus off the body. Clara blowing bubbles of mucus out the end of her nose. Bianca's constant, gentle lowing as she acquaints her baby with her voice. Clara's first butt-up attempt to stand. That attempt ending in a complete tumble as the four legs got entirely mixed up. The next three attempts, with time in between to rest and catch her breath. Bianca laying down to, hopefully, birth the placenta (which didn't happen). The baby shivering a bit, despite the warmth of the sun (I was in short sleeves).

I asked Bianca, while she was laying down, if I should cover her shivering baby with my sweatshirt. She rolled her eyes and immediately got to her feet. The baby, then, seemed much more motivated to stand. So I kept my sweatshirt to myself.

Then the first stumbling steps. The immediate urgency to nurse. Clara poked around the neck, by the tail, behind the front legs. But when she reached the back teats, even though they neatly framed her face for a moment, she then stepped forward, walked underneath her mama, oblivious.

About that time I decided to leave. I figured that Bianca has raised plenty of babies without human intervention, so I needn't panic that this toddling sweetie would be the first to simply not figure out how to nurse.

A couple hours later I walked back to check on them. They had moved a good ways upslope, and in the shadow of her mama, the baby rests well.

The baby also knew exactly where to go for food. Bianca knew exactly how to nudge her baby into place. Such beautiful focus and assurance on the part of both baby and mama.

I noticed with delight that the tip of her tail ends in white. Strikingly unusual in our herd of red.

Finally, an artist's impression of the day: Isaiah asked me for things to paint, and when I suggested an egg, he did a blue egg, as Pertelote used to lay. He also painted Bitsy, the house (with corner of the barn showing a bit), and Bianca and Clara. For what could be just a few smudges, I really like that mama and baby!


***

The dry lot cows were in need of hay. (But to quickly offer praise to the Lord: we knew we were running low. Yesterday morning, a neighbor who had promised a square bale a few weeks back showed up with it. On Thanksgiving! Exactly when we needed it, but would not have dared ask.)

Phil went to pick up a few bales this evening. He reached the farm right as the sun set, and quickly got the two bales loaded. About two miles from our house, right where the dirt road transitions to gravel, there's a little used gravel road. And there, in the rapidly increasing dark, one of the haybales slipped over the ties and rolled away.

For some reason, Phil had suspected this might happen, and he stopped right afterwards and rolled the 1200 pound bale off the road and into a ditch.

Later this evening, we went to try to roll it up some boards (our "ramp") and into the truck bed. And while we did get it out of the ditch, despite Phil's strength, the force of gravity completely defeated us. How aggravating to have the bale be just four (vertical) feet from where we needed it!

So we drove home again and then put into action Phil's original plan. He drove the tractor, I drove the truck behind as his buffer. I had been expecting this trek to be excruciating. So I was pleasantly surprised that the tractor didn't go at just 3 or 4 mph, but went about a zippy 10. Back at the bale site, it did not appear that any vehicles sustained damage (we hadn't had the heart to push it back into the ditch). Phil put the bale on the hay spear, and then drove home, with me following the strange, shaggy round yellow face. It was unlike any view I'd had before: two and a half miles behind something that looked like an enormous hula skirt.

Happily, the bale stayed together, and we are safely home now, with feed for our cows for a little while.

The Thanksgiving of 1400 Bulbs

In the afternoon, we knew we were headed to our friends' house for a fabulous meal and pleasant fellowship. Before that, all six of us went down to plant furrows of daffodil bulbs.

Phil plowed six trenches between the two swales. We had hoped that we could easily set the bulbs in, but immediately realized that was a pipe dream. The dirt from the trenches fell back as the blade moved on. So while we didn't have to actually pierce the soil, we did have to scoop out everything that fell back in. There is no easy way to plant bulbs.

So while I removed dirt mostly by hand, and Phil removed dirt with the shovel, the older boys set bulbs in the trenches. I had hoped that we could use the tractor to easily push the dirt back over the bulbs, but that, too, proved unrealistic. So Phil shoveled soil back on top of all the bulbs.

In two and a half hours of very concentrated, physically exhausting labor, we planted four crates of bulbs (twenty crates to go). That was fourteen hundred, and we are done with 31% of our planting.

And we headed off for many hours of laughter and good conversation, full of thanksgiving. A good Thanksgiving!

No More Pig Meat to Process!

The Almanac in Countryside said, "Historically, today and the 27th are the wettest and cloudiest days east of the Mississippi during November. After the precipitation, expect much colder weather."

