Dingleberry Duty

     When the weather changes from cold and rainy to warm and sunny, then it's time for the sheep to get out of their wooly coats.  We've been working on shearing and I've managed to avoid most of it this year.  It was an informed decision.  I have done my share of helping and was happy to pass that chore on to my children.  Isn't that why we have them?
     But, with the opening of the family's second small engine repair shop, I've been trying to be more of a team player and help with duties I thought I had left behind me.  One of those was dingleberry duty. When my husband asked if I could help with the shearing, so he and my oldest son could keep the shops open, I agreed.  I thought I would just be doing modified Gate Girl duties: opening and closing gates and handing out syringes, so I dressed in my favorite new, blue designer overalls. Perfect for opening and shutting gates because my shirt would stay tucked in no matter how I moved.       I did open some gates, but then I was recruited to wade in behind my youngest son and mark the sheep he was doping. I might have refused if he hadn't been away at school for so long, but like any mother, I am game to do anything for a little quality time with my boy.  Including going into the doping pen.  For those of you unfamiliar with that term, it  means we were worming sheep.   Scott had a  back pack full of wormer on his back and a device to squirt it into the mouths of the sheep.

 The sheep don't like it and back away as it is being squirted in.  My job was to stand behind my boy, blue marker in hand, and mark the sheep he'd done so no one got a double dose.  Every time a sheep backed up, she ground her shitty (and there's no kinder way to say it) ass into my thighs which were clothed in those new designer overalls.  So much for just being a gate girl.  This was the end result!

Then, because I was already dirty and I could see how hard my son and Matt our shearer were working, and how I could make their lives a little easier,  I willingly agreed to be the person sorting through the freshly shorn fleeces to pull out dingleberries.  That's what locals call the by-products of grazing on fresh grass. The grass this year has been especially moist and juicy, leading to moist and juicy dingleberries.  Dingleberries are one of the main reasons that sheep have their tails docked when they are young.  Imagine a whole tail full of squishy, brown ornaments.  It's especially inviting to flies who like to lay eggs in the warm, moist environment.  Eggs that eventually hatch out into maggots.  I am thankful that there were no maggots in any of our dingleberries.

If you look, you can see some of those dingleberries dangling from the rear end of this sheep as Matt shears her.

     I wore my blue latex gloves, but by about the 20th sheep, the lanolin had completely destroyed them.  The last thirty sets of dingleberries were removed with my bare hands.  The only way to get through an experience like that is to remind yourself over and over that it's really just grass and water in a totally different form.  Very different form.

 
We finished the sheep in the first pen and moved on to the second one.  Scott packed wool, so after I did dingleberry duty, I rolled the fleece into a tight ball, placed it in a box and handed it up to him so he could squish it down.  We tried to get about thirty fleeces in each bag.

By the end of the day, we had processed fifty two sheep.  Matt said that was an easy day for him as he often does about a hundred.  Made me thankful not to have dingleberry duty on one of those days.
But, I was glad I did it.  We had as good a time as you can have working in hot humid weather with stinky sheep.  I learned some more about shearing listening to Matt tell stories as he worked.  For instance he has switched to using a plywood board to shear on as opposed to the green felted rug lots of shearers use. He said it makes it easier to keep the sheep down because they can't get a good purchase on the slick wood if they try to get up.  He did buy special shoes for it though.

They are made of felted wool and give him good traction on the slick surface.  It sort of evens the playing field when he's trying to sling a 300 pound buck around.  Matt also told me that a friend once told him the best way to shear a heavy buck.  If all else fails, shear him any way you can.  Sit on him, lie on him or even stick a bit of wool in his mouth so he'll worry about that and forget about you.  Matt said he tried that last one once, but all that happened is the buck bit him and then hopped up and ran away.
     At the end of the day, the ewes and bucks all seemed grateful to have that hot, heavy layer removed.  They'll stay cooler and cleaner, now.
     And as for my designer overalls?  Two washings later, the green stains have almost faded from view.  From now on, when I wear them,  those faint spots will remind me of a beautiful day spent with my son.  Dingleberries and all.

