So I Sang To The Steers

So I sang to the steers. And the next day, all the stock – steers and sheep – were diligently chowing down. I went back in the afternoon and they were still at it. I was pretty darned pleased with the response to my exhortations to eat, eat, eat. I could practically see the grass disappearing. I paid no attention to the other farmers who claimed that it was the sun drying the grass that encouraged our stock. Not my preaching. But since it has drizzled ever since and no four-legged friend has continued with the feeding frenzy, I reluctantly concede that those pooh-pooh farmers might be right.

It is holiday time and the whole family is here on the farm for two weeks which pleases me no end. Alessia and I are tending the vegetable garden. I pulled out the green beans which did not do well and have replaced them with squash for which I have high hopes. It has rained all night since so I have high hopes that the new seedlings settled in well.

Quarantine being over, Dan and Yael moved the 3 new steers to join the established 4 in paddock #3. I don’t know if I’ve described #3 to you. It is hilly but not as steep as #1. The really tricky part is that near the road, there is a deep gully lined with willow trees. Stock love it since it offers plenty of protection from the elements and lots of grass. The problem is that once they are in there, you can’t see them from the road so you have to hoof it over a fence, down the gully and start looking. Try that with 7 black steers. It is plenty dark down there.

I was pretty keen to keep up the sermonizing but my audience seems to have disappeared on me. Perhaps they are just adjusting to each other. Yael tells me that when the newbies were introduced that a lot of head butting went on. Nothing serious just simple statements of ownership of the domain. When I went down the next morning, all 7 were lying around together. Very little chewing was taking place. I tried discussing the prime directive with them – eat, eat, eat so others might feast – but they were singularly unresponsive.

We got another possum last night and the garage was invaded by what sounded like a horde of scavengers. We really must do something about that broken lattice. It is still raining and we are still waiting for the drought. Farming continues to be unpredictable and fascinating. I can’t wait to see what the new year will bring. Happy new year to you all!

A Well-Earned Promotion

As you know, I have been released from sheep and steer shifting duties due to my creative ideas on how the stock should be moved. Running them straight into my son was creative; unfortunately the sheep turned around and bolted up the hill. Not a pretty story but I did give my side of the story in an earlier blog.

Anyway, lately Yael has quietly slipped into my former position and for her the stock move efficiently into the designated paddocks. No fuss; no stubborn refusal to move, etc. etc. So I figured I was back to babysitting as a full time job. Interesting that they don't trust me with their stock but do with their offspring. Hmmm?

But yesterday I got my just reward! We took delivery of 3 additional black steers, bringing our total to 7 gorgeous, gentle bovines. Imagine my excitement when Dan explained that in order to keep these steers placid, they needed to be regularly exposed to human contact. Since everybody else in this family is back and forth to Auckland more than I am, guess who is the designated human.

Now the sheep and I have come to an understanding. I go stare at them twice a day. They stare back. I count them. They scatter, dodge, duck, and hide. I come away with a count (usually) of 11. Not bad out of 13. Sometimes more; on rainy days less.

I have talked to the cattle. They listen politely but I don't sense any true meeting of the minds. They chew their cud or let stalks of grass hang from their mouths, but no deep, meaningful rapport. So now that my audience has increased, I have been giving serious thought to topics that might be of interest to our herd.

I thought I might build audience involvement by giving them a daily briefing on how the rest of the farm is doing. For instance, I could tell them that we have been finding possum scat right on our front porch and that all trapping efforts have been fruitless. I think we have already killed off all the stupid possiums (a la Darwin) and now are left with the more cunning creatures. So far they are winning. Perhaps they would be wryly amused that I had the most beautiful potato plants in the world but no potatoes. I showed those potatoless plants; they are now contributing their mite to the compost pile.

Then I would move into the heart of the talk: the responsibilities of cattle toward their owners. I believe in positive reinforcement. I'll go with encouraging words on how well they are eating. I'll follow up with how important it is to move around the paddock and eat (and fertilize) all the area. The big finish will be when I discuss the adviseability of putting on poundage as quickly as possible. I will exhort them to remember the prime directive - eat so that others might feast. A tad tactless, you say? Perhaps you're right. I'm about to go out and give my first sermon. I'll let you know how it works out.

Country Silence

You know how they always refer to the sounds of the city and the silence of the country. I’m here to say that it ain’t necessarily so. I awaken at 5:15 or so to a full choir of birds all excited about a brand new day and a flurry of new attempts to raid my vegetable garden.

Later in the morning I walk down to the paddocks to check the steers and sheep serenaded by Benny the Bull. His long, mournful bellows echo across the hills. Benny is a young bull just approaching his prime. I’d say he is about 17 yrs old in human terms. He doesn’t have any idea why he gets so hot and bothered all the time but has some vague suspicion that he has to do with all those receptive cows in the next paddock – none of whom seem to be available to him.

Benny is a registered Angus bull and as such in great demand to stud. Or should be. He was scheduled to join a herd of Angus ladies a few miles off but the farmer already had one bull and after viewing Benny the roisterous one (and listening to him) the deal was off. So Benny is as ready as he’ll ever be and so far the bell has not tolled for him.

Instead Benny spends his days (and his nights) bellowing his frustrations to the wind, the hills and to me. Occasionally there is a bull across the valley who bellows right back and I get the baffled fury in stereo. Lucky me!

But Benny and the birds are not the only sounds. We have train tracks just the other side of the road from our property, about a mile away. Trains actually use them – not like the States where I almost never see a train any more. And don’t forget the flying school and airport about 4 miles away. We seem to be in their flight path. And of course there are the quad bikes.

I am the only farmer on the mountain without one and I walk everywhere. No one else does. They all ride and noisily too. No that is not indignation that you hear in this blog but pure envy. I WANT one. I want one bad. To sail over the hills astride my modern steed seems perfection to me. Particularly on days like today when it rains and rains and rains and the winds howl around me as I make my twice daily trek the check the stock.

But the serenity of the countryside is also assaulted by tractors, trucks, and seasonal machinery such as haying thrashers, lawn mowers, etc. Sometimes I think that the city couldn’t be much louder. Then I think again. The quantity of sound might be similar but the quality is very different.

I don’t hear sqealing brakes, screaming teenagers, drunks arguing at 4 am outside my window. Come to think of it, Benny is sounding pretty good to me right now.

Mountain Falling

Since Sir Edmund Hillary took the top of Mt. Everest and became the classic mountain climber, I have taken the bottom of Paddock #1 and therefore have become the classic mountain faller.

It really wasn’t my fault. Oh, I may have been a contributing factor; all right THE factor but I steadfastly claim that the cow paddy deserves some of the censure.

It all started about 4:30am when high winds blew in lashing rain. I congratulated myself on escaping the dreaded orchard watering for yet another week and went back to sleep. Now I check our livestock twice a day – sometimes more. This morning was no exception. But it was windy, chilly, and wet, wet, wet. So I set off down to the red, red barn paddocks to check the steers and the sheep.

The sheep were fine. Probably discussing whether Godot ever arrived or something else beyond me. But I couldn’t find the steers. Not that I looked too hard. I assumed that they were in the little corral by the barn and turned for the trek back up to the house.

Now that probably was my first contributing factor – my laziness. And my dislike for being cold and wet. I should have ventured into the paddock to make sure all 4 black steers were present. I didn’t. Instead I crept back to the house and my dry room and exciting book.

But my sins of omission tend to catch up with me. It had quit raining by the time I went for my afternoon bed check but it was cold and damp so I wore my parka (the only smart thing I did all day). Sure enough, there were the sheep, happily munching away. But where were the steers?  I could see over 2/3 of the paddock and no steers. Groaning I prepared to scale Paddock no. ! to check down the ravine on the other side. Now remember I had no hiking equipment, no Sherpas, no grappling hooks. Just me against nature. An unequal contest.