So I wasn't surprised when, sometime after midnight, driving rain on our thin metal roof woke me, and I wasn't surprised to find that almost an inch of rain had fallen during that pounding.

The swales in the peach orchard did their job well. Even by midafternoon, about twelve hours later, standing water waited to be gradually absorbed into the earth. Without the swales, all that water would have run into Hog Creek and off the farm. Now, it will percolate and, hopefully, replenish ground water.

The rain has been a boon to the cover crops planted. The sheep will continue to eat down the rye grass planted in early September (see behind the sheep), and they will come to the rye planted in late September, not nearly as strong a stand (to the left of the photo).

Somehow, we still have six sheep! We were going to kill off the three large mixed breed ewes so we wouldn't have to feed them through the winter. But with the state of our freezer, I'm not sure how we'll be able to manage that.

The best of the cover crops, though, is in the future blueberry patch. That side of our road is a stunning emerald compared with the unsown, scratched over, remains of market garden mess on the other. The beautiful growth is so rich, though, I admire it, even while I wish for more of it.

When Phil started his butchering this morning, the weather was bright, sunny and warm, with great gusts of wind. About the most horrible conditions possible for trying to cut up a pig. Wind blew the leaves around, and, after living in the gusty wind corridor in Boulder, we have no affection, and little patience, with wind. The sun glared in Phil's eyes and on all cutting surfaces, and green eyes let in more light, which makes sunlight more painful for green-eyed folks than the rest of us (or at least, so we've heard).

But the worst of it was the warmth. It is quite difficult to cut meat that is not completely chilled. But since it was really to warm for hanging, it was really too warm to leave it out, so there was nothing to do but carry on.

Happily for Phil, the weather cooled off. At one point, there were corrugated clouds to the southeast, unlike any clouds I have seen.

And round clouds to the southwest. Quite dramatic and beautiful.

Butchering takes an inordinate amount of energy. By the time Phil has sawed, hacked, cut, wrapped, and labeled, and I've sent 75 pounds of sausage through the KitchenAid grinder—twice—the day is done and we are drained. Every time we have processed a pig we comment on how thankful we are that we needn't do it every day.

So, for the last time for a long time, half a pig, ready for processing. The haunch was turned into sausage, which I use more frequently than ham.

We had a bit of a bad moment when we realized that the three piglets had filled our last freezer much more than we realized. We had thought that six chest freezers would be sufficient! With some rearranging, though, we managed to get all the meat in. And when the power went off temporarily, I managed to not entirely panic at the thought of six freezers with defrosting meat. I suppose that will be my constant, underlying concern until we eat (or sell) the contents.

Perhaps a little reminder to not store up treasures on earth. In this case, I take comfort in the fact that we had no intention of storing more than a third of that much meat.

***

And, for the grandparents especially: cute things about the boys.

After watching part of the fascinating movie Black Whole, Isaiah made a cube out of Geomags.

And Joe has taken to falling asleep with Jadon's Build-a-Bear, now slightly orange from life in the trailer. His little furrowed brow, framed between two stuffed ears, made Phil and I laugh as we went to bed last night.

Happy Dance: No More Pig Feeding!

Friend Martin came down today and he and Phil dispatched Buttercup, our final pig. It went so quickly that I had gone in to get a sweater and they were done by the time I came out. Didn't hear the gun at all. The skinning and gutting took a few hours, and now our last pig is hanging until we butcher tomorrow. The constant bleeding of money to pay for feed for the last year and a half is done. I rejoice.

As this was a biodynamic root day again, I finished planting the largest of the garlic cloves: 1320 total, in three 44' x 4' beds. I considered putting in another bed, but the cloves got significantly smaller, and since the squatting position to plant got old, and I wasn't sure I'd end up with bulbs larger than a golf ball, I just didn't have the heart to head out into the damp and rain, and so quit for the year.

It's definitely the season for longer time indoor to read to the boys. And I'm good with that.

The Rogue Ram Is Gone

While I taught a cooking class during most of the daylight hours on Saturday, Phil spent a few hours doing a major cow move. And then rested.

We had a great visit with friends on Sunday evening, but the boys didn't get to bed until after 10pm, which meant that Joe was a tearful basket case most of the day. Poor guy. Phil had a sinus headache, but managed to get through the full twelve hours we were away from home.

