We Open Presents for Days and Days

On Christmas Eve, with foot-deep snow on all sides, we hunkered down and opened a few more presents. I wrote five clues, one for each child, and sent the children out to find their presents. The sheep had tried to open the one I left in the jug, but we had a good time.

In the photos you can see three children filing out to find a gift under the tarp covering the hay; several of us returning to the house to open a gift hidden in the sheep pen (notice Isaiah petting the ewe lamb as she nurses); Jadon getting his gift off the pump house, with a tower of wood chips to the right of him; Abraham asleep in the middle of the afternoon, characteristically resting his head on his hands; and Phil playing pirate Playmobil with the boys.

At 9pm, we went to the Bessettes for dinner (prime rib from their Jersey!), and the children hung in there well until midnight.

The ram lamb was, thankfully, dead that morning. Emotionally, it was not as bad as the death of the first two chicks back in Boulder—that was the worst. Or maybe I had worked through the grief the day before.

UPS was unable to deliver some of our boxes. There are disadvantages to living four miles down a country road. That was a bummer.

Christmas Day was rainy and chill. We opened (more) presents, until our little trailer looked like a Lego and Playmobil factory exploded all over. In the evening, we headed to the Doug Bushes for six hours, where we sang and snacked and talked and laughed.

Today reached the 50s, which, combined with the rain from yesterday, finally started to reduce the snowpack. Abigail and I spent the morning at Johanna Bush’s house, where we had girl time with her and her daughter. This afternoon Phil and I walked down to see how high Hog Creek has risen. It hasn’t overflowed the banks yet, but is definitely running high.

We are talking about where we want to site our house; we’re thinking we’ll put it below the clearing, in the deciduous trees on a steep slope. This will be more central to the entire property, as well as leave some extra area for the orchard. And it will be further off the road, so more private.

The best homestead thing of these past days is the little lamb. Phil and I watched her chase chickens today—she did the adorable lamb leap! Oh, what a cutie!

Fun and Not So Fun, or, What I Considered Not Posting

The children had a good time today. We have enough presents waiting to be opened that I’m not sure where we will put them all. Not in a merely academic way, but in a literal THERE IS NO SPACE way. So we each opened a gift this morning, in hope that I’ll be able to find proper places for them. It was really fun! We watched Abraham’s DVD; Jadon worked on his activity books; and Abigail carried her Beanie Baby around everywhere. Phil opened a book on Forgotten Arts and Crafts which he loved. Seeing the section on thatching made him want to do a thatched roof. I think that sounds delightful, but I’m not sure it would be practical.

In the afternoon, Isaiah insisted we read Twenty and Ten, a great true story about how some French children save some Jewish children during WWII. We had read it earlier this year, but Isaiah wanted to hear it again, so we spent a few hours doing that.

And after dark, we broke some glow sticks that had been floating around since the summer. The children spent a happy hour or so in the dark, playing light saber and whatever else children think is fun in the dark with a glowstick.

So there was fun today.

But there was a dark side, too.

At some point this morning, Phil and I realized that our ram lamb’s failure to thrive is due to deformities, not insufficient or misguided care. Had we had the good fortune of seeing a healthy ram lamb at some point, we would have recognized much earlier that he was not going to make it.

But who would have guessed that we’d get a deformed lamb at the first? I assumed that all ram lambs have separate testicles that will later join to form one sack. And I knew that proper urination comes out of the proper shaft, near the center of the belly. So what is the yellow draining liquid from an unusual slit below the tail? The clincher for me came when, in a final effort to make sure that I had done all I could for the lamb, I gave him an enema. Rather than helping him expel meconium, or gain greater comfort, the water drained right out of that same unusual slit.

As Phil said, “There is something really wrong with his internal organs.”

Why did our first ram lamb have to be deformed? Why did we perhaps torture it in our misguided attempts to help it? Why on earth did God call us to farm? It’s a rough task! And while it makes for interesting cyber communication, it also makes for real tears.

We debated putting it down. We decided that, if it appeared to be in pain, Phil would put it down. That’s stressful for both man and animal, though. So since it is not in apparent pain, we’ll let it continue for the time.

Oh, little lamb, sleep near your mother, cradled by your sister, and drift to eternal sleep in the cold winter’s night.

Ram Lamb

Phil came in this morning with greater concern about the ram lamb. He hadn’t stood up since the first day; he lay, curled up, shivering, under the heat lamp, with dull eyes and lack of interest.

When I went out to see him, I had little hope for his survival. I was sure that the title for today’s events would be: “Ram Lamb: December 18 to 22, 2009.”