By procrastinating in the morning, I ensured that I had to hike up the mountain through chest high grass that was also wet chest high grass. Just a little bonus for my laziness. I got to the top and sure enough there were the steers down the other side. They looked at me and started to come toward me, Rusty in the lead as usual. So I turned to go down the way I had come up but somehow managed to step in a wet, slippery cow paddy and away I went.

I tumbled, I slid on my backside, I rolled onto my front side, I twisted and turned but I kept on my downward trajectory. I think it was all that wet grass but it was a bit like a sled ride. Luckily for me I was wearing my parka so all I have are a few bruises. The worst ‘injury’ is getting my glasses jammed into the bridge of my nose. Otherwise, not too bad.

So I am now the classic mountain faller! Autographs anyone?

Silly Sheep

When I told Alessia (aged 2)  about our adventures moving the sheep on Sunday, she giggled and kept repeating “silly sheep” as the tale unfolded. I’m not too sure who was sillier, the 13 sheep or the 2 humans trying to move them to another paddock.

Dan and I moved the steers to the infamous no. 1 paddock with no trouble other than my wheezing and puffing as I scaled the Mt. Everest of our farm’s paddocks. Anyway, Dan got them moving at a brisk trot and off they went, right through the gate.

Feeling pretty good about our herding skills, we drove back up to the paddock in front of the main house which had been home to our beloved sheep for a week. This paddock is really not in shape for livestock but we felt all that good grass shouldn’t go to waste. So there they were. We shut all the gates, positioned the car as a barrier, moved the fence slats, etc. We were ready to move ‘em out.

Unfortunately they weren’t ready to be moved. They scampered off down to the woods. And back. And back down to the woods. And back. Get the pattern? I was of very little help but no real hindrance. My time would come; it always does.

Dan and I finally get the boss ram and three of his flock out of the paddock and heading down to no. 2 paddock. The rest swirl around in ever increasingly panicked mode. Finally a few more figure out how to get out and off they go. And we are left with 4 including Snowball, our adolescent ram.

We had heard that keeping 2 rams might cause the flock to split allegiances and ours certainly did. We had planned to send Snowball to greener pastures around the end of the year. This experience has caused us to move up our timetable.

Snowball bolts out of the paddock and turns left not right. Left, directly past the car blocking (hah, hah) his path. Down the driveway, along the sidewalk past my precious garden, around the house and onto the patio. Here he starts investigating our shrubs, flowers, and barbeque.

Now because of the configuration of our land, our main house and patio sit about 4 feet above the paddock. There is a wood retaining wall around it. Normally there is also electrified tape above that but the rampant cows took that out a few months ago and we hadn’t gotten around to replacing it.

Taking advantage of the opportunity, Snowball calls his accolates and up and over the wall jumps one of the ewes. The other two bleat forelornly and race around the paddock making huge springy jumps over nothing at all. Dan gamely heads off after Snowball and accolate. I stay standing where I have been positioned.

The 2 sheep jump back into the paddock urged on by Dan and his trusty wand. Then they start racing up and down again. I stand. Dan goes up and down after them. Finally they begin to tire, and more slowly move up toward the driveway. Very slowly Dan shuffles them toward the opening and they are through! And heading down toward the main herd.

Are our troubles over? Of course not. Dan gets the car to go past them and block off the road past the entrance to paddock no. 2. I walk after the sheep to keep them moving ever downward.

Now in my defense, I was worrying about getting those sheep past the orchard, past the red, red barn and into paddock no. 2. There is no barrier to keep them from running into any of the 3 aforementioned diversions.

The sheep defy logic and keep wanting to walk up the hill and not take the easy road down. So I have my hands full turning them around and moving them back. Dan has given me his wand and I have a lot of fun waving it in slow, wide arcs. The sheep don’t seem impressed.

They gather in a corner near where the fence makes two sides of a triangle and seem perfectly content to camp there forever. The grass is good, I have trouble with the footing so that weird wand isn’t waving about in their faces. Life is good.

Just one problem, they aren’t in paddock no. 2. So Dan starts hiking up from the gate to help me shift the sheep. But tho I see him, it doesn’t really register. Perhaps a senior moment? I’ll try that as an excuse when the time is right. I make a surge – wand in hand – at the sheep. They rush away from the fence and get back to the road. They have two choices, left and up the hill or right and down into Dan’s face. They pick left. And run up out of sight. Dan looks for one long moment at me and then bends over, hands on knees and sighs.

Up he goes to the top of the hill. I obey orders and go down the hill to stand by the car. It takes a while but here come the sheep and Dan. He calls to me to get behind the car (less visible and less apt to screw things up again).

All my worries about the orchard, the barn, and the no. 1 paddock are for naught. The sheep see the car (and probably me) and make a sharp right turn into the lane to the correct paddock, trot right pass the diversions and into no. 2 paddock.

So all’s well that ends well? Right, Dan? And I leave it to you to decide. Who’s sillier, the sheep or me?

Herd Mentality

I spent a lot of time walking around Auckland yesterday and I was amazed at the similarities between it and the farm.

At the farm, the steers gather for the morning coffee klatch, the noon break, the afternoon tea, dinner, and then snooze. They wear basic black and seem very content to circle the tree butt to nose so each of the four directions finds a steer with the tree as the center of the compass.

This basic black theme is repeated in the endless stream of cafes with black-clad patrons sitting there for morning coffee, noon break, tea, and dinner. I assume they go home to sleep. I can't  figure it out. New Zealand is dazzlingly gorgeous with thousands of greens (trees and bushes), blues and grays (water from two oceans plus a multitude of rivers and streams). And yet the Kiwis dress in very muted colors - black and gray.. I stand out like the proverbial sore thumb. I wear Khaki, Red, Yellow, etc.

Now the sheep also cluster. They are several colors but the overall theme remains the same. Gather under the trees, exchange all the gossip, snooze, and occasionally amble off for a few blades of grass. The real difference between the two herds is that one talks incessantly to the other diners but also talks on the cell phone at the same time. How do they do that? Don't the real live humans at the table resent the extra conversations? Actually probably not since they're on the phones too. The four-legged herds seem to be more contemplative; more ready to watch the world go by. Probably not an ulcer among them.

All our livestock is doing well. The steers come when called, go through gates as if sirloin steaks wait for them on the other side (oops, well you know what I mean). The sheep also have chilled out. I can walk through the paddocks with only a few heads raised and a few perfunctory semi-ambles out of my way. Except for the ram, of course. It is a duel to the death between us two.

My garden is finally in. Just in time for the drought which seems to have started this past week. It is a seasonal thing and each year there are dire warnings that this will be the worst drought season yet. If what is happening in Texas is any indication, this year the doom and gloom guys could be right. Anyway, I have volunteered to give up one shower a week so that I can use the water to nourish our plants. Not too much of a sacrifice for me but a definite sacrifice for those around me.

Enhancing the Resume

I used to be secretly rather proud of my resume. Varied experience, upward mobility, awards - the whole deal. But now! I can add meter reader to that list. How many psychologists will have that on their resumes? Not many; I may be the only one.

It all started when I announced an early departure back to the farm. "Aha," thought my son, "She'll have additional time to spend on all those tasks I never get around to." So, he made a list. I don't know if the list made it onto the whiteboard but it made it onto my 'to do' list.

So yesterday afternoon, I started at the top of the list and hiked to the far paddock to check the steers and their water trough. Everything was fine there. I think I told you that all 4 steers are pure black. Not quite true; one has a rust colored ring around his mouth. Yes, I got close enough to see it. Actually, he got close enough to me. He followed me all the way to the gate and then hung forlornly around hoping I'd return. I don't know what it is with me and bovines but Romeo was the first and now here I have another fervent admirer.

So now I'm in the sheep paddock and true to form, they scatter when they see me. I begin to stomp through the tall grass to check their water troughs when I notice that the ram, in his haste to avoid me, has run under a curved branch that is lying on the ground. And he is stuck. For a brief, glorious moment I watch and think that revenge is indeed a dish best served cold. But then I remember that he sires the flock and I go to rescue him. With a marvellous ballet move, the ram throws himself backward into the air, bringing the branch with him. The branch slides to the ground and he is free. For one brief, glorious moment he contemplates lowering his horns and coming after me but then realizes that I control water and food. He turns into the woods and I continue to the water troughs.

