Photos Taken Earlier This Week

Here's the shelter Phil made for the cows (showing both cows and Eve with Benny relaxing nearby).



Joe with the wheelhoe, standing in the lasagna garden. I planted a lot of garlic! Yum. It's looking good.



Our orchard, with the redbuds across the street as purple backdrop.



Abigail, freshly washed in the (solar) shower.



Sunset lighting through the redbuds. Note the neatly stacked cordwood from our orchard clearing project.

Apple Orchard: Complete!

We finished the apple orchard! In the ground are 288 fledgling trees. We have done our part (at least initially). But, as we have already seen, we can do what we can, but "unless the Lord builds the house, they labor in vain that build it." The trees grow, but we don't know how. We order irrigation and it's not right on arrival, so God sends the rain. (Isaiah and Jadon sure appreciated yesterday's rain—otherwise, they'd have been out there today, too!)

I found it fun that we have biblical numbers throughout our orchard (and not through my planning!): 12 rows of apples; the top row with 40 trees, the bottom with seven (and varying amounts in between).

Because I prefer not to dwell in uncertainty, I counted total trees in the ground: 304. And 98 to go. We are 76% done.

In other news (perhaps gruesome or graphic): Phil opened the compost pile to add to it today, and found only a few pieces of one of the lambs. Apparently, that pile is hot!

I noticed bloody cow stool this morning. Honestly, if it's not one thing, it's another. I was about to check what dread disease might cause bloody stool when Phil wondered if it might be that Fern is menstruating. Good point! Although determining the timing for Artificial Insemination might be difficult for Milking Devons, if we could figure it out for Fern this year, we could avoid buying a bull. That would sure be helpful.

Rabid Sheep!

Phil and I finally got smart and headed up to start digging as soon as we were up (Phil did chores first, though). By about 7:15 we were up there, along with Joe, who woke, bleary-eyed, and wanted to join us. Phil asked him to hold the rake, and he faithfully held it for the next twenty minutes, swaying a bit as he woke up the rest of the way.

It took us about an hour to mostly fill in the rest of the enormous holes. After breakfast (24 eggs and half a loaf of bread), Phil took the older boys up to water the trees. While I wouldn't say they were entirely willing, nor entirely focused, they worked on that project for about six hours, and watered almost 200 trees between the two of them. (One would be in charge of moving the hose, while the other held the watering wand over the tree.) At about 6pm, it started to rain, and they gratefully ceased.

Phil and I planted trees. Well, I also did a massive quantity of dishes, and he also laid out some irrigation line. We hope to get the replacement parts for our drip irrigation tomorrow, and there's about 5000 feet of line to lay out.

This portion of tree planting progressed slowly. When Phil scraped the topsoil off before augering the holes, the excess created mini-mountains. And we have to level these by hand in order to 1) to back fill the holes entirely, 2) to drive any equipment through in the future, and 3) to help the grass grow so the sheep can graze. What a project. We got 15 more in the ground. By my calculation this evening, we have 115 to go. We're getting there!

As I was going from orchard to homestead to get more minerals, I felt a little pricker in my shoe. When I felt it again, I realized it was actually a bee. Yes, somehow a bee flew into the extremely small space between foot and shoe and stung the top of my foot to let me know it was there. When I removed my foot, it flew away. Baking soda paste removed the pain almost immediately.

Towards evening, I was again fetching something when I noticed Isabella foaming at the mouth. And not just a little. She had strings of mucus-like saliva flowing from her mouth, mounding on the ground. Foam out her nose, out her mouth.

Rabies? And she in a pen with our new cows! No!

Phil and I set up an emergency pen in the cattle trailer, and dragged and pushed the stubborn ewe into it. I gathered up every bit of sheep spit I could and tossed it out of the pen. Of course, if she has something bad, surely the other animals could get it, too. They all share a waterer, after all.

Once she was confined, I checked online for possible diagnoses. Bloat was an option, and she had a protruding left side, but her sides always protrude, and she hasn't had many (any?) fresh greens, and, of course, no grain.

The other option was choking, and that seemed to fit. She seemed to be coughing up something.

Oh, joy. To help a choking sheep, the owner needs to tube the sheep. So with Phil holding her back end steady, I took a length of hose, perhaps 30 inches long, and tried to stick it down her throat.

By now, she had foamy saliva everywhere. And she wasn't thrilled to have hose inserted deep into her body. The first time, I think she managed to clamp down on it and it didn't even reach the back of her mouth. The second time, though, I was more determined, and just pushed it down and down.

Suddenly mucus and green stuff flowed out of the end of the tube. Then Isabella really fought me, so I pulled the tube out. Stuck in it were kelp granules.