Today he continued to have his odd headache. He said that he didn't feel stuffy, but when he went to do the neti pot, his sinuses were completely blocked. While I did dishes, I kept glancing at him, and he was just sitting in his chair, eyes closed.

Our friend Martin came in the afternoon. He and Phil went to the lower pasture, with Isaiah, to sight in rifles. I would hear little pip-pips from Isaiah's .22. But Martin was once stationed in Alaska, and he had bought a gun that outfitters there use for protection from Grizzlies. BOOM! It was always really obvious when that gun fired.

When they came up slope, they took care of the rogue ram. Phil is quite proficient at butchering at this point, so even though I'm not sure we'll eat the little guy (my original plan was that he would just go to the dog), they skinned and dissected him. So they never did get around to killing Buttercup. Tomorrow.

I spent several hours planting 440 more garlic cloves. The earliest few I planted have already poked up—what a fulfilling crop garlic is. What else is springing up at the end of November?!

In less happy news, I again visited little Charity, who remains tame and sweet. Isaiah loves her, too, and he knows to approach her slowly. He spreads out his arms and approaches in slow motion, which reminds me a bit of a scary mummy movie. The calf doesn't often stay put for the extremely slow-moving creature to reach her, but Isaiah is persistent and generally gets some good boy-calf interaction.

I have checked Bethany's udder a few times, just to make sure that she isn't developing mastitis. It seemed unlikely, with a baby on her at all times. But today, when I checked again, her right rear quarter felt like there were baseballs hiding in it. Rock-hard lumps = mastitis = frustration and sorrow.

I tied Bethany and tried to milk out that quarter, but it was almost completely blocked. I would massage for half a minute, get out 1/16 of a teaspoon, massage some more. It felt like I made no dent in the quarter. Bethany took the intervention in fairly good humor, but I remember the one time I had a blocked duct and how incredibly painful it was.

For so long I have wanted to produce raw milk for the family, but I feel like I have been thwarted and thwarted again.

How a Bulb Is Like a Farm

The gentle sprinkle of Wednesday turned in the night to 2.5" of rain by Thursday morning. Even though Thursday was not cold, it was much too wet to do much outside.

Phil has continued to learn more about water management (which is good with multiple inches of rain at a time). Where to put ponds, where to put swales, which gully goes with which watershed. He feels like he's constantly gaining a better understanding of what this land is doing, and where we should place different structures. That's great.

The indoor space feels ever smaller. The little boys spent most of Thursday playing with a stuffed dog and a laundry basket. Abraham would position both stuffed dog and Joe just so, and cover them with blankets just so, then they would wait for me to snap a photo before they would adjust minutely and pose again.

Isaiah made a house of paper and tape, and it interested me to see how he populated the structure. House, yes, along with vegetable garden in back. Table with fork, spoon, bowl, and plate. Also shovel and pitchfork. And sled. Later he added a spring, creek, and pool. Quite a homestead, really.

I am fairly certain that when I was seven, pitchforks and springs, let alone vegetable gardens, were not on my radar.

Charity had a bit of calf scours yesterday, but she recovered quickly. Bethany had no visible placenta by Thursday morning. This morning, though, sometime between 8am and 10am, she must have strained her left front leg, as she was limping badly. Phil cleaned out the hoof and looked at it, but there was no sign of foot rot or laminitis. Watching her, he thinks she looks like she strained an ankle or knee. With the great amount of rain, the soil was certainly softer than normal, which could have caused a stumble. We gave her Apis and Rhus tox homeopathy for swelling, and left her alone to rest.

This morning, the family hiked down to the bottom of the finger to debate the benefits of a future structure. Is it better 20 feet upslope or down? Better nearer the trees or faraway? It was interesting that Isaiah had a feel for the site right away, and Jadon agreed as well, discussing the number of benefits for each respective site. It was good to get their feedback.

Isaiah is eager to plant more trees with the backhoe, so Phil went to cut swales for the revised peach orchard. The moisture in the soil proved too much, though, so on the final swale he cut, the tractor slid more than he preferred.

And so we planted bulbs.

I have been thinking about bulbs a good deal lately. I woke a few days ago and my first coherent thought was that the bulbs are a picture of our farm. They aren't much to look at yet: brown, onion-like, monochromatic. But we have hopes for the colors and diversity, the cheerfulness, in spring. And, so with the farm. Ugly right now, with piles of industrial stuff (fencing, building materials). But it won't always be like this. I like that.