Now I'm no engineer but common sense would tell you that one water trough with two sections should hold the same amount of water. But it doesn't. The left is filled nicely; the right is almost empty. I will email Dan and let him put that puzzle on his to do list.

It's getting dark so I decide to leave reading the meters until the morning. I awake at 6:30 to a howling wind and spritzing rain. I roll over. I wake up again at 7:30 and figure out that this is the day I have to deal with. By 8 I am reading the meter at the new barn. I slosh through the driveway past the sheep who turn their backs on me and 4 start pooing me. Quite the little send off. Down the 3/4 mile road to the red, red barn. Climb the fence (I still can't get the gate open) and through the orchard to the next paddock and gate and then into the shed to read the second meter. Smart me! I brought a flashlight and am able to read the meter, close everything back up and reshut the gate to that paddock.

Interesting fact: this gate is made of wood and you close it by sliding wood planks through slits in the gate and the fence. Pretty straightforward so far. Try it when it is raining - hard. The wood is wet and swollen and my knuckles are skinned from wrestling those planks into place.

Since I am already in the orchard, I bring out my trowel and start weeding around the newly planted fruit trees. I do most of them but the grass is up to my belly button and the rain is coming down harder than ever. I decide to plead old age and climb the fence again and head up the road. Now the road down is 3/4 of a mile but the road up the hill is 7 miles long (or at least it feels that way).

I have just had my shower, nursed my knuckles and am surveying my latest lot of library books for the perfect companion to curling up in my dry, warm room and doing nothing much at all. And it's only 11:30. What a life!

Wow! Cows

We have cows! Correction, steers. Steers are male, cows are female. I just learned that. Very  little farm lore in my grade school days. Monday our stockman called from the cattle auction to say that we could have 4 black Angus yearlings. We said ‘yes’ and Dan spent most of the day preparing the stock pens and paddock.

Unfortunately, we had to go back to Auckland before the steers arrived. Dan had to get up at 4am the next morning to catch the first plane to Wellington and had work to do first. So we were pretty nervous about our new herd being left on their own for 3 days. Luckily, Barbara, Dave’s wife, kept an eye on them for us and when we pulled up on Thursday night, there they were. Proud, sleek, CALM, and very, very bovine.

Yael and I were thrilled to see that they placidly came to the fence to greet us. No maniacal racing around the paddock. No snorting or jumping of fences. And best of all, they were of a manageable size. We are happy as clams.

So Friday morning off go Dan and Yael to move the steers from our farthest paddock all the way up the hill to the paddock right in front of the main house. The girls and I watch from the living room. First we see the car come up the drive and block the way to the garage and barn. Then we see 4 steers walking (not running) up the road. They turn into the driveway and stop for a little nibble on the verge. Finally, here comes Yael, sauntering up the road behind them.

I have never figured out how she always manages to look chic in farmer’s garb. She had on jeans, a pullover, a straw hat that had a curly brim, and her trademark bubblegum pink wellies with white polka dots. She looked like she just stepped out of Vogue. I, on the other hand, wear jeans, a pullover, a canvas hat like Aussie outbackers wear, and bright purple wellies. I do not look like I just posed for Vogue. More like I posed for a wanted poster – escaped from the hospital for the criminally insane. I wonder what the difference could be? No, don’t write and tell me. Spare me the humiliation.

So things are looking good here on the farm. The steers are eating long and well. One has a bird that seems to live on its head. Doesn’t bother it any. Did I say how nice and calm they were?

The sheep are so contented that they even let me come to the fence and watch them without running away. Huge improvement in our relationship.

Most important of all, my garden is thriving. We are supposed to be having the beginning of our drought but someone forgot to tell Ms. Nature. It poured. I have now completed two beds with tomatoes, beans, peas, and peppers and Dan has built these rabbit, possum, everything else proof cages and I have figured how to get in so all is working well.

I work in my garden, watch the sheep, talk to the steers, check the progress of Dan’s trees and feel myself getting better every day. And every night I go to sleep without the scurrying of little rat feet over my head. Long live the makers of rat poison. Rats eat it and die. Sounds just fine to me.

L4 RIP

The reality of farm life is sometimes a bit hard for me. We found the newest lamb, L4, dead in the paddock. We don't know what happened. Perhaps one of the sheep butted it. Or it didn't go to shelter during the rain storm the previous night. We just don't know. And I don't know how I feel about it all.

I know that death is part of the reality of a farm; heck I even plan to eat some of the animals but I still feel disquieted. Maybe it is my suburban sensibilities where we mourned every kitten's death, every bird's. I don't know but I feel a tad sad when I go watch the flock now. I keep trying to figure out which ewe lost the lamb. We have 6 that all look alike but there is no hint in behavior that one is mourning.

So I block the whole death thing with some serious gardening work. I have finally gotten in my beans and green peppers (capsicums to Kiwis). Dan built me a cage to keep out possums, rabbits, birds, etc. and so far it has worked beautifully. It also keeps me out. There is a complicated system of flaps and doors and I don't have the key to the maze so I water from the outside and hope I learn the system before I have to start staking. If not, then Dan will have to do the weeding and staking. Hmmh? Perhaps there is a strategy here!

It has been a long weekend and we go back down to Auckland today. I always feel as if I could get a handle on things here if I just had a few more days. I think that is the lot of the farmer. Dan has been vigilantly checking each and every tree that he planted. We were stunned to find out that some arborist thief had dug up our silk speciman tree planted at the entrance to the farm and stole it. They actually took all the mulch with them!

There have been a series of thefts like that over the past year and finally Dan and Yael went to talk to the police. The officer was wonderful. Not too much that can be done but at least there is a file now and we feel that someone will keep an eye out.

I finally finished de-pooing the first bag of sheep wool. It takes forever and is smelly and is altogether not my first choice for a lovely afternoon. But it is done. Only 3 more to go. One of Yael's Kiwi friends told me that we get used to the smell after a while!! It never goes away unless you have it chemically treated professionally. That is so what we are not about but I wonder how we will feel if the kids' duvets smell lingeringly of sheep. Well, I have a long time before we find out. Three bags to go. I want to give it my all out best simply because when the hot weather hits, the smell will intensify and I am not looking forward to it.

Cattle Auction

First of all, we now have L4. Another black lamb and the ram continues to impress us. We now have 3 black lambs and 1 white. The first two, Starlight and Snowball are so big now that it is hard to tell them from the rest of the flock. But enough of my babies.

Monday I went to my first cattle auction.  We took Alessia and I promised to watch her so that Dan could wander around and learn. So she and I walked across endless two plank wide bridges that are ABOVE the cattle pens. She was hesitant but game and I was fine until we got to the larger groupings,. The pens with 6 or 8 cows were fine but some were really mashed in there. So off we went to get good seats for the auction itself.

Now I have to tell you that I only understood 1 word out of each 10. Partly the accent and partly the speed. I had been to estate auctions as a child and they sounded very similar. Perhaps it was partially our seats in the nosebleed section. Alessia and I (and later Dan) sat in the final row. The building is hot, Luckily Alessia is wearing the layered look. Over time she shed several layers and was still beet red. And this is not a hot day. Behind us was the aisle which rapidly filled with stockmen, observers, etc. I was wearing my tiny ponytail and someone put his arms on it and my head was constantly jerked as the cattleman reacted to the price flucuations,

These are pleasant men; no nonsense men; men hunched slightly against the constant New Zealand wind. They are generally overweight with strong, strong thighs (shown in shorts and boots or wellies). And most of them were older. As in 50s and more. I don't know if the younger cattlemen let the fathers do the buying or if there is a problem with young people staying on the land. I know its a hard life.

