Four Hundred Raspberries

Yesterday morning, Bianca's raspy breathing had entirely cleared up, though her milk production had dropped to two cups. Her throat swelling had gone down, too. I've been leaving five pounds or so of kelp for her every day, and she (and the bucks, other cow, and bull) clean it up every day. Phil, standing down slope of her, noticed round, hairless patches on her belly. On probing, she didn't act as if they bothered her; I wonder if she had some form of itchy bug that she scratched with her hoof.

Today she seemed better yet, and doubled her milk production to her more standard four cups. (Which is about half of what we were getting before we switched hay two weeks ago, but four cups is worth milking; two cups is hardly anything.)

Phil and I spent a few hours yesterday planting raspberries. With both of us working, we probably only had about three hours each before 200 were in the ground and watered.

I had been wondering earlier in the day what we could do for fruit until we go grocery shopping. My friend Melanie stopped by that afternoon, and she brought a box of pineapple chunks, which we devoured with thanksgiving. What does James say? "Every good and perfect gift is from above." I am often amazed at how the Lord takes care of even little wishes.

Yesterday we moved the 42 surviving layer chicks outside. They are having a great time scratching, but the older hens look at them sideways and the babies jump away. I think the littles realize they have no hope of winning the pecking order war. Not yet at least.

Today we got another box of cheeping broilers. Our trailer brooder house is certainly put to good use. After I picked them up, I planted 200 raspberries single-handedly. It took most of the day. (By comparison, last year it took us two months, both Phil and I working long days, to plant 400 fruit trees. This year, we got 400 raspberries planted in less than two days.)

Last year, this was the day I realized my bees were in trouble; one of the queens had absconded. I watched the hives today. It was chilly and cloudy, and few bees were out. But I watched the front entrances and bees flew in and out of both. Not many, but a constant stream. It looks hopeful!

My intrepid market garden seems constantly thirsty. At the end of yesterday, Phil took a hoe and scuffled the surface of the soil to break up the surface compaction. The water certainly penetrated better, and still looked damp this morning. The plants stood upright and happy. I, with the heavy, filthy length of hose, though, was almost in tears.

Farming transforms character, or at least reveals character flaws. Watering is my issue of the week. I don't have the patience to make sure the hose will properly uncoil. As I reach the end of a row and head back, no matter how careful I am, it seems that the hose crushes some of the tender plants. And I tend to spray my shoes and jeans, and get mud all over.

The worst, though, is that I feel like my mind is going numb. I noticed recently that Phil usually has the iPod on, listening to sermons or the Bible read aloud. My Dad, too, had his earplugs in, and listened to lectures. I do not; mostly I don't mind. But there's something about watering, standing over little plants with a hose, that puts me in a foul mood.

It makes me think about a shepherd I read about in Mountain Born. He was content to sit and watch the sheep because his mind and heart were full of good. Out of the overflow of his heart, his mind was filled with good.

That's not me, yet.