And I liked planting today. Phil had Jadon come out for the stooping part of planting. I would lay out bulbs and then use the Badger if I had time. Phil, using the Radius planter, realized that he could plant a bulb and then plant the next one without emptying the dirt in between. As the second bulb's plug pushed up from the bottom, the first plug, like a pop-up toy, pushed out the top automatically. This cut the planting time in half (or maybe faster). And with the rain water to soften the earth, slightly less clay soils in places, and Jadon to help with the actual ground level work, we got 35 trees done in about three hours.

Counting by bags, we've got through 1700 bulbs in the last 11 days.

Charity in the Rain

Bethany dragged the placenta around for a second day. When I read that there is little a vet can do except give antibiotics, and that the connections between placenta and uterus will gradually break down up to eleven days later, I just dosed Bethany with homeopathy and prayed against infection. By the end of day, the main part had broken off, but a little bit still trails out. Poor girl.

A warm rain fell intermittently today. The moisture made some soil plugs come up more easily, but the mud made planting a bit miserable. I'm still enough of a city girl that mud all over my jeans distresses me, and I planted 72 bulbs and was done, feeling a bit of a martyr for planting at all. The plan now is to get through as many trees and bulbs as practical, then take some of the resting garden beds, plow long furrows, and drop the bulbs in for the winter. When needed in spring, they'll be ready. And it takes a good bit of the planting pressure off.

That little Charity is such a dear! At one point during a drizzle, I looked over to see both cows grazing hay under the tarp, dry and comfortable. Charity was no where in sight, so I climbed the fence and found her, alone, at the edge of the paddock. She was quite wet, but not shivering. Her ears were cold, but her mouth was warm (I later checked Bethany's ears, and they were cold, too). So I squatted there and just petted her.

When I walked away at last, she gave a very soft call—or maybe I imagined it—and stood up, facing away from her mother and shelter. I turned her around, one hand under her chin and the other hand on her rump, and guided her along until she was only a few yards from her mom. Then she mooed, and her mom came and fetched here, giving me the gimlet eye as if *I* had been the neglectful one!

Later, I couldn't resist, but hopped the fence again. Dry now, I rubbed her curly head and felt the nascent horn buds, yet well below the surface. She has soft, curly hair on her neck and sides, such a rich auburn color.

Isaiah, too, went out in the rain and had his fill of calf loving, something he has been longing for these past months. (You shouldn't touch bull babies, and that's all we've had since last September.)

Even with much time indoors, we had a fine day.

The Definition of Fall

When Phil went out to do chores, Charity was up and eating. The boys and I went out and admired her, resting right by the fence for our viewing enjoyment.

Abraham said, "It's like she's in a cow nest!" And it certainly was.

Although Charity was our fifth calf, she was the first one we watched during birth. And of the previous four, one we were away on vacation, one was born in six inches of rain and almost died, one was born in the midst of an incredible heatwave and almost died of heat exhaustion, and one was cared for very well by the mother in a secret place, where we didn't even see him for some unknown amount of time.

Which is to say, we have never had the pleasure of watching the first day of life for a healthy calf. It was an absolute joy. She stood, back legs shaking, just gaining the strength to stand.

She would go and curiously try to nuzzle Fern, and once, I could tell, she debated whether to go under Fern's belly to get to the other side (Fern stepped aside before she could complete this rash plan). With the nuzzling, we wondered if she was hungry, but as soon as she'd get near her mom, she'd suddenly frisk all about. Once she kicked up her heels a bit too vigorously, and crashed down in a little heap of long legs. But she jumped up again, completely undaunted.

At one point, I brought her mother some aloe pellets. While the mother licked the bowl clean, Charity came up to me, and let me pet her head and scratch her ears. None of the other calves have been nearly so brave. My heart enlarged at least one size, if not two.

This morning, Bethany had not yet fully released the placenta. I haven't dealt with a retained placenta, and the four resources I checked all said different things. Of the reasons for such a problem (stress, twins, heat, nutrition), only nutrition seems to be a possible reason. We dosed her with the homeopathic remedy Caulophylum, and gave her plenty of aloe vera pellets, but as night fell tonight, though the placenta was a good bit further out, it had not quite fully released. There are, apparently, 70-90 connection points, or cotyledons, that need to separate naturally, lest infection or hemorrhage begin, so no tugging on the dangling mass (not even trained vets do that).

Other than the retained placenta, it was a perfect day. The grey skies kept the warmth close to the ground, and as we worked outside, the oaks began to release their leaves, and we stood in fall, the very definition.