Lambzillas on the Loose

     BAAAA! BAAA!  Daggone it!  The two lambs have spotted me sneaking around the shed.  They spring up from their resting place in a patch of clover and chase me down.  BAAA! BAAA! BAAA! They are insistent, butting my knees, nibbling my fingers, even jumping up and planting their hooves on my belly.  They are looking for my udder, which is usually in the form of a plastic bottle with a red nipple, but I am weaning them, just as their own woolly mamas might, if they hadn't abandoned them.
     I have complete sympathy with those curly-fleeced moms right now.  I'm also trying to abandon the lambs, but not having much luck.  This time of year, walk into any pasture full of sheep and you will spot wooly rumps bobbing into the air as lambs kneel under their moms and grab a quick suck.  The lambs are half as tall as their moms and when they nurse they pile drive the mama sheep's legs up off the ground.  My two little orphans are capable of some pretty muscular moves themselves.  That's why I've taken to sneaking around the shed these days.
     When they first came to me, they were so cute.  Big eyes under wooly bangs, knobby knees, flickery tails.  I don't usually name the lambs, but because Joe told me these were mine to keep for breeding stock, I named them Carol and Dotty.   Dotty wouldn't drink much.  For the first two weeks of her life, she was a sheep sommelier as she smelled, then tasted, then sucked in each mouthful of Land O Lake's finest which she rolled around her tongue until she could determine its vintage. Each swallow was followed with a plaintive baa that clearly said, "This is not my mother's milk."  It took fifteen to twenty minutes for her to finish a bottle.
     Carol, on the other hand, sucked her bottle down like a thirsty construction worker at a bar on a Friday night.  She was done in two minutes and, drunk on cream, she became aggressive, pushing Dotty away as she attempted to steal some more milk. Each night was a struggle.Then the dog attacked Dotty and I had to bandage her on a daily basis.  That's when I discovered that she loved to be held just like a real baby. Cradled in my arms, she tucked her nibbly lips underneath my chin and sighed contentedly as I wrapped and unwrapped bandages from a front and back leg.
     I know better.  I really do.  If calves or lambs become pets, then they become pests.  And eventually pests become dangerous.  But a face framed in cloudy white fuzz was my undoing.  Dotty was just so darn cute.
     Now, she and Carol have grown into cute assassins.  If I'm not careful, they'll take me down.
    There's a third lamb in the barn.  Scott discovered it two weeks ago, out in a field limping pitifully after the flock.  It had broken the top part of its back leg.  This new lamb is confined to a small pen until the leg heals, and every day I am responsible for bringing it some fresh grass and water. This has complicated my life because when I am crawling around on all fours tearing up handfuls of grass, I resemble a ewe.  When Carol and Dotty spot me, they sprint over. Both of them slip their heads beneath my belly and  pile drive my back end up into the air.  I gather up the grass I've pulled and I run to the barn.  Dotty and Carol skip along behind me.  This new game is fun.  When I reach the safety of the shed, I slide the door shut. The new lamb is skittish as I dump the grass over into the pen.  That's the proper relationship between lamb and farmer.
     BAAA!  BAAA!  BAAA! Dotty and Carol, are circling the barn. I watch them through a crack in the door.  Maybe I can sneak out when they make the next lap.  Then the new lamb takes a deep breath.  "BAAAAA!" it hollers.  The two Lambzillas pull up short and circle back to the opening, poking their heads in as I back into the corner.  They widen the gap and bulldoze through.  With nowhere left to hide, I leap into the pen with  the third lamb. By the time Dotty and Carol give up, the new lamb is nibbling on my ear.

I think I'll call it Franky.  That's short for Frankenstein.  After all, I've just created another monster.

Mondays Can Only Get Verse 3

GRACE

The rigid trees are draped in lace

of chartreuse leaves

a gauzy grace

which gives each twig a dance

in spring’s embrace.

Oh that I might a twiggy branchlet be

so clothed in grace that it would cover me

with soft green leaves that dancing

set me free.

VICTORY

Green flags

unfurl

in the sun

skunk cabbage

proclaiming

winter's demise.

TWO WAYS OF LOOKING AT A DANDELION

I.

Spring is sporting yellow speckles.

My lawn has dandelion freckles.

II.

I hack their tiny heads off as

they infiltrate my lawn

I'm sure I've killed them all and by

tomorrow they'll be gone

but nothing's quite so stubborn as

these fuzzy feline scions

At dawn I yield my field of dreams

done in by dandelions.

GOOD CLEAN FUN

Billy Baker ate some soap

His mother said, "Don't do it!"

But when he coughed a bubble up,

his mother knew he blew it.