But instead, today became “diagnose the ram lamb” day. First guess: selenium and Vitamin E deficiency (it fit the dull eyes and the shivering). I had both the mineral and the vitamin for human consumption: how to deliver it to the lamb?

Well, I had purchased a drench, which looks like a syringe with a rounded metal tip. It is meant to deliver dewormers or other chemicals into the sheep’s mouth, but I hadn’t purchased anything to use with it. In fact, when I unpacked the box, my first thought was, “Why on earth did I order this?” But the drench was the perfect tool for delivering the vitamin and mineral to the lamb.

A bit later, we used the drench again. This time, we gave the baby all the colostrum I had milked out of Ashley that first day. Perhaps he was simply unable to nurse for a time and became dehydrated. And after he had eaten all of it (about two drenches worth), he stood up for, perhaps, the first time in a couple days. So that was good, but not great.

The book said that dehydrated lambs need an enema, in order to clear out their meconium, the tarry poop from their time in utero. What an adventure! From lambing to enemas in just a few days. Or, as my sister said, “It’s amazing the things you can learn from books!” I got my soapy water all ready, but, I’m embarrassed to admit, was unable to locate the small anus. In fact, I am even more embarrassed to admit, I worried about an extra hole that should be there. It looked like a slit, that was maybe peeing? But shouldn’t pee come from the penis?

I had Phil come and look, and he was clueless, too. At this point, the ram has two fuzzy fingers dangling from his underbelly, identical in size and shape. Our guess is that one is his penis and the other his not-quite-all descended testicles.

All I can say is, it’s a good thing we didn’t try to castrate yet. (!) And I cannot report the results of the lamb enema, because that didn’t happen either. Probably just as well.

The next round of save-the-ram-lamb required the other thing I had no idea why I ordered: a sheep halter. We put it on Ashley and Phil held her while I milked her. A few more drenches of fresh milk went to the baby, and by now, he was standing up regularly. He still refused to nurse, and he still shook, but his back was not so hunched.

An hour or so later, we gave him another drench of mother’s milk. I figured, though, that this was the end. His sister was out frolicking in the snow with the larger sheep. He lay under the heat lamp with chickens crawling all over him (I’m assuming they were ecstatic to have found their missing heat lamp, because they did not want to leave). I went out to pick up his carcass a bit later, and found him walking around the jug with a babydoll.

Is the ram lamb in the clear? I have no idea.

What went wrong? I’m not sure. Shock from the early and incorrect tail docking. Then he got stuck at some point overnight in the pallet. It could be that that second night he was stuck for hours, unable to nurse, and oozing blood from his tail. That was also the night that the heat lamp—and all our electricity—went out. So the next morning, Phil and I were focused on our children, and getting us all to safe and warm quarters. When Phil checked on the lamb, he didn’t know about the hunched back symptom of shock or hypothermia, and I didn’t pay enough attention to look.

So although the lamb may yet die, I no longer feel like I would be a tail-docking murderess. I can see that the ram had a lot of strikes against him, from horrible weather during birth to inexperienced shepherds every step of the way, and that he’s made it this far is the grace of God.

This afternoon, Phil made Isaiah a lofted bed above my dresser. My old pastor’s wife Alona once said, “For spatial management, think UP,” and we have just about perfected that advice. Tonight it will be just Phil and I, Jonadab, the dog and the cat in our full size bed. What luxury!

Only Little Notes

For breakfast at the Bessettes this morning we had some of their incredible breakfast sausage from their own pig. Incredible. The children spent much of the day sledding. For children who like to be indoors, I’m so proud of them. Isaiah even cut his chin on the sled at one point, but after a little Neosporin, he headed right back to the slope.

For lunch, Michelle made tortillas out of spelt flour—delicious!

When we finally returned home about 4pm, Phil found one of the lambs stuck in the cattle panel across the entrance. Stuck as in, head through one metal square and legs through another. We have heard that sheep have suicidal tendencies, but I had no idea it could be so constant. First stuck in the pallet, then stuck in the cattle panel! Phil thought it was the ewe lamb, but looking at the two lambs a short time later, the ewe frisked about, while the ram stood with hunched back, a characteristic “chilled” sign. We’re guessing it was the ram lamb (again) who got himself stuck. (His mouth was still warm, though, so I think he’ll be fine.)

The ewe lamb cracked me up, though. Phil had finally let the chickens out of their entrapment in their house (with the snow covering their door, we figured they should just stay inside). One of the chickens had wandered into the jug, where the ewe lamb bounded up to it, curiously. The chicken left in haste.

This snowstorm is the deepest the Bessettes remember; I think the last deep snow like this in Virginia was in 1996. Butch said that the last time it took the county four days to plow our road. What a time for the lambs to be born!