Jadon was on top of the cattle trailer and when the first gentle gust blew the leaves down around him, I stood and watched him watch the leaves come down. Such a moment.

Perhaps I've mentioned before how some years Colorado has the 24-hour fall. The leaves start to turn when a massive wet snow knocks all the leaves to the ground. (I think it was 1995 when this happened in September, before the leaves had even started to turn. That was a long winter.) Because snow on the ground in Colorado rarely lasts more than 48 hours, and January sometimes reaches 70 degrees, winter is not onerous there. But it seems like it might, and usually does, snow through all the usual "fall" months, as well as "winter" and even, maybe, "spring," that the reality of a fall where leaves fall: even though this is our third fall in Virginia, it amazes me yet.

Abraham had, perhaps, the most ideal way to celebrate fall. He pushed all the leaves that fell on the trampoline into a pile, then jumped in the pile.

Anyway, Jadon was on the cattle trailer because he was helping us construct the cows' winter protection, a lean-to built against the cattle trailer, made of cattle panels and a tarp. (Note the wood resting against the side: that's our method of drying lumber. Phil had seen a photo of a farm where they made teepees of drying lumber, which he thought would work well. It makes a great ramp for the boys.)

It took perhaps an hour, and then we had a very nice shelter: covered from rain and snow, blocked on the windy side. The cattle trailer is right there, should we need to succor any struggling calf (which is good, because my living room is generally packed with toys, books, and sundry items, I don't think we could get a calf in it again). Our husbandry is a bit better: we are a bit more preemptive, rather than reactionary.

When it was finished, Phil wanted to make sure Charity knew what it was used for. So he went over and picked her up and carried her into it.

I rather wonder if he just wanted an excuse to be close to the little sweetie.

And in the afternoon, we planted bulbs.

Evening Excitement!

Phil went to do laundry this morning. I attempted to plant bulbs, until, after about an hour of punching the planter into the soil so shallowly that the bulbs' tops came near the top of the holes, I gave up in disgust.

Phil arrived home and together we went to plant. The top of the planter bent almost immediately (or maybe my incredible jumps had bent it), but Phil was able to plunge them in quickly and deeply. I cleared the weeds around the next tree and placed the bulbs where they would go.

Then UPS delivered a new bulb planter, the Badger. A very sturdy piece of equipment (with a lifetime warranty), Phil plunged it into the ground with a sigh of pleasure: "That's the way it should feel."

And then we spent the next few minutes trying to figure out how to eject the clay plug from the planter. Eventually we figured out that if we push hard on the top, the plug will go out, much compressed. (In perfect soil, the spring-loaded top pops the plug out, but in our soil, it takes full strength to push it out.)

Then FedEx showed up and delivered another new bulb planter, that attaches to the cordless drill.

Phil didn't like it that much: it took a good amount of time for each hole, and then, in order to eject the soil plug, the device came with a little stick to poke the soil out.

And so it went: the Badger worked well. Except sometimes the clay soil (perhaps with a rock stuck in it) would be so compacted that we needed the cordless drill planter to dig it out. When the Badger worked well, Phil appreciated that he didn't have to bend down at all.

After doing about a gross of bulbs, Phil's muscles were spent. Twelve trees done in good time ... but we need to do the equivalent of 30 trees a day until Christmas. We hope for stronger muscles in the near future.

***

Nine months ago, our bull Snowman came to live here. He headed straight for Bethany and, after a purposeful 18 hours of pursuit, he bred her. Due tomorrow, I have been somewhat concerned over her lack of robust rotundity. Last year, she was so round for the last month of her pregnancy that Phil and I were convinced every day would be the day. This year, I wasn't sure she was even expecting until Phil noticed yesterday morning that her udder was filling.

Last evening, we walked her over from the paddock where the cows are grazing and put her in the dry lot with Fern. Bethany immediately tore into the hay and spent all day today eating.

About 8pm, Phil went to bring multiple baskets of laundry in from the car and went to check Bethany. "I think she's in labor," he announced, and the boys and I went to see.

Bethany was munching hay, but suddenly her tail went out as if she were going to poop, but no poop came out. Her body was hunched over for perhaps 30 seconds or so, and her backend vibrated a bit. We waited perhaps five minutes, but saw no more contractions.

Less than an hour later, I went out to check on her. She was making little grunting noises and had little white hooves sticking out! The baby was almost here!