So cattle enter from the right into one holding pen and then proceed into a second. In the second they are bid on and then moved out while two more groups are moving in. The auctioneer does his rapid pace delivery. Spotters point to bids and yell 'OM' and a board tells the per kg weight average of the group being sold. The elderly man next to me was bidding; he barely moved his pink number paper but the spotters found him and he found himself the proud? possesser of several lots of cattle.

We watched for an hour. Dan hoped to get 5 head that were very thin and fatten them on our paddocks. But someone else got them. Perhaps we'll try again next week. It was like another world, with a foreign language and customs but it was fascinating..

Downside on the Farm

To explain what I mean by ‘downside’, I first need to take you on a tour of my living quarters. I live over a three car garage. You can enter through one of the three bays or from the house via a covered passageway so I am pretty secure from human invaders.

Not so for the rest of the animal kingdom. The covered passageway is latticed along the side not abuting the house or garage. This lattice is an open invitation (pun intended) for all sorts of critters. During the day we often leave the bays open so the avian population also comes to call; following the wind currents up my staircase and then turning left into my bathroom or right into the living area.

The doors to both areas are generally left open for two reasons. One is that I am a hospitable creature and enjoy the occasional guest and the second is that the doors have problematic locks. The bathroom door can only lock from the inside but it can be securely shut. The living room door can only be locked from the outside and any wind will blow the unlocked door open. Obviously I don’t lock my door when I am out and around the farm and can’t lock it at night since I’m inside.

So I get to the farm Wed. night still shaky and fall into bed at 6pm. Whatever illness I have had has been virulent and my recovery slow. I sleep for 12 hours awakening only for the calls of nature. On one of these calls, I move the 12 lb. weight keeping my door closed, step to the landing and discover a fair smattering of rat pellets. I sweep them up and return to bed.

The next morning I gather my laundry basket from the bathroom and head into the main house and the washing machine which is located right by the back door and the covered passageway. I bend over and pull up the first fleece jersey and out moseys a rat. Now I confess, I am not a fan of rats. I have faith that God made them for a reason but He also made me shiver and want to throw up when I see them.

This rat obviously has no harsh feelings toward me. She ambles toward the doorway and stops as if deciding what to wear in the great outdoors. My screams marginally encourage her to take the day as she finds it and off she goes.

I kick the basket outside. I still shiver to think what would have happened if the rat had decided to turn into the house rather than away. So here I am kicking the basket out to the porch. I then kick it upside down. Finally I start picking up my clothes – very carefully. Hordes of rat pellets splash out onto the bricks. Now I shudder at the thought of that rat nestled in my undies. Not a good morning!

But I am woozy and go back to bed. As usual I put the weight In front of the door and fall asleep. The weight is a recent addition. I never used to shut my door at all until I woke up one night to something walking over me while I slept. I have tried convincing myself that it was a stray cat but my heart knows it was something creepy. Hence the weight. However sometimes the wind is very strong and manages to push the door and the weight open a few inches.

This is what has happened on my fateful day. So I wake up midafternoon to see the door slightly ajar and my rat placidly wandering around my kitchen area. I yell at her to go away. With a hurt look she walks slowly to the landing. I can see her tail as she sits there. Luckily I had remembered to close the bathroom door so that area is off limits. I yell again as I get to the door and down the steps she goes. I slam the door shut , reposition the weight and return shaking to bed.

When I look back on events, I realize that that was one fat rat. I think she is pregnant and looking for a place to give birth. The idea does not please me. Lots of places to make a nest in a three car garage. What if she nestles into my wool? The possibilities are many.

Anyway, I don’t like rats and being a suburbanite, I had never encountered one before. I hope never to encounter one again. But this surely can be rated a downside of living on a farm.

Mother Nature Lends A Hand

In my last posting I discussed the onerous job of watering the newly planted trees. Well, Mother Nature (a fervent fan of this blog) stepped in for me this past week. The whole week I was in Auckland we had sunny skies and NO rain. Coming up on Thursday night, it rained!! And it rained on Friday; and on Saturday...you get the picture. Mother Nature lends a hand so I don't have to. Keep on reading, M.N. you are deeply appreciated.

So since I didn't have to spend several hours lugging water, I turned to my seedlings. What remained of them. The rabbits and insects have pretty much destroyed most of my beautiful spinach, beans, peas, and coriander. Indeed, I can't even find where I planted that coriander. It was eaten down to the roots and beyond. I hope the rabbits ate far enough to encounter the possum carcess under the plants. Possibly the smell will make them think twice about returning for seconds.

This rabbit thing is pretty interesting. According to local yore, the previous owners' son had pet rabbits which escaped and now are eagerly populating across the countryside. Needless to say, the farmers are not pleased!

Also interesting is running an organic farm. This means no insecticides. Okay, I get it. But the corollary is that it also means many insects chowing down on my seedlings. I am busy investigating which plants would repel which insects but it seems to me to be a never ending cycle. If I plant, say Marigolds, to keep away beetles, then up comes some other creepy crawly who happens to adore Marigolds so then I have to plant something to keep them away. And in the meantime, back come the beetles to eat my spinach. I am seriously considering soapy water. No honestly, I am. No one wants to eat soapy water, not even insects. And the soap would be biodegradable, organic soap. I promise.

Since I had plenty of spare time at the farm this weekend, I started cleaning the wool. Dan built me the most elegant trestle table with room for the wool bags and everything I needed. He set me up in the garage where there was good ventilation and I could be out of the rain (once again, thanks Mother N.). My task was to take the wool, cut away the unusable parts (i.e., the poo drenched parts) and keep the rest for cleaning, carding, and ultimately becoming part of a duvet. We have 3 1/2bags full. It took me 1 1/2 hours to do 1/3 of a bag.

This is a major time investment. But the work is pleasant enough. I don't like the feel of wool lanolin on my hands so I bought rubber gloves. I was cheerfully snipping away when I realized that I had also snipped my fingertips. After some massive mental persuasion, I convinced myself that I wasn't really rummaging around in sheep poo; my fingers were mostly covered and the fingertips didn't count. I still have more than 3 bags to go and I don't know what my reaction will be to the next load of shit but I'll try for the power of positive thinking. If that doesn't work, I guess I'll grit my teeth and bear it.

L3

It’s been a great week for sheep. L3 (lamb no. 3 for those of you who haven’t read the earlier blogs) arrived Thursday. We got up to the farm in the later afternoon and there he/she was. Up and around; no worries; as acclimated as if she/he were 3 or 4 days old. I later found the birth remains and our quiet brown ewe had chosen to give birth halfway up the hill with no shelter at all except for the rest of the hill towering behind her. Some people say sheep are stupid; I don’t think so. But I do know that sheep are hardy survivors.

L3 is a dead ringer for L1 aka Starlight. So now we have two black sheep and proof that our ram knows his duty. When you consider that he was performing with a badly inflamed foot it makes you even prouder of him.

We only need one ram for our small flock so Snowball, the baby ram, is due for an alternate placement. Read that as on our dinner table come the Xmas season. I don’t yet know what L3 is. I haven’t gotten close enough to investigate; actually I never get close enough. First, the sheep run at the sight of me opening the paddock gate, and second, I can’t quite picture myself squatting behind some lamb’s hindquarters and lifting the tail to take a peek.

We had to switch the flock to another paddock and that went fairly well. Dan and I did it alone while Yael goofed off taking care of two kids, making dinner, starting laundry, stoking up the wood stove, etc. We moved them from paddock #1 to paddock #2 which was right next door. I confess that I thoroughly dislike paddock #1. It is straight up touching the sky about 150 ft above where it starts. Not to be climbed lightly. I didn’t climb lightly at all; I fell heavily. Speaking from personal experience, I can tell you that rain, grass, dirt and sheep poo make a powerful combination – and really really slick.

I have tried to remember those golden days when I wore my professional garb – suits, coordinated separates, dresses with jackets. Now I wear an old parka I literally rescued from my scraps bag, some cargo pants I bought second hand at a thrift shop and whatever tee shirt is relatively clean at the moment. And I can honestly say that I am overdressed for farm work. My purple wellies are my signature piece in attire and I top it all off with a bush hat in khaki that protects me from the New Zealand lethal sun.