Surfing the Flood

     The cows have a new sport.  We've had several inches of rain and in addition to greening the fields, it has filled the rivers.  I went out to check on the riverbank and water-gaps because farmers always worry about something.  If it's sunny, it might get too dry  If it's warm, the trees might bud out too soon.  If it's cold, the cows will still need to be fed.  If it's raining, the rivers might flood.
     Having suffered through various floods, including the massive floods of '85 and '93, we are a bit rain-shy. Especially when we can hear the waters rushing down the valley through our closed bedroom window. Which was the case last night.  Hence my trip out to inspect riverbanks and water-gaps.  The river bank in front of the house is slowly giving way to rain and gravity.  Although there are still 30 yards of dirt and rock between us and the collapsing cliff, I've read Chesapeake by James Michener.  Remember in the last chapter how the house drops down into a river that was 100 yards from it at the beginning of the book?  Every heavy rain makes me worry.
     So, this morning I went out to inspect the damage.  The bank had held up fine, but from my lofty position I had an uninterrupted view of the river as it raged through our bottom, splitting it neatly in half.  On one side were bunches of mama cows. Their babies were on the other side. All of them were bawling and staring across the flood.  Then, one old Charolais mama decided to cross over.  She took a few tentative steps, committed to the journey, and waded out into the torrent.  At mid-river, the water was so deep that it piled up against her sides and curled over her back, shifting her downstream as she crossed.  She made shore with a final lunge, which was the signal for all of the other cows to follow.
     A cow weighs over a thousand pounds, so I wasn't too concerned about their decision.  I could see that the footing was good and, although the pressure was jostling the girls as they crossed, it didn't appear to be too dangerous. As each cow completed the crossing, she was met by a hungry baby.  I breathed a sigh of relief as the the last cow crossed.
     Then one of the Angus mamas walked away from her hungry calf, waded to the edge of the river and stood looking downstream.  Her baby walked up behind her, sticking his head between her legs, and trying to finish breakfast.  He followed her into the river as she crossed back to the other side.
    I held my breath as the 100 pound baby was picked up by the current and began bobbing downstream.  Mama reached the bank and never looked back.  Apparently the calf had attended the same water safety courses that I took in my teens.  It turned downstream and ,with vigorous pumping, swam with the current until it washed up safely on the other shore, thirty feet below where it had started.
     The rest of the cows and calves were so impressed that they followed.  Every mama and baby completed the treacherous swim.
      Some babies were washed further downstream than others.  I actually wondered how I might save one if it was unable to reach the other side. Would I run for a rope and lasso it?  Could I go down to the water-gap and pull it out there?  All possibilities were too dangerous.  I knew I would just have to let the baby float on by. Thank goodness they all made it to shore.
     Relieved, I turned to head back to the house.  That's when I heard it.  A mama mooing.  I turned to look and there was  that same old Charolais dipping her feet in the water again.  She dove in and baby followed.  I walked back to the house, unable to watch any longer.
     Later in the afternoon, when I counted cows and calves, all were safely grazing having survived a morning of  surfing the flood.  I wonder which one took home the trophy.

Mondays Can Only Get Verse 2

Why does the farm have to sing
of death?

why can't it always
be lambs bleating
calves bawling
chickens chattering?

I like the song of
butterfly wings
hummingbird flight
meadowlarks and robins
declaring spring

I like the song of
seeds uncurling
leaves unfurling
green learning
to sing

I like the song of
blossoms drifting
romanced by wind
and sun

I like the song of
porch talk

when the day is done

take please
the song of dogs
who bite
lambs
to the bone

Play me a song of life.
without death
light without dark
sun without clouds

Take away that resonant drum

and bury the Composer's
intentions
in birdsong

I don't want to hear
life and death sung together

except

a sentimental song

would not
shake and shape my soul.

LOCKED UP TIGHT

     This evening, as I went about my dusk-time chores, I locked things in and out.  I locked the chickens in. They need protection from coons and possums and foxes and coyotes.  When we built their coop, we designed it to be predator proof.  That means that there are absolutely no small openings anywhere that aren't covered by tightly attached chicken wire.  Nowhere for snakes to slither in, nowhere for rats to reconnoiter, nowhere for predators of any kind to eat, maim or steal eggs from my girls.

     After the chicken house, I locked the horses into the small lot in front of the house.  I let them out during the day to graze on the green blush of grass just beginning to color the fields, but I coax them back into the small lot at night so that they won't pester my dogs and steal their dog food.  I also want them in the small lot at least half of the time because both of my horses will eat fresh green grass until they founder which leads to sore feet and possible downing.  The small lot is a place where the grass truly is greener on the other side of the fence.

