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.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Friday, November 18, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
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.
Monday, November 14, 2011
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!
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!
Saturday, November 12, 2011
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.
Friday, November 11, 2011
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.
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.
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