Luckily I have never been particularly good looking (passable would be the best I could hope for) so I don't mourn my lost beauty but there are moments when I remember Professional Terry with a small sigh of regret. And then I remember all those bum numbing meetings I had to sit through and I slap on my bush hat and saunter out into the farmyard; a happy camper once again.

Dan is still struggling to get in all the trees he bought and has finally winnowed the lot down to only 4 to go. I am smiling a lot because it rains every day now and I haven’t had to lug industrial sized watering cans filled to the brim with water to give the thirsty saplings a drink. Try making that trip 15 times and see if you can get your arms to move. I  could barely stagger to my bed and excused myself from brushing my teeth since my arms were too sore to hold the toothbrush.

But Spring is here; my seeds have sprouted; the rabbits have eaten all my coriander, lettuce, parsley, and spinach. Ah, life on the farm. Can anything beat it?

Dan shearing sheep!

Shear Bliss

The big day finally arrived! The shearers came and we hope to have wool aplenty and discuss the possibility of lamb chops in our future freezer. But first. Of course “but first”. First, we had to get the sheep down to the red, red barn to await the promised shearers’ arrival. This involved rounding up the sheep from the front paddock and moving them down the roadway about a mile to the holding pen.

I discovered something very profound in this roundup. The Lord family is composed of all Sheriffs and no posse. Each one of us automatically took charge. (Well, actually the sheep were in charge but you know what I mean.) Dan yelled to me, “Mom move to your right.” Yael yelled to me, “Terry move to your left.” I surveyed the rampaging sheep and yelled to both Dan and Yael to execute a flanking action. We continued to yell conflicting commands to each other and the sheep continued to run in every direction but the direction of the gate. Finally, I quit yelling and Dan and Yael just stood looking at each other. The sheep looked at us as if we were crazy and decided to scramble through the gate and down the road.

Yael took the car and the kids to block the sheep from going all the way down to the main road. Dan followed the sheep and I lagged behind. Far behind. By the time I got there, our sheep were cutting a wide swath around the roadway, the shearers were there, our neighbor Dave was there and it appeared to be chaos. But we had the expertise of a sheep dog.

I have never seen anything like it. One ewe started charging toward me and when she was only about 4 yards away, this streak of black fur threw himself into the air and hit the ewe on the side of her head with his body. The ewe, understandably startled, blinked at me and obediently turned around and headed back to the flock.

This marvelous dog is called Flight and I could see why. He flew up and down the roadway herding those sheep. He barked at them, he ran at them, he zipped through their legs and the sheep, who never paid any attention to human desires, meekly crowded into the holding pen and awaited the shears. I now want a Flight of my own. Even more than I want a quad bike, which is saying something. John and Paula says a trained dog will run over $4,000 which is a tad out of my league which runs more to a mutt from the pound. Oh, Flight is officially retired at the tender age of 12. He was just along for the day's outing. I guess sheepherding instincts are bred to last.

John and Paula sheared our sheep. They are a husband and wife couple who bore with our endless questions patiently and gently but firmly took off all the wool. For all that effort we got three bags of usable wool and a bag and a half of dreck (Yiddish term for junk wool from around the tail area, etc.). We also got the flock tailed (for health purposes) and checked out the nails. A complete going over. The best news was that the ram is in good health but has something like athlete’s foot which they treated.

What kind, generous people these Kiwis are. Dave let us use his holding pens and even gave us his wool. We plan to use it for insulation and the dreck we will bury to help our soil which is very clay-like. John and Paula spent an inordinate amount of extra time just showing us the basics of sheep and giving us a host of tips that will make us slightly less inept.

I have been researching how to clean wool (yep, the old book learning once again) and hope to start next weekend. Three bags isn’t much but it’s more than enough to learn with. I hope to get enough to stuff a duvet with and each season I will add to my knowledge and the kids will get another duvet. It seems that John and Paula had a claim on Dave’s wool which they graciously ceded to me. In exchange I promised to give them the results of all my research. Let’s hope I can keep up my end of the bargain so that they don’t feel ripped off. I feel a genuine sense of responsibility in this. They have been wonderful and I would hate to come up short. So, if anybody knows anything about wool cleaning, carding, or uses. Please get in touch. Thanks in advance.

The Phalanx

The Phalanx

See the sheep? That’s the famous ovine phalanx with which they greet me whenever I come near. I don’t know where they learned the phalanx. I know it is described in Caesar’s Gallic Wars writings but I can’t think where they would have learnt Latin. Still, it is intimidating to me. But Thursday night I persevered and opened the gate to the front paddock.

Friday there were 12 happy sheep cavorting around the fresh grass. I have never seen them playing head butt, doing acrobatics over the ewes’ backs, and running for the sheer joy of it. I think it was mostly the grass but it was also that it wasn’t raining and there was a warm sun. Their fleeces are drying out and it is definitely time for the shearers to arrive.

The weather stayed perfect all weekend and when the family arrived Saturday night, Dan had brought me a present. A magnolia tree! I had one outside my window as a kid and still remember the marvelous fragrance. I can’t wait for this one to bloom. He also bought some fruit trees, nut trees and a stately oak (or it will be stately in about 10 years) perhaps they’ll plant me under it since my warranty should be up about then.

We had a great time figuring out where to put them and then actually putting them there. Dan also brought some lavender plants to replace some dead bushes around the house and I put them in. I don’t know what it is about plants, but the farm feels more ours now that we are investing in it long term with trees that will only reach maturity in 10 or 15 years. A great long term vision.

I planted the lavender and we all planted the trees and felt deliciously tired. Dan tossed my Raising Chickens for Dummies book into my lap and told me to get ready. Perhaps we’ll get some ‘chooks’ (local jargon) in a few months. My transition from city girl to country gal is almost complete. Anyone have a strand of hay for me to chaw down on? No. Oh, I forgot, I doused the hay with polyeurethane. So I guess I’ll just settle for the mental image. Til next time, folks.

The Season Switch

In New Zealand, it is time to set out seedlings. I haven’t even started my seeds yet. I think its because I haven’t gotten a grasp on the seasons here. My mind is still twisted into four seasons and the proper order of things has July a summer month not a winter one.

We are in the midst of a ‘polar’ storm here and I had to yank my brain back to the southern hemisphere after vocally wondering how the storm could come down all the way to New Zealand. It didn’t. It came up from the South Pole.

So that gives you an idea of my brain fry. I read in my gardening magazine that strawberry plants are being set out.  I’ll have to get on my bike. And I try. I really try. I go to the potting shed (also known as the Ram’s Retreat) to see what I need to do to make it usable. The first thing I notice is that I need a door. Bunnies are cute (and plentiful) but I don’t plan to feed them. Next is a screen over a window that has lost its glass. Third is to clean, clean, clean. My heart is willing but my hands say, ‘wait a minute’. No cleaning until I get the approval from Dan to spend the money on fixing this up.

I ask Dan. I am crafty enough to talk about setting my seeds up in my room. With my arthritic hands Dan can just picture the water spillage. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” he says. “I am worried about the floors” which are unfinished plywood. Next I murmur about the garage and its double window. “Perfect”, I enthuse. He looks at me and queries “What about the potting shed. That’s what it’s for isn’t it?” I try not to agree too quickly. So this coming weekend we’ll make a plan for the restoration of the shed.

In the meantime I have a lot to do. With or without a proper shed, I need to get the seeds in the potting soil. I bought these seeds online and naturally my eyes were bigger than my plot of ground. That may be because this much vaunted ‘garden’ only exists in my mind. I have selected the verge running next to the driveway down to the new barn. It gets full sun and is not in a paddock used for livestock.

