Battening Down the Hatches

     A snowstorm is on its way, although by the looks of the beautiful weather today, you'd never know it.  Nevertheless, a few minutes on Facebook is all it takes to see that weather indeed must be coming.  All of my city friends are posting pictures of empty shelves in grocery stores as folks rush around trying to ensure their safety and well-being before the storm.
     The rushing around looks different up here in the mountains.  Folks are rushing around, but the tasks are vastly different.  Many of us have cellars and freezers full of food, so that isn't such a concern. Our concern is for the livestock.  Deep snow means difficulty getting feed to animals, so we are taking some steps to make things easier.
     Justin spent the day putting a snow-blade on his skid loader.  If we get the predicted two feet of snow, not only will he need to open paths to the barns to help us get in to the hay, he will also need to open pathways for the sheep and cattle so they can reach food and water.  They will also need places to lie down.
     After that, Scott and Justin worked on replacing a fence that had been removed for some construction around a barn.  When the fence was back in place, they moved a flock of pregnant sheep down the road to the meadow next to that barn.  Pregnant sheep in deep snow are like deeply loaded boats in a high swell. They rise and fall but they don't make much forward progress.  Being next to the barn will give them shelter and easier access to food.
     Then Joe and I called another flock in from a high pasture across the road to the barn and meadow right in front of the house. We moved feeders in place so we could drop food in  from the main road.  One year, it snowed so much near this particular barn that the drifts covered the tops of the fences. Shoveling something that deep is nearly impossible, so the closer we can get the sheep to shelter and the main road, the easier it will be to keep them safe.
     We moved cars out to the end of our quarter mile long driveway, since it could take a day or two to get it plowed out.  Joe put the snowplow blade on our four wheeler and he'll try to keep a path open as the snow falls, but if we get the wind that's predicted it will soon blow shut and he'll have to go out again and again, just like this picture from last year.

We filled our woodbox and made another pile near the house.  One of my first tasks after the snow ends will be to shovel a path out to that pile.
     The last thing I did before coming in to write this blog was fill the bird feeders.  I don't like wading through knee deep snow to do that.
     After the snow falls, round two will start.  My chickens are a half a football field away from the house.  I usually end up hand digging a path out there so I can feed and water them.  The dogs will be allowed to sleep together so they can stay warm, but their house will have to be shoveled out as well.  We will have to shovel all of the gates to the various fields open and shovel a path to the root cellar.
     It's a lot to think about and worry about, but after almost thirty years of living here, I've learned that worry never changes anything and eventually we always find a way to get things done.  That way often includes the help of neighbors who will start calling to check on each other as soon as the last flake falls. We have helped neighbors remove heavy snow from barn roofs and on more than one occasion, I have awakened to the sound of a neighbor on his bulldozer plowing us out.
    A snow of this magnitude means that generosity of the same magnitude will abound, so I think I'll pour another cup of hot tea and curl up in front of a window to watch the show.  It's going to be beautiful.

The Big Meander

     It's definitely winter outside and so my usual sunrise walk with a friend was cancelled.  Our rule is: if the temperature falls below 20 degrees and the wind is blowing, the walk is cancelled.  But, by 10:00 the wind had calmed a bit and the temperature had risen to 25 degrees.
     If I don't get outside, I get cranky, so after some post-Christmas clean up (yes, I just took my tree down), I bundled up and stepped out.  I decided to avoid the road today and instead meander the fence-line of the field in front of my house.  That way Luke, my beagle, could walk with me.
     This field is one that I see every day from the north and west facing windows in my house.  A river runs through it.  There are marshy ditches, a small copse of wild apples, an abandoned graveyard, and a tiny cliff. I decided on a path that would visit them all.
      The copse of wild apples was a delightful surprise.  From the house, it's just a tangle of trees, but the cows spend much of their summer meadow-time hanging out there, and I discovered a path that they had tamped and trammeled right through the middle

     At the bottom edge, the path dissolved into a marshy ditch which was covered with a sheet of glassy ice, giving me a clear view of the bottom. While there were no signs of life, there was evidence.  Tiny holes dotted the silt and, although I guessed that they might be signs of the tiny peeper frogs who sing up spring, when I looked it up I found I was wrong.  Spring Peepers sing and mate on the edges of thawing puddles, but they hibernate under leaves and bark, sometimes freezing almost solid before spring wakes them up.  I don't know what made the little holes that I saw.
      Next, at river's edge, I discovered beautiful cones of ice, around the bottom of each stem of grass that grew in or within splashing range of the water.