Kelp is a wonderful dietary supplement. Because it comes out of the sea, it contains all the trace elements in the proper proportions that people (and, I suppose, animals) need them. Since we got cows, we have four buckets with four different supplements for the animals to choose from: a "free choice mineral program." The kelp has been wildly popular with all animals. Isabella, apparently, went crazy with kelp. The granules expanded inside her and began to choke her.

That tubing trick did the job, though. Immediate relief from foaming and gagging. Her side was not so distended.

And I had something exciting to write about.

Shortly after that, the rain commenced. And, thanks be to God, it has rained hard for several hours, much more than the measly one-third of an inch predicted.

Potato Planting

I'm sure I'm not alone in this, but when I get hungry, I get angry (the classic "hangry" issue). Unfortunately, working in the sun all day makes me wish for a liquid diet. This isn't very practical because we stopped milking Annabelle (when the cows came, our method of corraling came to an end). And we have no fruit for smoothies anyway. The irony of 400 trees and no fruit to eat definitely does no escape me.

So today was, sadly, a grumpy day for me. There was good in it, but I was grumpy. I need to figure out something cool to eat, and how to stay cheerful despite feeling dirty and hot.

Despite the grumpiness, we managed to be productive. Phil and the boys put up the electric netting again around the animal pen. We had taken down the netting for the cows, putting up the more durable and tall cattle panels instead. The cattle panels keep all animals in, but the chickens can get out. While I appreciate the chickens scratching up the forest mulch and eating ticks, I don't appreciate them flying onto the house trailer ledge and watching us curiously while we eat. Or walking through my kitchen pooping. (It was only a matter of time before I found some upleasants on the countertop!) Or eating all the clover that holds our trailer slope in place, or approaching my garden.

So I was thankful to have the chickens returned to their pen.

While I worked, Phil ran errands in town. Then he redid the wiring on the trailer, so now it is fully functional, with long-lasting connections (rather than the stop-gap tape he used while transporting the cows).

I planted potatoes. My Lasagna Gardening book claims that I need only put down cardboard or newspapers on the ground, then put my seed potato pieces on top, and cover with hay. This is, apparently, sufficient to grow good, clean potatoes with little effort.



I like little effort. I planted a mix of eight types (17 pounds of seed potatoes). What blessed and amazed me was that we had gotten rid of most of our boxes (either through burning or dump runs). I had just finished with all the cardboard I could scrounge, and was thinking I needed to just plant on the ground and see how that went, when the UPS man pulled up and delivered ten large boxes: my irrigation line. A present both of the contents and the box!

Sadly, the irrigation isn't quite right: the connectors sent won't work with our system. And even Phil, able-to-figure-out-everything, isn't sure how the parts they sent are supposed to work.

And with the heat and the dry wind, my trees look so thirsty. I am praying for rain, because I honestly don't know if I can handle another five hour watering fest, when what I really want is to get trees in the ground. And it is SO disappointing to receive the wrong pieces. Thunderstorms are forecast for tomorrow; may they offer all the water the trees need.

That Rotten Isabella

The baby ewe was staggering around this morning when I woke up. Not great (she should be walking), but better than lying still, panting and expiring. But two hours later, she was panting, then expired.

As I thought about this ewe's death, I remembered the vague information I have about her mother. The first year of breeding opportunity, she didn't breed. The second year (last year), she bred but didn't care for her lamb. We have that lamb (our little Maybelle), but I don't know how the previous owners kept alive the baby when the mother was uninvolved.

Isabella's genetics aren't the best, either. Her wool is the most inferior; her wool fell out in patches (perhaps she's more susceptible to parasites, or just won't thrive on our marginal pasture?). And her Maybelle is decidedly smaller than her birthmates.

From my perspective, Isabella should have been culled, if not the first year, at least the second. She won't be on our farm much longer (we'll either bring her to the sale barn or eat her).

In retrospect, I can see why I was confused: Isabella was calming munching hay while her newborn lamb lay, still covered in amniotic fluid. I've never seen this before: most mothers care for their babies until they are certain the babies are okay. Then they eat. So Isabella's unconcern made me angry and concerned.

On the other hand, she mostly stuck near her baby. If I carried the baby away, she called for the baby. Yesterday afternoon, though I didn't see the baby nurse on her own, she appeared to have a full belly, like she'd eaten well. So Isabella didn't seem like a mom who totally rejected her baby.

It was confusing, and I don't know what else I could have done. Larger operations can find surrogate moms, but I don't know much about that.

We think we'll keep Eve. Despite her imperfect birth record this year, that certainly could have been mostly my error. She gets another chance.