I should mention the pigs. With the snow covering both electric lines, I had a small concern that they would either freeze or escape. Phil didn't even bother to check on them while the snow fell heavily. He figured they would be hunkered down in the hay. Sure enough—when he went to see them the second day, he brought food with him. A pile of hay exploded with pig flesh. I had a repeat performance today, as I approached them with the scraps of two days and two families. All I could see were little ears, until they bounded out, hay flying.

No Power = Freezing Cold

As I was finishing my book last night, the power went out. Neighbor Butch had called us early in the day to let us know that losing power was a possibility, and that he could come with his tractor to plow us out, if we needed him to. “When the heating goes out, those trailers get cold quickly” was his comment.

And the power went out. What would we do? Could we die?

Phil immediately assessed the possibilities: we could get all our blankets and stay in bed overnight. If we get too cold, we could head up to the truck or van and sleep in there with the heat running, even if we couldn’t get out of the driveway.

I went to bed, already chilled at the prospect of no heat for an undetermined period of time. And I awoke in the night, what felt like every hour, getting more and more chilled.

By daylight, my prayers for power were not answered. When Phil got up to do chores, he said, “Yup, it’s close to freezing in here.” A literal statement. The sun had come out, and the outside temperature was near 20. I think our sleeping room was warmer, with all our bodies, perhaps almost 40. Clearly not livable for any real amount of time.

For the next two hours, we headed to the Bessettes. First, I had to locate full snow gear for all five children and myself. That took a good long time. Phil had all the animals established for several days (including freeing the ram lamb from where he had got stuck in the pallet wall—these lambs are really not terribly bright). I was so, so thankful that the lambs were okay, despite the loss of the heat lamp. Had the power gone out the night before, how would they have lived? Yet another way that the Lord protected them.

Phil had hoped that the 4-wheel drive dually could get out our driveway without aid. And if the bed was loaded, it probably could have. But the bed was empty, so Phil used our rented skidsteer to plow, and then towed the truck out, with me “driving” in reverse. Then Phil drove us to the bottom of the Bessette driveway. A short third mile hike through 18 inches of snow, over two fences, and we reached our destination.

Parenthetically, I was so thankful for the clothes provision we had. Phil and I had waterproof pants from a previous Family Fun Week. And, incredibly, I had four pairs of snow pants for the four children who can walk. And they all fit. I think Phil bought a few pairs back in Boulder years ago, and we’ve never used them, but today, we used them all with gratitude.

I made some apple pies. Dennis, as grounds keeper at a boarding school, had plowed and kept the campus clear, then headed home this morning. He got to the top of our 4.5 mile road in his 2-wheel drive vehicle, then called for help. Phil and Michelle went to pick him up, and Phil’s expertise in driving impressed them all. (Dennis, who keeps wondering when I will write a book, wanted me to mention that we saved him, or at least saved him a long hike through deep snow. Since they’ve saved us many times, I am pleased to be able to return the favor.)

Dennis mentioned that sheep and other cattle purposefully give birth in bad weather; it’s a way to protect themselves from predators during their most vulnerable time. I suppose they then have to trust the people to care for their frozen progeny, but at least they protect themselves!

We’re staying the night at the Bessettes. Phil did head home to check on the animals, and returned with good news on all fronts: electricity restored; lambs doing well; all animals happy and healthy. God be thanked.

Wool Fiber: The Magic Fiber

Because of the precious lambs, I have been eagerly reading up on sheep raising. While the children watched THREE of the Star Wars movies, I read Shearing Day book on shearing with hand shears, rather than with electrical clippers. I read that clippers are, perhaps, easier to learn on. However, they sounded less desirable in every other way. Clippers cost at least ten times as much; they have many more parts that require maintenance (oils, fancy sharpening); they shear closer to the skin, which means the sheep are more likely to chill and die; they are heavy and noisy; they require electricity, and, as such, the shearer is restricted in location. In the hands of skilled shearers, neither tool is faster than the other, and neither is more likely to nick than the other. To my utmost relief, I read a line like, “Sheep are abundantly capable of healing from even severe wounds,” which was my greatest comfort in the debacle of the tail docking.

The best part of the book first listed different sheep breeds. Ashley, a Dorset, makes good yarn wool; her lambs, as well as Acorn the sheep, are a Dorset/Rambouillet mix; the Rambouillet descends from a Merino sheep, with a fiber diameter of about 20 microns. (For perspective, hair is about 150 microns.) Our Southdown Babydolls should have that lovely, premium micron count. I think the issue with itchy wool happens with fibers that are around 35 or 40 microns.