 As I walked, Luke ran circles around me, seeing with his nose things I could only imagine.  At several places he stopped and rolled onto his back, grinning in upside down delight.  I wonder what marvelous dead animal perfume he found? Perhaps Eau de Decayed Skunk or Parfum de Possum. Although I couldn't see the remains of his wiggly euphoria, we did discover tracks in some of the snow, evidence of a cat, maybe mine, prowling through the night.

    One set of tracks was older, left in the snow when it was mush.  Last night's freeze had turned each print into a lattice-work of crystals.

 As we left river's edge and turned toward the barn, the wind was no longer at my back, but biting my cheeks and nose.  The lee of the barn was a quiet reprieve, almost warm where the wind couldn't blow.  No wonder the sheep spend all their time there.

   

As I climbed the last hill on the way to the house, I stopped in the graveyard to pay my respects to Samuel Wilson.  His stone is subsiding into the grass, helped along by the tunneling of at least one groundhog.  Above the stone, a lone bird's nest had pocketed a bit of snow.

    Finally, I made my last right turn, and followed the fence home.  The brisk wind bit my nose and cheeks, making the warmth of the wood stove a welcoming friend.

Wascally Wabbits

     This is the warmest December I can remember in ages, but I'm not complaining and neither are the dogs.  Pretty weather means we are more likely to go rabbit hunting.

Last Saturday was perfect.  The temperatures were in the low 60's, the sun was high in the sky and we were high on the mountain.

Joe took Luke, Rex and Cooper out on leads to start with.

 When he got to the briar patches where ol' Brer Rabbit likes to hang out, he let the dogs go and they went to work....noses to the ground, tails flagging the air.  Joe tossed rocks into the briars and hit around with sticks to try to flush out any rabbits that might be hiding, but neither he nor the dogs could find one.

 Soon, we were joined by Scott and Jen.

 We all climbed to the top of the hill and the dogs hit on a trail, following it into the woods.  Unfortunately, it was not a rabbit trail.

The dogs were hot after a deer.  We called them for a while, then we sat down to wait.  On such a pretty day, we were happy to have an excuse to just enjoy the view of our farm and the surrounding hills.

Finally, our faithful Luke returned and the other dogs weren't  far behind.  We gathered them up and drove to a different, flatter field.

Rex jumped a rabbit shortly after we arrived.  In rabbit hunting, once a rabbit is running, you wait for it to circle back around.  Joe found a comfortable seat....

and I entertained myself by taking a selfie...proof that I, too, was rabbit hunting.

Jen took Cooper on lead across the field where Rex disappeared, but by the time they got there, the wascally wabbit had escaped..  The dogs lost his trail so we all headed home.  

What a beautiful way to spend a sunny December day.

Fabulous Fingers

     After  fifty-four years of biting my nails, I have kicked the habit and grown them long enough to treat myself to a manicure. My nails are beautiful and if I could find my camera I’d post a picture here just so you could admire them, too.  I’ve discovered that a manicured hand looks so much more feminine than my usual grubby fingers, but I’ve also discovered why you don’t see many farmwives with lacquered nails.

     Pretty hands require protection.  Washing dishes?  Pull on the latex gloves.  Gardening?  Chore gloves, of course.  Helping with cattle? Leather work gloves.  Peeling apples and making applesauce?  Disposable gloves.  Keeping up with all these gloves is impossible.  Plus, I can’t really work as efficiently in them.  My hands are small and the extra fabric in the gloves is bunchy and bothersome.  When I went in for the manicure, Heidi examined my stains.  “What’s all over your hands?” she asked. 