I confess that human excitement is not the best labor and delivery aid for animals, but Jadon, Isaiah, and I were so eager to watch the birth. (Phil was more circumspect: he didn't feel the urge to follow her quite as closely.) The hooves came out a bit more, retracted a bit, then poked out a few inches.

And then Bethany lay down in the hay! The baby was coming!

The boys and I walked sedately around to her back end. In the weak flashlight beam, we could see a little white and a little black. And the black quickly grew: head, back, hips, out.

There was a weak gurgle, and then a very faint, wet moo. Bethany swung her head, saw her baby, and immediately stood up and began to lick the babe.

We all giggled silently at the first true "moo" by the little calf. It was like gurgling underwater: very wet. But after a few delicate sneezes, the moos were properly dry sounding, and Bethany kept up her calm soothing mama moos.

We watched for a time by the flashlight, hoping to see the first stand, but we shifted about, crunching dry leaves, and flashlight beams in the eyes are certainly not relaxing, so we headed in.

Forty minutes later, Phil went back out to ensure that the baby had stood up. After birth, it had gradually moved downslope until it was resting next to the boundary cattle panels, wedged against the extra panels stored right there. Because the book said that after thirty minutes it is good to aid a little one, Phil helped it up.

And found it's a GIRL! Welcome, baby Charity!

So wobbly, she kept backing her hind legs into the confounded cattle panels, and Phil would gently put her hooves back out again. After perhaps ten minutes, she took some tentative steps forward, and ended up facing forward, licking her lips, her mother's udder about even with her udder. Bethany is an experienced mother, so she turned around, so the calf is in better position.

And, again, we returned to the house to give them a chance to sort out teats and tongues and such.

The weather could not be more ideal for this time of year. The high today was 71, and even now it is 66. The forecast shows no drops into the thirties until Thursday night. Although Accuweather did predict 1.7 inches of rain on the way.

Funny: last year Bethany gave birth in the midst of three days when we had six inches of rain. Little Belle lived, but it was touch and go.

I will hope for better with baby Charity.

Rejoice!

How I Beat Despair

We've been working so steadily, I haven't had time for photos, which makes for a visually boring blog, I'm afraid. Please console yourself with photos of the boys' creativity. (Since they have realized that they might get a blog mention, the boys have been asking for photos after almost every accomplishment, no matter how minor.)

Oh, and Abraham in his new sleeping bag, which we use on their beds instead of sheets. Much lower maintenance, and they don't show the dirt.

After planting over 400 garlic bulbs this morning, I found myself giving in to despair. My unhappy companion for so long, I had not regretted the month or so without Despair, so to have a visit today was unwelcome. Weary to my bones, I went to take a nap.

But for me, naps don't always work. It is better for me to write down all my frustrations (I even have an "Anger" file always available). Usually when I'm that frustrated, I don't know why. But after writing for a bit, some of the underlying frustrations start to emerge, and then I feel, if not justified, at least sane.

Today I had several issues: convinced that chickens would scratch up the garlic, that the spacing of the blueberry beds (not yet even planted, mind you) would be a nightmare to us for the rest of our days, angry at the unclaimed ram (and angry at myself for being so angry—after all, it's not his fault he's mangy and stray), frustrated by the 9500 daffodil bulbs yet to plant, wondering about the role of entertainment in modern life. There were probably other reasons.

But in the midst of my pique, I had several absurd little bursts of good humor that meant I really had to struggle to maintain a bad attitude. "You have a happy hive of bees!" was one. How can I stay irritated when thinking of happy bees? It's impossible.

So after lunch, four of us had a great time digging up the remaining cherry trees and planting them in the lower pasture. (Abraham was feeling a bit under the weather and Jadon generally prefers reading to, well, just about anything else.) Isaiah eagerly used the backhoe, and Joe helped fill in holes with "the claws," as he called his hands. He made appropriate mechanical-sounding noises to ensure we understood his robotic function.

At one point while Isaiah was digging a hole with the backhoe, Phil said, "Look at him. He is using the backhoe as an extension of himself. He knows exactly where the bucket is, exactly how deep he is going. He is using it like I would use it." And it's true. Seven-year-old Isaiah uses the backhoe with focus and gracefulness.

Of the 25 cherry trees we dug up this last week, I think 24 have a good chance of living. One was dropped a bit and the trunk fractured, right above the graft. Phil hammered brass tacks into it (which he claims is what famous tree expert Tom Burford does), but I (horribly) dropped it again. Poor little Danube. You were a sweet little tree.