     Next, I lock the lambs into the woodshed.  Two lambs live there because their mamas in the big fields won't claim them.  One doesn't have enough milk for two lambs; the other is just plain mean. Who knows why she rejected this lamb and loved the other?  Both lambs enjoy the open doorway, protected by a pallet gate during the day, but during the night I'm sure Mr. Coyote would welcome an easy meal.  So, I slide the door closed and lock it for the evening.

    Spring means we are also constantly locking animals back into their proper fields.  At this time of year, drunk on that first taste of spring, the sheep and cows covet all the grass that is not theirs.  They are masters at creating openings in a fence: first finding a weak spot, then poking a head through, then pushing until the opening is big enough for escape.  Our sheep have been chased out of three yards this week and we have corralled a group of calves who were roaming the roads.  Once the escapees are returned, then the fence pliers, staples and wire come out and the animals are re-contained until the grass is growing evenly all around or they find another weak spot in the fence.

     What I got to thinking about last night, as I did all the latching and bolting and closing, was that I never worry out here about latching and bolting against human predators.  My worries are all centered on animal enemies.  When I take a walk in the early morning, before the sun brings the day to full shine, I worry about running into a skunk, not a human.  I know almost everyone who lives in my county.  I trust them. I don't trust the mama bears with babies or the raccoons roaming around in the middle of the day.  

     When one of my sons turned eleven, he asked if he could have a sleepover.  I agreed and three other boys descended on my house and immediately began lobbying to camp out.  I gave permission, thinking that they meant in our yard.  It wasn’t until they headed across the creek and into the woods beyond, that I realized that they had other ideas. 

      I stayed up all night, glancing out the window, worried, but not wanting to go spoil their fun.  I wasn’t worried that they would be abducted.  I was worried that a stray cow might stumble through their tents, or a raccoon might slip in to sleep with them.  I couldn’t believe that they would make it through the night.  The next morning, they all climbed back over the fence, waded the creek and demanded pancakes and bacon.  They’d had a blast. 

     So, locking and bolting have a different meaning here in the mountains.  Locking and bolting mean that I keep my animals safe and don’t worry so much about myself.

 I wouldn’t have it any other way.

    

MY HOPE CLOSET

     I have been a messy person almost all of my life.  My first college roommate can attest to that.  I still believe we parted ways because my clutter finally overcame her forgiving nature.  Then I married my husband. While he's not a neat freak, he is far better than I am at keeping things clean.  He started doing the laundry early in our marriage because he got tired of waiting for clean underwear.  He keeps his tools organized, his barn feedways neat and tidy, and his truck free from trash.
     Sometimes, he wakes up before I do and I can hear him puttering around downstairs.  First I hear the clink and scoop of coffee being made, then I hear the rattle of the dishwasher being loaded or unloaded. When I finally make it downstairs, the kitchen often looks better than I left it.
     In my defense, I have improved over time.  While it's always been important to me that the public areas of our house be presentable,  I have, in the last year, started making my bed every morning and, strangely, I now can't go downstairs until it's done.  I've learned to fold clothes as they come out of the dryer so they won't get wrinkled, and I'm much better at cleaning the kitchen before I go to bed.  But, there's one area of my life that I can't unclutter.
     It's my Hope Closet.  I believe every home should have a hope closet, a hope drawer, a hope bin or a hope chest.  In the old days, a hope chest was a place for a woman to collect things she planned to use in her married life.  That's not the kind of hope chest or closet I'm talking about.
    My Hope Closet is really a junk closet, but I call it a Hope Closet because if I need something, I can always hope it's in there.  Often it is.  My Hope Closet is full of many of the usual things you'd expect to find: batteries, light bulbs, tools, paint, screening supplies, jars of screws, nails and fasteners.  But, because it's the place I throw things when I'm not sure where to store them, it's a place full of surprises as well.  I often forget what I've put in there.
     When I have need of an item to finish a project, I go to my Hope Closet and dig, and sometimes I pray as I dig.  I don't know what's in there, and because I don't know, I pray that I'll find what I need.  Now, don't laugh, but I feel like God usually answers these silly prayers. Faith is about things unseen, and there are plenty of those in my Hope Closet.
      Here's a picture of it.

If you come to visit, I will not show it to you.  I'm not proud of the disarray, and if I were a complete convert to neatness, everything would be in neatly labeled boxes.   Neatly labeled boxes that completely took away my ability to hope and pray for something unseen.  In my life, hoping for things unseen is something I don't want to miss.