     The brown stains on my cuticles were from cutting up apples for applesauce.  I tried wearing gloves but I kept slashing the tips off with my knife so I gave up.  The blue smudge was from the sheep marker I used on Tuesday and the pink stains were from the beets I canned.

     Heidi was able to clean up my mess and for the moment my hands are pertly pretty.  The thing about trying to be a fashionable farm wife is you never know when the next farm emergency will occur.  This morning I had just stepped out of the shower and was blow drying my hair into poufy perfection when I heard a commotion.  My Own Farmer was out in the cattle lot whistling shrilly.  That’s usually a signal for someone in the family to see what he needs.  Scott was out there with him, so I assumed the summons was for him.  But then the horn on the cattle truck began blaring.  I leaned out the window.  “Do you need me?” I asked.

     “Yes,” he said, “two of the calves have escaped and I need you to help us get them back in.”

Lovely.  I pulled my dirty sweatshirt over my bouffant do and ran outside.  When I got back in the house my fluffy hair was flat. So much for beauty.  

     The farm has a different dress code from the rest of the world.  I have been known to wear the same grubby pants three days in a row if I know I’ll be getting dirty.  No use creating extra laundry, but how mortifying when unexpected company shows up.

     I would like to be as beautiful as my non-farm friends are, but it would require too many changes of clothing in a day, and keeping up with too many pairs of gloves, so if you see me in town wearing muck boots, don’t shake my hand unless you want to get yours dirty, too.  Except on Wednesdays.  That’s manicure day from now on, and if you catch me before I make it to the farm, be sure to admire my fabulous fingers.They won't look that way for long.

Working Cows

     We're up before dawn, and eat breakfast while we're waiting for enough light to gather the cattle.  It's day two of take up.  Steers were gathered and sent to market yesterday, heifers go today.
     Working cattle into a pen with family represents both the best and worst parts of farming. We are up early enough to appreciate the sun slanting through a gap in the mountains as it rises, lighting up fall-tinted trees like rows of  candles set out to celebrate the coming of day.  Haystacks and cattle both send luminous plumes of steam skyward in the chilly air, and the morning smells like ripe apples and pears and crisp leafy duff and woodsmoke.  
     Working cattle is also a time when I appreciate how much my little boys have matured into men.  They are experts at moving the stormy waves of cattle calmly through gates with only some whistles and a well placed four wheeler.  I have learned through the years where to stand to be helpful, but still my children insist on giving me directions.  "Move in closer Mom.  No, stand over there.  Wave your stick."  I tell them that I would make a great cattle dog, but the truth is that there is real joy in working with my boys-become-men who no longer need to be told what to do.  When did they become so knowledgeable and confident?
     As always, I am amazed by my husband's ability to stand in a gateway and direct cattle hither and yon with a gentle tap of his stick or a slight side-step to the right or left.  I once called him the Baryshnikov of the cattle ballet and he still dances as lightly with cows as he ever did.  The extra bonus is that my boys have both learned the same dance steps.  I am not brave enough to stand in a crowded pen full of side-kicking cows, but they step in unfazed and direct traffic until all the cows and calves are sorted through the various gates.
     But, cattle sorting also represents the dangerous side of farming. It involves zipping about on four-wheelers tilted sideways on dew covered hills as cattle are funneled to the gate.  I am aware that I do not know the number of times my children have rolled their four-wheelers because they occasionally let slip a story I haven't heard before about a spill or tumble.  This morning, Scott confidently spins some donuts in the field behind the cows as he waits for them to cross a mucky ditch.  I cover my eyes. I pray better that way.
    Stressful days have also included cattle breaking down fences, kicking or shitting on whoever is in the pen, or turning around in the middle of the chute until they are stuck and can't move in any direction. I remember a heifer who once got so stuck that we had to dismantle part of the fence to get her out.  Tempers rise and subside when things like this go wrong, but they always roll through as quickly as a fall shower and end quickly as things sort themselves out.
     This is my 28th year of working cattle.  This morning I realized that I've learned a few things over the years.  I'm not as afraid of cows as I used to be and that's helpful, because unlike sheep, you need to crowd them a bit to get them to move where you want them to go. Stand too far back and they'll make a break for it.  I've also learned that if you don't get them gathered on the first pass, it's not the end of the world. Chase cattle long enough, and they'll eventually go where you want them. I've learned that there will be some yelling but none of it should be taken personally.  Except maybe by the cows.  We want them to take it personally so they'll move on up the $%&* chute. Cattle don't respect the word "please."
     I have learned not to sweat the small stuff.  We lost a calf one year as we were unloading animals into the sale pens. That little jailbird roamed the county for over two months and I worried about him as he wandered. I figured he'd get hit by a car or hung in one of the fences he was crawling through and we'd never see him again. Several friends tried to capture him for us, but he was spooky and always escaped. Eventually, he joined a neighbor's herd and when the farmer gathered his cattle, he sorted the calf out and called us to come pick him up.
     Finally, I've learned that you can never predict how things will go.  I was sure  the cows would be hard to corral today.  After all we chased them around yesterday.  Why would they want to go through that again? But, I was wrong.  They sauntered in, complacent and compact. None jumped fences, hung themselves up in the chute or stepped on anyone. The only accident was a bright green fountain of poo that bubbled out from under a lifted tail right onto Joe's leg.  Here on the farm, we call that a pretty good day.