In Which I Am Knocked Off My Feet by a Leaping Ram

At 11:11 this morning (and certainly at 11 seconds), 11/11/11, I sang out a celebration song, and all the boys begged me to please be done. Perhaps they will remember this historic moment when they are old. Perhaps not.

While Phil ran exciting errands in town like replacing the car windshield, getting a new 9' hose for the hydraulic line for the tractor, and getting the car inspected, I stayed home with the boys. We had a nice visit from neighbor Butch (who mentioned he had seen a sheep grazing his land this morning), another no show for people coming to buy the lambs, and some hours spent planting bulbs.

I can plant about 48 an hour. That seems ridiculously slow to me, and it means that I will need upwards of seven hours a day to get them all planted before Christmas. And that is only if all the rows of trees prove as easy as this first one.

When Phil finally returned home, his first comment was that we had a sheep out. The sheep had been out this morning, and gone down to visit with Buttercup, but Phil had easily herded them back into their pen. Then he had charged the fence powerfully, so we were mystified at how the sheep had gotten free.

The sheep's tail was not docked: it was the escapee. Phil easily herded it into our sheep's pen, and went to call our neighbors who may own the animal.

Then he noticed that the new sheep was sniffing around our Babydolls. It could be normal "getting to know you," but no. It was a ram. And it was decidedly interested in one of our little ewes. And since one of the most traumatic events of the last year was the horrible birth and death of our yearling ewe, the idea of going through that again, especially with a scraggly ram: no thanks!

So Phil and I spent the last hour of daylight trying to cut the sprightly fellow away from the girls. But lambs are known for their herding instinct, and I am not a skilled helper. Early on, I went face to face with the fellow when he showed a remarkable ability to leap. He hit me, shoulder to chest, and knocked me off my feet. I have never been rammed before (and, literally, I suppose he didn't ram me with his forehead, so perhaps I still have never been rammed). And though I wasn't hurt, I stood up and felt my face crumple.

"Why are you crying?" Phil asked. I don't know. Too many new experiences for this city girl, I suppose.

Eventually, though it took several more attempts and two shepherd's crooks, we managed to get the ram and Joseph the wether separated and electrified. The ram showed signs of wanting to go through the electric netting, but only until we got it turned on. Hopefully it will hold him overnight. Should no owners come, I think he will have to go into the freezer, and trust that he will keep his private parts to himself in the interim.

Driving in a Pumpkin

Despite cloudy weather, Phil and I headed down to the lower pasture with Joe and Isaiah. He drove the truck and I drove the tractor. I am not fond of driving the tractor. I don't have an innate appreciation for, nor understanding of, the mechanics of the thing.

But as I headed down the slope, I was amazed by the orangeness of my world. Orange leaves on the ground, in the trees that surrounded me. And because of the steep slope, there was orange, really, in every direction. Like driving in a pumpkin.

The surreal moment passed, and we proceeded to plant the 12 cherry trees that Phil and Isaiah had dug up yesterday afternoon. It took us about three hours, which, considering the size of the needed holes, was not much time. Phil dug a few of the more difficult holes (whether from location or large roots impeding progress), but Isaiah dug most of them, which left Phil free to shovel dirt back around the trees, and left me free to plant bulbs and get water from the creek to pour on the dirt when done.

I must say, it is much easier to plant bulbs (even in rocky soil) when the dirt has just been turned over.

When the trees were in the ground, it had been sprinkling for some time. I had begun to follow the truck up the slope when I needed to step on the brake. The seat of the tractor is permanently stuck a bit too far back for my comfort, so in order to get enough leverage to step on both brake and clutch while going uphill, I grabbed the steering wheel from the bottom.

And it came off in my hand!

The tractor immediately began rolling backwards down a slight incline, and I had no control at all. I shrieked to Phil for help, completely beside myself about what to do.

I don't know what I did, but I didn't do the most logical thing: turn the tractor off. It never even crossed my mind. Phil starts it up for me, so I don't even touch the ignition switch. It was like it didn't exist.

That's a pretty good story, though: small wife pulls steering wheel off tractor and rolls backwards down an incline out of control.

It's a more interesting story than the afternoon, when we went to dig up the rest of the cherry trees. About the fourth one, the hydraulic line suddenly sprung a leak, which ended our productivity for today. Phil will head to town tomorrow to buy another line, and hopefully the uprooted cherries will be happy enough overnight in their buckets.