And I'm praying for Tsarina's birth, that she will have at least one healthy ewe to replace the soon-to-be-culled Isabella. Tsarina (or Zara) is my favorite of the Babydolls, and I would be so happy to have a healthy ewe from her. I milked Isabella for all the colostrum I could this evening (which wasn't much), in hopes of having a little boost for Zara's newborn(s) when the birth happens.

Phil and I planted trees. Nineteen more. The burning sun exhausted us, so mid-afternoon we all headed down to the creek. It ranges from about 18 inches to about one inch, and all seven of us had a good time wading. Jadon even submerged a few times, and came up looking chilly but pleased with himself.

Another Two Bite the Dust ... But NO!

I had barely stumbled out of bed when Phil opened the door and said, "Isabella lambed. I think one is dead, but I'm hoping it's just the afterbirth. She's licking off the other one."

Nothing like a gentle start to the workweek.

There was, indeed, a dead lamb: not even broken out of the membrane, so dead on arrival.

The other lamb‐an ewe—was alive, and even stood up. But filthy, covered in dung from the ground, mostly still wet, shivering. Isabella was off eating, not cleaning her baby.

I was so mad at Isabella! Care for your precious baby! Clean it off! Feed it! This lamb will die without food!

And death approached. I took the lamb to the little jug and cleaned if off, milked out as much colostrum as I could. Then used the rest of Annabelle's milk, with sugar and butter, to fill the lamb's tummy. The problem with feeding by drench (rather than tube to the stomach) is that the lambs choke, and get milk up their noses or into their lungs, and then they wheeze. And, I suppose, die.

After an hour, the lamb had not stood up again, and lay, exhausted, in a corner. Isabella had followed the lamb, and continued to eat. I had no more supplemental food; I had dried the baby off; there was nothing else I could do. I planned to return in an hour or two and carry off yet another body. Bringing our lambing ratio to 5 dead to 3 living (two stillbirths, one deformed at birth, and the two recent mismanagement? or birth trauma?). Ugh.

I left to sob convulsively in the orchard, until I realized that it helped nothing. Besides, I had to make breakfast.

While trying to ignore the expiring lamb, I ordered irrigation equipment. Apparently, Virginia decided to skip spring this year. We went from weather in the 30s and 40s to weather in the 80s in about three days. (This isn't even the last frost date, and we've been solidly in the 80s for a week.) No rain forecast, and I'm not watering by hand again.

Then I went to plant trees, while Phil headed to the farm equipment store for gates to make a chute and head gate for the cows. He needed to give them anti-stress medicine, and we can't just walk up to the cows and feed it to them.

While he drove, he prayed, "Lord, help that lamb live again." And then he wondered if maybe our culling plans are too brutal. We don't really know why all the sheep are having birth issues. Maybe they have too heavy a parasite load. Maybe the rams had issues. Maybe the stress of three enormous cows joining the pen made Isabella stressed and miscarry. Maybe we need more experience delivering. Maybe I needed to keep the mineral bucket filled more consistently. Maybe they need different varieties of hay. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

On his return, he built a shade structure I'll have to photograph another day, then helped me plant. We got 15 more in the ground, which felt like a major accomplishment. I think that's 257 total, but I may have lost count.

Incredibly, when I went down to make dinner, the lamb I had given up for dead yet lived! And suckled! And wobbled on her feet! I think she pulled through. And I think her name should be Miracle, because Phil got his miracle.

Phil then built a chute, which is a holding pen for animals. This leads into a headgate, a small, restricted place where people can treat animals. So he treated the three cows, while (mostly) avoiding being gored by Fern. After their treatments, I scratched their backs a bit. Their fluffy winter coat came off in my hand. I believe it: they're not in northern Vermont any more.

A very productive day, with a dead lamb at the beginning, and a living lamb at the end. Praise the Lord!

Thirty-Seven and Devon

When Phil picked up the cows in Vermont yesterday, he left the farm around 9am. Since Google Maps said the trip would take 13 hours, we figured 14 hours minimum. (He had left home at 10pm Thursday, and slept a few hours in a rest stop. He reached Enosburg Falls, VT, just a few miles from the Canadian border, around 6pm on Friday, after a full day of driving. For security reasons, I tried to not mention his absence too blatantly. But he was working hard and sleeping little.)

He called before I went to bed to say, "Don't wait up. The lights on the trailer keep going out, and I've had to pull over four times already in order to try to get the wiring fixed. I hope to be home around 7am."

I woke at 6:30, eagerly anticipating the soon arrival of the cows. I did morning chores and started on the backlogged dishes. And waited.

I admired the pink buds that are breaking out all over—maybe those are the redbuds? I've only seen them in the fall, with their lovely heart-shaped leaves.



About the time we would have left for church (10am), Phil and cows drove down the road. We clapped and cheered! We could just see horn tips through the trailer slats.