Only one hitch, but a major one. It is covered with weeds and grass. The weeds are fairly easy to handle but the grass is another matter. I pull on a clump of grass and a horizontal root over 10 feet long comes with it. If I’m lucky. If not, I have to keep yanking. And yanking. My hands don’t work too well so I limit myself to weeding for about 45 minutes twice a day. Not much gets accomplished that way. But I have instructed Dan to bury the possums in a trench along there. This is for the nutrient value and so that Dan has the pleasure of doing the digging for the plants. A pleasure I willingly forego.; particularly in the rain. And remember, it is always raining here.

Dan came back to the kitchen after his first funeral somewhat irritated. It seems that this creeping grass covers a multitude of sins. Namely, that the driveway extends under the grass to the fence. It is ‘only’ a gravel driveway but digging in it is problematic to say the least.

A second problem is that we seem to have depleted the stupid possum population. The bright yellow trap stands empty day after day. The fruit is still eaten but no more carcasses  to feed my seeds. Maybe I’ll have to switch baits.  I’ll try banana this coming weekend. I’ll also get those seeds planted and measure for the door. Then I have to figure out what tools Dan’ll need to build the door. Right now I am thinking solid panel lower half and screen for the upper. I’ll keep you posted.

Caveat Emptor

When Dan bought the cows and sheep, he went to a ‘reputable’ organic purveyor who was going to guide him through the process. Dan picked out his cows and his sheep in person with this organic farmer. He even paid a premium for pregnant ewes – 9 of them.

When the cows were delivered, Dan discovered that they weren’t the cows he had selected.  The cows were mad, bad, and dangerous from day one. So dangerous that the delivery driver refused to come near them. But we stuck it out for 2 and ½ months, trying vainly to get a grasp on what was wrong. When we returned them, they had grown bigger and fatter on our grass but our paddocks were horribly torn up.

In the meantime, we reveled in our sheep. True, they were not the sheep Dan had selected. As an example, he had chosen a dark brown ram and we got an ecru colored one. He was also lame. We have had the vet out but the limping continues. This is one expensive ram. The ewes are pretty much interchangeable in looks except for the black one but they were all supposed to be pregnant with the start of our increased flock. They weren’t. Well, 2 were but the rest were not.

We thought at first that they might have had still births and/or aborted but we carefully walked the paddocks day after day and there was no sign of anything like that.

The sheep also had not been shorn and we couldn’t do it with winter around the corner. So we wait and those poor sheep drag heavy coats sodden with rain around with them. It breaks my heart to see them.

Our neighbors tell us that what we should have done is either buy the livestock and take possession right then or write down the number tags on the selected cows and match them at delivery. For the sheep, we need to spray them with paint on the belly to mark them but it is always safer to take delivery at once.

I think where we went wrong was in assuming that people who professed similar life style beliefs to ours would be similarly ethical. Caveat emptor!

The Potting Shed Revisited

We came up to the farm late Thursday evening. Friday was a perfect day for shifting sheep - sort of warm, sort of dry, and occasionally sunny. But Dan was working flat out all day (I'm pretty sure I saw him with a cracker in his teeth) and didn't have time to sit down to eat. So Friday kept its great weather and the sheep stayed shiftless. Saturday was out, so Sunday was nominated Sheep Shifting Day. It was also cold, wet, and very overcast. Just what I had been hoping for!!

So by midday the flock was in the lower pasture and I went to alert Dan and Yael that we should move those sheep now before they clambered back into the woods or the third paddock. Off we went. Sure enough 10 sheep were in the lower paddock but Starlight and his mom were up in the woods. Alternate Plan #1 was ruthlessly put into action. Get the two sheep in wth the rest of the flock and move them as one. Not a bad plan as plans go but we forgot to consult the sheep. Remember Starlight's mom is the one who was never enamored with the joys of motherhood.

After a spirited romp through the woods with Starlight struggling to keep up, Mom Ewe charged through the fence leaving Starlight to his fate. Mommy ended up in the final destination paddock and Starlight led Dan a merry chase over roots, under branches and through the woods. Finally he (the lamb I mean) streaked for the flock in the lower paddock. And back came Mom, herded by Yael. Remember we have been adhering to Alternate Plan #1 which was to keep the flock together. I watched in puzzlement but wisely decided to save my questions for later.

Back in the lower paddock, the flock is streaming swiftly up and down dodging Dan. I sigh and head through another wet, hip-high grass filled, pockmarked  paddock, not even trying to avoid the sheep turds and cow paddies. My wellies have seen it.all. The long, serious sheep faces watch warily as I plod up the hill toward them. I decide to sing to them as I go. "I love lamb chops, I love meat. Leg of lamb is good to eat." They are not music lovers. They bolt. Eventually we get the flock running full tilt for the correct paddock. BUT and you knew there'd be a but, the ram sees his old sanctuary, the potting shed, and runs straight in. Luckily he was the tail end of the procession.

Dan and I swerve to intercept him but he is too fast for us. So while we try to coax a reluctant ram out of hiding, Yael is left to move the rest of them by herself. She does this magnificently. So well in fact, that I think she should take this sheep shifting chore on as her own personal task. I hope she reads this blog and takes the hint!

Then Dan and I concentrate on the ram. We bang the building, we poke sticks in the doorway, we order him out, we beg him to come out. Sounds pretty pathetic doesn't it? Well, how about this for pathos, Dan tries to lasso him. I will forever treasure the picture of Dan trying to loop a rope over the ram's head. The ram waited patiently until the last possible second and then dipped his head and smirked as the noose dropped forlornly to the ground.

I relay my previous experiences with the ram and his potting shed and we decide to leave the poor beast alone until he comes out on his own. Yael checked him later, so did I, but whenever he saw us, he ducked back into the shed. Once we saw him far down the driveway but he had scurried back to the shed by the time we could get out to shut the gates. Finally as the day was ending, the ram had wandered up the driveway again looking for his harem.

I stayed with the kids (again) and Dan and Yael, went out closing gates and edging the ram toward the one remaining gate which would open into the first paddock. Yael went down and opened the second paddock gate and Dan tried to muscle the ram in the first gate. He dodged in the trees, skipped around the car and eventually ran in the first paddock. Then he ran up and down the fence trying to find a place to jump. Dan and Yael both saw the danger and sped toward the ram. The ram sped away from the fence and those two crazy humans.

Then it started to really rain. It had drizzled off and on but this was a massive downpour. The ram seemed to enjoy it, particularly the part about the humans getting soaked. He ran into the woods and watched as Dan and Yael hunkered down inside their sweaters and resolutely followed. Now they were out of my view and I waited to see the outcome. And I waited. And then I waited. It took a while but back came the drenched humans and Yael went to move the car and Dan came in, reported that the ram was in the second paddock and began to make tea and a fire. In that order. I guess we can call them true Kiwis now.

Ram Rampant

I tried to get the ram into the flock's paddock this morning. No dice. As soon as he saw me, he stepped smartly out of the barn and scampered into the potting shed. He stayed there for hours. I know because I kept going out to look for him.

I left the gate to the paddock open in the hopes that when the flock moseyed down to graze, that he would tear up thinking of his poor, abandoned family and reassume his duties as pater familias. Finally, I did something right. On my last check, there he was. regal and on his feet. Always a good sign. He saw me and loathed me with every fibre of his being. He turned and trotted to the top of the far hill and stayed there while his harem gathered around him.

I closed the appropriate gates and left him there - a proud figure of a ram. Healthy and in charge once again. A true Ram Rampant. And I am very grateful for it. I admire him immensely and it thrills me to see him his old self. Needless to add, this admiration is a one way street. Still, I can't have everything. A healthy ram and a happy flock is good enough.

The Vet Cometh

My fellow Americans, it is with a grieving heart that I confess to you that I have let down the side. I was all set to prove to the Kiwis that Americans are tough - Marine tough - but when the ram pawed the ground and lowered his head at me, I dodged behind a tree. My forefathers at Lexington and Concord are rolling over as I write. I have shamed the name of Lord and the United States of America. This is how.