Next, the book talked about the actual wool. A good quality wool has more crimping. Perhaps a coarse wool has a crimp every centimeter; a quality wool might have 10 crimps. More “heritage breed” wools have both wool and hair, sort of like a downy coat and a hair coat our dog had when we were growing up. They might have four wool fibers to each hair fiber.

As the shepherds kept breeding, they were able to increase the numbers of wool fibers per hair fiber. Once the wool fibers hit 16 to 20, they cut the blood supply to the hair fibers, and the wool became uniform, with no hair fibers.

Good wool remains uniform all over the sheep, forming little clumps of fibers. And if the sheep is stressed, either from malnutrition or moving or anything else, it will grow a weak spot in the wool. The author said he can take a pencil sized amount of wool without any stress spots, and the tensile strength is such that he cannot break it with his fingers.

Wool is the most genetic of all sheep traits, more so than twin births or good meat or anything else. So, the shearer argued, all shepherds need to take responsibility to breed for quality wool, or the quality decreases rapidly.

I found the structure of the wool the most interesting: as the wool hardens, or keratinizes, the keratinized structure can absorb about 35% of its weight in water, and it somehow has an exothermic process (as it evaporates, maybe?), which gives off heat. Thus, the wool keeps a person both warm and dry.

Doesn’t this want to make you keep sheep, too? (Or maybe you just will want to buy wool products from a small flock, like Lona's, a Sonlight user.)

Wool fiber, the magic fiber.

New Things to Learn

Phil went out into the white wonderland this morning. I anxiously watched through the icicle covered (single paned!) window, as he slogged through knee-deep drifts. The chickens were trapped in their house, as the snow had covered their door. Phil put feed in through the roof, then went around to the lambing jug.

They were still alive! Standing up even! Way to go, little lambs!

Then my concern shifted to the other sheep, left in deep snow with no shelter (the goats are not about to share their pallet lean-to with the sheep, and the sheep probably prefer to be outside anyway. But maybe, my fears spoke, the babydolls got trapped overnight and suffocated. Thankfully, no.

As I read up on lamb care, I learned there were a few things I needed to do. Lambs are born with long tails (they almost touch the ground!), and they need to be docked to prevent droppings sticking to the wool (it actually gets worse than that—the droppings stuck to the tail attract flies, which lay eggs that turn to maggots. Poor sheep, dragging a maggot-infested tail weighing several pounds). So that’s really non-negotiable. Docking the tails needs to happen around 24 hours, I read, as after that the tail grows more nerve endings and becomes much more painful for the lambs.

This caused a mild panic attack: I had ordered a tail docker from a sheep supply place several weeks ago (never dreaming I would need it before the end of January!), but they had delayed the order (with my permission) due to a backordered item. I checked the status, and they claimed it had been delivered “to the front door.” When Phil had arrived home with the haybales yesterday, I had noticed our trampoline had been delivered on a pallet next to the driveway without my knowing, but I didn’t remember seeing any other boxes there. Because of the snow, I had covered the boxes with a tarp and left them.

Now I slogged through the snow myself, getting the snow inside my tall rubber boots. After futile digging around the boxes trying to locate the edge of the tarp, I was immeasurably relieved to see that the box of sheep supplies WAS there. God had sent it at just the right time!

Phil and I looked at the equipment we had received, and pulled the lamb vitamin booster and the tail docker (actual lovely name: emasculator). I went out to see the precious babies for the first time today. They were standing up, which surprised me: most babies sleep much of the first 24 hours, so the fact that they’ve been up each time we’ve visited is either a good sign or a bad one. I have no idea.

They didn’t much appreciate the vitamin booster. Phil came in to hold the babies as I docked their tales. They sheared off pretty easily, for which I was thankful.

Back in the house, though, I read another book that said, “Do not dock tales until 3 to 7 days, and if the lambs are thin, wait until 14 days. Do not do it in the first 24 hours, as that will severely stress the lambs.”

Worse yet (and this makes me feel sick), the emasculator is supposed to stay on the tail for 30 seconds after the actual cutting, in order to crimp off the blood vessels. Since the tool did not come with instructions, and the first two books I read about it didn’t mention it, I had no idea. Going back to check on the lambs several hours later, their tails were still bleeding, just a bit. I contemplated trying to just crimp the tails, but couldn’t stomach it. (I have conquered many phobias, but I fear that playing vet remains beyond my skill set.)

What comforts me as I think of verses like “My people [lambs] perish for lack of knowledge” is the reminder that these lambs are God’s lambs. By rights, they should have died at birth, in the snow storm.

What’s done is done, and now we have to wait and see.