I hoped that he had taken a few hours off to sleep. But, no. He had pulled over twice more, and finally figured out the wiring. Several hours of electrical wiring in the middle of the night in a strange state is not the ideal birthday celebration, but Phil managed it.

We finally got the truck backed up to the new fence. We had to adjust the electric strand, and while we got the details together, the sheep went to investigate the smell of the newcomers.



When we finally opened the door, no cows emerged. I have read that cattle don't see in color; maybe the difference between a dark trailer and a bright world was too great a contrast.

Phil tried tugging on their halters to get them out. No go.



I asked if we should just take off their halters and let them go. "I don't know how I would catch them again to dose them with their homeopathic stress-reliever." Indeed, without lead ropes, how would we catch them?

He let go altogether and stood back. First one cow jumped nimbly down. . .


. . . then the other two emerged with a RUSH. One stumbled to her knees, but quickly recovered and all three stood on the far side of the pasture.



Incredibly, the animals sorted themselves by type and then by family within type. The babydolls were separate from Ashley and Acorn and progeny; Annabelle and kids were separate from Chrystal. Chrystal acted aggressive. . .



. . . but Fern, the Milking Devon born in 2008, lowered her substantial horns, and Chrystal backed off.



If the cows advanced, the other animals scattered. Imagine animals fleeing from a forest fire—it felt like that.



But now, how to get the halters and leads off? Phil sprayed them with a homeopathic Arnica remedy, to remove stress, and tried to casually approach.



The six of us left an exhausted Phil alone to deal with stressed animals and drove to church, to get there about five minutes before service ended. At least Phil was able to get a good nap.

Back at the farm, the children opened their Easter presents and looked for Easter eggs in the woods. (Even Joe found some!)



I planted four rhubarb plants I bought, all dried out, at the hardware store yesterday.

Then I headed in to visit the longed-for cows. I love them. When they poop, I think, "Great! Give the soil the microbes from your gut!"

Even better, when the cows come near enough to smell my hands, I admire the beads of "sweat" on their nose. Healthy cows always have an exudate on their nose. Cowman Wesley Ervasti wondered what that was.

Ervasti figured it was the most wonderful culture ever devised by nature. When a cows mows off grass or eats hay from a bail, she cannot avoid leaving some of the culture behind. This culture helps the animal with digestion.
Mother Nature made a deal with the cow. She said, "I'll provide you plenty of grass, but you have to give something back. Every bite you take, you will leave this culture in the forage and in the soil." . . .
[An animal science specialist] agreed that there had to be a reason for that culture on a cow's nose. He turned the idea over to a botany specialist who harvested this culture, diluted it with water, and sprayed it on potted plants. The usual treated and untreated planted anointed the greenhouse. There was a 50 percent increase in those treated with culture.

(From Reproduction and Animal Health, pp. 119-120)

I managed to grab the Fern's lead. I had read that, to halter train an animal, take the cow and tug the halter. If it goes where you want, ease up. Tie it to a pole, and when it ceases to struggle, immediately release it.

This all sounded very simple. But Fern will be two in June; she outweighs me several times over. After a bit of wrestling, I decided maybe I should just take off her halter. I got within a foot of her halter and suddenly I found myself with a split lip. I think I was butted on her forehead between her horns, but maybe I was gored. It's not many women who can claim to have been gored. ("How did you get that scar on your lip?" "Oh, I was gored by my dear milk cow.")

When Phil woke up, we both went and watched the cows for a few hours. He managed to get the halters off the two cows with leads; the third cow, the most friendly of the three, we couldn't quite grab.

The two born last June we hope to use as oxen, but they may already be too big to train. But, based on the recommendations we prefer, they shouldn't really be weaned much before now. Which leaves us, perhaps, looking for oxen from calves born on our own farm. Hmm.

Just in case we do use them as oxen, though, they need to have names that don't sound too much alike. I had wishes to call the three Beatrice (for both Dante's Beatrice, pronounced bay-uh-TREECH-ei, and Beatrice in Shakespeare's play), Belle, and Bianca (or Beauty). But the oxen can't hear the difference between Belle and Bianca. So we decided that Fern can keep her name, and the maybe-oxen we'll call Toots and Babe. One syllable, very different sounds.

When we got some hay delivered, I was quite thankful that we'd managed to get the halters off the two cows. Otherwise, how ridiculous we'd look! Tyson said that when he'd halter-train cows for 4-H, his Dad would tie the cow to the truck, and Tyson would hold the lead, tricking the cow into thinking that Tyson was the strong one making the cow do his will. He also said that halter-training takes about four months. Good to know.

So today, on the day we celebrate Jesus' resurrection from the dead, we also got to celebrate Phil's 37th birthday, and the coming of the Milking Devons to Spring Forth Farm.