The ram was snuggled in straw at the doorway of the barn all day. He may have shifted position but I never saw him upright. I was very eager for the vet to arrive because I was afraid the poor thing would die any minute now.

Michelle had offered to help with the ram when Ross (the vet) arrived. I was a bit hazy as to my role but I am pretty sure that Michelle and Ross expected more from me than abject terror. Ross arrived and Michelle pulled in the driveway right behind him. We walked toward the barn and the ram, no dummy he, was on his feet and out of the barn on the verge. The same verge from which the crazy cows tried to kill me. Perhaps I can excuse what happened to me by claiming PTSD by cow.

Anyway, Michelle and Ross try to corral the ram and I amble along in the rear - far in the rear. The ram is having none of it. Ross who may have a white beard moves like a 20-yr-old blocking the ram and forcing him into a corner. The ram wheels, spots me (never his favorite person), paws the ground and lowers his head. Now Ross is right next to him, Michelle is in the middle distance and I am all the way by the gates but I just know that ram is aiming for me.  I wheel too - behind a tree. And there I stay while Michelle and Ross grab the ram, wrestle him to the ground, and cut his hooves. I stay behind the tree while they spray something on the hooves. I only approach when Ross whips out a hypodermic and gives the ram an antibiotic for the infection. I get the okay from Ross to let the ram back in with the flock and with a cheery goodbye to Michelle, the vet is gone.

Michelle and I try to get the ram out of the barn driveway and into the flock paddock. The ram runs into the potting shed and refuses to move. He is still there. I'll try to move him tomorrow. As someone once said, "Tomorrow is another day." It better be; I didn't cover myself with glory in this one.

Update

Life has a way of interferring with my plans and that is what has happened for the past two weeks. Some of the inteference was great. Very great was the unplanned trip to Wellington. I had never been there and was enthralled with the diversity of people, thought, and Food. I had a great time riding the ferry, the cable car, eating, and walking. Fabulous city.

Also great was my far north North Island visit to dear friends who have a lovely home perched high above a harbor and the vast Pacific Ocean which stretches in three directions. I am a simple Arizona girl and I get a shiver every time I think of being able to drive 15 minutes to the Pacific Ocean or 15 minutes in the opposite direction to the Indian Ocean. I have to say that the farm is very centrally located.

Not so great is the horrendous cold I got from Alessia who got it from play school. All of us are hacking, sneezing, honking, and croaking around. But at least I am back at the farm and that is always healing for me. Today is the first day I felt up to my saunter through the sheep. Everything was fine with the ewes and lambs - they didn't even run panic-stricken at the sight of me. Most of them didn't even move and the three that did simply ambled away a few feet.

But I have grave concerns about my nemesis the ram. He is huddled under a tree and didn't move when I approached. When I got near enough, he moved his head a few inches but that was all. Dan is calling around for a vet as I write this. If we can find one, the plan is that I stay here through the week to nurse the ram, pay the vet, etc. My concern is fairly obvious. How do you nurse a ram? If he's too sick to resist, my ministrations may kill him and if he improves, he may resent me even more. When I know more, I'll let you know.

Amazing Sheep

The view from the Sheep's Paddock

                                              
I have been in Auckland for the past few days and just got back to the farm. The sheep acted as if they didn't know me which was an improvement. They all froze in place as I squelched my way down the drive. Yes, it's still raining. Don't ask. So I get to the gate and start to climb over. Red alert! Red alert! Sheep running everywhere. The brown ewe starts bleating for her lamb. Said lamb scrambles heroically toward Moms. Unfortunately Snowball is not the Einstein of the herd and she can't find her way through the far gate. She wanders desconsolately up and down the fence mere inches away from the gate. Never figures out that gate thing. The brown ewe keeps on bleating forelornly.

Finally the Einstein of the herd who has never before shown the slightest interest in another sheep's lamb, goes to Snowball and gently nudges her through the gate. And then, turns and goes back down the hill. Selfless heroism since you can never tell when I'll show up with knife and fork in hand. That nudging deed brought her perilously close to me (just about a city block away). I am amazed at that random act of kindness. I am turning it over in my mind even now. The sheep had to have done it on purpose or she would have gone through the gate herself. I know it wasn't Snowball's mother because Snowball's mom is our only brown ewe. Was she just tired of hearing the bleating, or was her heart touched by poor Snowball trotting up and down the fence line? Or was she just plain embarrassed by the sheer stupidity of the other sheep? No answers yet.

Speaking of stupidity brings me back to possums. The new favorite feeding ground is where I just planted 50 daffodil bulbs. So Dan has taken to putting the familiar bright yellow trap right there. I mean school bus yellow. You'd think even a possum would notice it. They do. They head right for it. (Sorry, bad pun.) They stick those snouts right in and right down comes the metal thing and thwack, the neck is broken. Dan has collected quite a few in the new hunting fields.

Last night he was due to go to a farmers' meeting so put out the trap before dark. He left for the meeting a bit before 7pm and already had bagged his quota for the night. In a hurry, he released the body, reset the trap and left the possum lying inches from the trap. He was surprised !! in the morning that he hadn't gotten another victim. I figure even possums aren't dumb enough to step over a corpse to stick their heads in the trap.

Remember the Rain

I understand it is hot and sunny back in Prescott. I'll be there soon and can work on my tan. But for now I am under water. In Prescott we get around 20 inches of rain a year. We get that every day here. All right, not every day but definitely every week.

Rain is a factor - in everything. If you need to go out, my suggestion is to go. If you wait for it to stop raining, it won't. Face it. You are going to get wet. Kiwis are pretty pragmatic about rain. I see very few umbrellas and I get puzzled glances as I slosh by covered head to foot in my brown slicker. The baby carriages (prams) have removable plastic shields. I don't bother removing ours; I'll be tugging it in place sooner rather than later. You can always tell native Kiwis. They stroll bareheaded through the chilly rain. Perhaps they have on a jacket but you would starve if you were in the business of selling rain gear. I also see a lot of simple hairstyles - pulled back nape ponytails. That sort of thing.

While the rain is an inconvenience in the city, here in the country it is a factor to be reckoned with. First example: we have a septic system. After Dan bought the farm (no he is still alive) he found out that the septic tank hadn't been drained in years. We don't know how many but obviously enough to cause worry lines and make every flush an adventure into the unknown. We instituted the 'yellow mellow, brown down' system of conservation but the septic system is a constant, nagging doubt.

"Well, drain the thing" I hear you say. This is where the rain comes in. The septic system is in a field. Yes, I know you knew that but it has relevance. In order to get to the drain hole you have to drive over the field. It has rained every day for months. The field is saturated. I can bearly stand upright in that field and I weigh a whole lot less than a drainage truck (Yes, I do too!). The truck would never make it. It would be stuck probably for the rest of the winter. Since they charge by the day, the fees could mount up.

Second example: Our compost pile is across what was our lawn before the cows got to it and down a path. It is taking your life into your hands to try to squelch your way to the container. I do it every day or so because rotting garbage is not my favorite aroma. Last time I did it, my wellies were coated to the rim with mud and my pants had a 2 inch band of mud above the wellie line.

We forgot these cautionary tales when we decided that we had had enough of the cows. Yes, folks the cows were going back to their previous owners. All the farmers on our mountain have agreed that 'those cows are crazy'. We made some rookie mistakes. Dan had carefully selected his individual cows from one herd but received other cows that came from various herds. No herd identity. Wild does not begin to describe these cows. Dan accepted them believing them to be easily herded. See previous blogs! Second mistake: we didn't realize the damage they would do to the pastures. These were BIG cows and got bigger and bigger and the pastures are now gullied, rutted messes. Looks like a tank division has been through.

So the cows have eaten free for 2 1'2 months and are now back home. Stone Tree Farm was never home for them and I hope they are happier where they are now.