Two Percent

The weather has been stunning, brilliant. Clear skies, upper sixties. An absolute joy and privilege to be alive and outside.

Phil and Jadon laid out the new contours for the peach orchard (Isaiah helped near the end). We get excited looking at the beautiful S-curves across the land. Phil has the vision for two little pocket ponds, and we know better how to manage access and potential parking for guests. The eagerness and expectation increases, I feel, daily, as we get new, exciting ideas for how to properly manage the land.

With the peach orchard laid out, it was time to dig up the cherry trees. After digging three by hand, Phil switched to the backhoe, and that went quickly and easily. As each comes out of the ground, the roots go into a five-gallon bucket, get covered with soil, and doused with water. Tomorrow the trees will move to their new home.

I had a great day, too. Shortly after noon I went out to plant daffodils (with faithful companion Joe). I calculated that, in order to get all the bulbs in the ground before Christmas that I'll need to get about 350 planted per day, which seems ambitious but possible.

I experimented with different planting tools. The shovel is, perhaps, the easiest, but it cuts such a large plane, I fear for my trees' roots. The Dibbler, a skinny shovel which my Dad used to plant chestnuts, went into the ground to the proper depth, but made such a slim trench that I couldn't get the bulbs in the ground.

And so I stuck with the Radius Bulb Planter. Sometimes it went into the ground very nicely, but most bulbs required about five jumps (or more) for me to get the tool in the ground. More often than not, I couldn't get it all the way down, either.

Phil came by to see what I was doing. He happened to come right as I started the smallest tree in the orchard. He planted all twelve bulbs around that tree in record time. He practically just had to stand on the tool and it sank into the ground. If he jumped twice, the tool was below ground level. It was uncanny.

So I ended the day with 17 new trees surrounded with rings of 12 bulbs each, nicely spaced about 6" apart, forming a lovely three foot circumference of tree protection. It's very satisfying, even if that used a mere two percent of the daffodil bulbs.

10,000 Daffodils Arrive

I went out this morning to weed the orchard. The daffodil bulbs finally shipped yesterday, so I knew I would soon have planting to begin.

Phil headed out for the unpleasant task of looking at the tractor. He came over after a while. "I think we need a new tractor."

I must say that I was not surprised. I'm a pessimist, so the worst case scenario had already presented itself to me. I took the news rather well.

"No, actually, I fixed it." And he had. A connection had come loose, and though it was difficult to access it with the wrench, he simply needed to tighten it.

He tilled the garlic bed, then reconnected the backhoe. He dug out the oak stump that he started on yesterday.

Next he pulled a tulip poplar stump, with incredibly long laterals.

The third large stump took hours and made an enormous hole, but in the end, it was pulled.

While Phil was digging, a large FedEx truck arrived with a pallet shipment. More than half a ton (1090 pounds) of daffodil bulbs. Phil backed the truck up, and with the FedEx man handing boxes to me, and me handing boxes to Phil, we unloaded the 29 crates of bulbs in short order.

My friend Melanie was visiting, and she said she would be happy to help plant bulbs. Nicely for me, she has planted bulbs before, and had good suggestions on spacing around the trees. I wanted to plant them just inches from the trunk, but she suggested, and I agree, that it would be more prudent to put them a bit further out.

I had pulled a crate, hoping to get a good many in the ground. We have a bulb planter that supposedly helps people plants hundreds (thousands?) an hour. So it was with great chagrin that I hardly was able to plant eleven around the first apple tree. Branches in my hair. The gravel placed around the tree at planting stopped the planter at every step. The concern for the tree's roots to not be entirely cut off.

We headed down to Gracie Lou's grave to plant 100 or so. Amidst the roots and rocks, I think we got about 15 actually in the ground before night fell.

And then, reading the instructions that came with the bulbs, they needed to be unwrapped from their plastic bags and stored in a place where they will not freeze. Hmm.

We moved the 29 crates into Phil's office, and will trust that the bulbs will not freeze in there. It is frustrating ... I ordered these at the end of September, and if they had arrived in shorter order, we would have had the glorious month of October to plant, and not buried the entire office in bulbs. Ah, well, it can't be helped.

***

Isaiah's new shoes arrived today. (He was so pleased, he asked to sleep in them.) He stood on his tiptoes with his feet crossed, and put on my hat. "I'm a pencil," he said. Pointed black shoes as the lead, and fluffy eraser. Very creative!