Sunday Blessings3

Today's Sunday blessing is a poem I wrote:

I gave You my sin
You handed back love
Your grace fell upon me
as soft as a dove

You took all the things
that I had done wrong
and gave me Your love
as sweet as a song

Nothing I gave You
made You turn away
from the love that You promised
from the cross that day.

I gave You nothing
but a promise to try
You gave me forgiveness
with arms open wide

Reflections On Love, Wisdom and the Pre-frontal Cortex

My oldest child just married a beautiful young woman and I'm so grateful that he's found someone he loves and someone who also loves him. She makes him happy.

I'll never forget my first sight of Justin.  When the nurses placed him in my arms, he looked so wise. He cocked his little round head sideways as if he was already thinking deep thoughts. Turns out what he was thinking was that he wanted to sleep.  So he did.  He slept for so long that the nurses were worried that he wouldn't wake up.  They made us rub him with wet washcloths and jiggle him.  He ignored everything and slept until he was hungry. We were worried and a bit frantic, but he knew what he was doing. He was preparing us for his teen years.

His childhood plays through my head like a movie.  I see him crouched at the edge of the garden in his boots pulling up weeds and sometimes a vegetable.  Holding up the first fish he caught.  Pulling a stubborn calf along. Opening some Christmas presents.  Always opening our hearts a little more to love.

Children take us where we never thought we would go.  They give us the very deepest joys but they also teach us about the darker parts of ourselves. With my firstborn, I discovered that I wasn't as patient a person as I had once thought, and the addition of a second child to our family cemented that knowledge.  I discovered that I was more selfish than I wanted to be and more easily frustrated than I had ever realized. On the day that my boys dropped their plastic soldiers into the toilet and flushed them, I discovered my temper.

But, I also discovered that the kind of love that I give my children is the one that sits deepest in my soul. It doesn't require reciprocation.  I'm pretty certain that I love my children more than they can ever love me. That's the nature of the parent child relationship.   And it's a good thing that it works that way, because sweet toddlers grow into complex teenagers.

Teen aged boys lack a fully functioning pre-frontal cortex and Justin was no exception. He ran experiments with hairspray, a lighter and his newly acquired arm hair in the back of the school bus.  He piloted a truck over the edge of a mountain.  He played mailbox baseball.  There are rumors that he rode a shopping cart down a mountain.

He met Lisa in those pre-frontal cortex days and she loved him anyway. She's warm and kind and funny. She understands his deepest parts. He asked her to marry him.

Twenty five years ago, I held a tiny baby in my arms and wondered if he was as wise as he looked.  It turns out, he is.