But we still had to get them there. Sunday was to be the big day. We herded them down the mountain to our pen near the main road. But we forgot to factor in the rain. Sunday dawns misty and rainy. We think nothing of it since it is always raining. But the pen is not ON the main road, it is near it. The truck would have to drive on the field to get to the pen, Just like the sewage truck, it ain't gonna happen,

Merv is the only farmer on the mountain who has holding pens on a road. We start the cows back up the mountain to Merv's place. The truck driver, very politely, declines to be involved in any way. He remembers those selfsame cows attacking him when he transported them here. Steve and Michelle come to help. And then up rides Dave on his quad bike. I definitely have to get myself one of those. Fantastic! Anyway, Dave has this stick thing and his bike and he whips around the herd to keep them from doubling back. They do anyway. Repeat. Repeat again. Hear Dave's language. Roll up the windows to the car so Alessia can't hear.

Dave has these wonderfully well behaved cows. When I walk past to the mailbox, they greet me with refined moos and come to the fence for a chat. I don't think Dave ever saw anything like Old Sour Puss and doesn't want to ever again. By the time the cows have gone bye bye, the whole mountain is exhausted and my tentative question about buying weaners is treated with the scorn it deserves.

Weaners are young (see small) cows who have been recently weaned from their mothers. We have a lot of hay. Some hay - the rest is drenched in polyeurethane (see blog). This hay could feed weaners for the winter. I make the proposal. Dan's "we'll talk about it later", seems pretty definite to me. So, we'll talk about it later.

A Farm Weekend

We got back to the farm from Auckland Friday afternoon. The first thing that greeted us was the very dead carcass of a possum.  Dan had forgotten to spring the trap so the dearly departed had departed sometime between Mon. and Friday. I say 'dearly' because at least some of our homegrown possums had gathered around for a possum wake. A possum wake is fairly easy to recognize; there are half-eaten pieces of fruit scattered around the yard, around the corpse, and on it. Yes, folks, there were several hollowed oranges decorating the remains.

I left Dan to deal with the remains of the feast and the possum and went to check the lambs. All was fine but they were obviously not pleased to see me. They didn't exactly run away but they didn't linger in my vicinity either. Smartly stepping out, they followed the leader and swung left and down the hill to the center of the paddock. So what I report now is what I could see looking down and about a half a block away. I use this as a measurement because not all my loyal fans are adherents of the feet/yard system and I don't understand the kilometer/meter system.

The ram, still recovering from his strained ligament, or whatever leg injury he received running from the cows last week, lay down in a hillock while his ewes scattered to forage. I wonder if they ever get tired of the same old diet? I could always see if they'd be willing to eat thistles and save me a ton of work come Spring. Anyway, here lies the ram and up come the two  lambs. Snowball is in the lead; the ever easily distractable Starlight is here, and there, and then here again but follows meekly as Snowball nudges the ram. And nudges again. My guess is that there wasn't much milk there because fairly soon both lambs began eating grass in a semicircle around the ram's belly. I have now solved the puzzle of the lambs' lineage. Thank goodness I don't have to try to wade through Mendel's theory of genetics again. I didn't understand it when I was in college so there is no chance I'd get it now. The ram is the father of both lambs. You heard it first here. Only a father would put up with the indignity of being mistaken for a mother's teat. I rest my case!

A Night To Remember

You're not going to believe this one. Even I don't and I was there. It started out all right. It was Sunday and the whole family was at the farm. Alessia and Naavah were enjoying the clean country air, Yael was busy about the house, and Dan was polyeuthethaning the barn ceiling. I spent a fair amount of time just watching the lambs. The two have really bonded. They appear together almost all the time. And they are usually hanging out with the brown ewe. Starlight's mother comes around occasionally and provides oversight but mostly its the lambs and the brown Mom.

Having spent a restful day with the sheep, I was pretty much sated with sheep by the evening. I hunkered down for a good read with an Agatha Christie and spent my time in the land of murder and mayhem. At 11:30 I turned out my light and rolled over to count sheep in my sleep. "Baa", I heard. Which would have been nice if I'd been asleep, but I wasn't. I sat up, puzzled, had the sheep moved up the hill, closer to my windows? I waited. Nothing. Back down to the pillows. "Baa". This time very close indeed. When I looked out my window I saw a driveway filled with sheep.

I pull on my parka over my nightgown, go downstairs to the garage and open a bay door. I see the rear end of a white ewe scampering down the driveway. I call Dan, don the wellies, and off we go to round up the sheep. It is very dark in the country at night. No street lights and the moon is obscured by fat clouds. So I am groping my way around and Dan has sped off down the hill to try to head the flock off before they reach the main road.

Yael comes out to see if she can help. While she is standing in the driveway, which is only lit by the lights from my upstairs window, she hears a rustling a few feet away. A mouse appears but before she can react with an appropriate "ugh", some raptor-like creature swoops down in a fiercesome dive and voila, the mouse is something's midnight snack.

Meanwhile, I am positioned at our driveway's decorative gates. We don't know how many sheep are loose, where they are or actually much of anything. So I am there to keep any other sheep from escaping. I hear my own rustling sounds and step down the verge to see if it's a sheep. I slip. I bang into a tree. I wish I could say that it was the tree's fault but it wasn't. Now I hear rustling and my head is bleeding. Turns out there is a sheep in the same paddock the cows escaped from a few days ago. Now I'm torn; do I go get a bandaid (known as a plaster here) and risk letting the sheep bound the fence and follow the herd or do I stay at my post. I opt for remaining on duty.

Yael gets the car and goes to join Dan searching for sheep. I stay within earshot of the kids but where I can thwart any Houdini escape efforts by the sheep. And I wait. And wait. And wait. It gets colder, and darker if possible. Finally here comes Yael running up the road. She is in great shape! Seems they were following the sheep and found them in Dave's yard. Dave is our other great neighbor. Well, the sheep seemed to want to follow the car's headlights (I guess they couldn't see any better than we could) so Dan was backing up Dave's drive, leading the sheep back to our road when he drove off the drive and down into a ditch. One rear wheel was sunk in the mud, the other was spinning free. So Yael was heading for a phone to call Dave for help - with the car and with the sheep.

It is now about 1am and I am positive Dave was awakened from a sound sleep but he sounded as pleasant and matter-of-fact as if it were 4pm. Out he went with his 4 wheel drive, pulled Dan out, helped send the sheep off his property and back he went - either to bed or to write a nasty letter to the New Zealand Times about letting crazy Americans buy property.

Yael calls to me that the sheep are coming so I run down the driveway to open the gate to the correct paddock. I have not run since 11th grade phys ed. That was 51 years ago. I am not good at it but I have a substantial lead on the sheep and have time to swing open the gate and shoo back the errant ewe who has found her way from the wrong paddock to the right one. Then I stand in front of the garage and wait for the sheep. They come. They stop. They stare at me for a while. Then the brown ewe, deciding that her baby has been out late enough, comes from the rear and leads the flock down the drive and through the gate. And they all join forces in the horse stalls.

Now all we have to do is get them out of the stalls so we can count them to make sure they are all there. Dan turns on the barn lights, out they come, obligingly single file - 10 sheep and 2 lambs are all present and accounted for. So at 1:30 in the morning, I end my evening as I started it - counting sheep.

A Tale of Two Neighbors

Today, Friday, dawned cloudy, drizzly, and windy. I wait until almost 7am before venturing out to open the other paddock gate and lead my vagabond cows into fresh grass. Alas, the well laid plans, etc. etc. Four of the cows are in the paddock; the other four are in the driveway. I bless my foresight in shutting the gates before I went to bed last night. After my cheer for myself, I buckle down to figuring out how the cows got out and how to get them back in.

I lower the slats on the fence and try to get around the cows to block their access to the roadway. The gates I carefully shut last night are lovely. They really are. Carved, curved, and charmingly rustic. They are also short and decorative not meant to stop thousand pound cows. So I stand between the cows and the gates and try to wiggle the fearsome four into the paddock. I suppose I don't have to tell you that it didn't work. Oh no! Instead the other four JUMP the fence and join us in the driveway. I am stunned; cows aren't supposed to jump. But these do.

All eight then bolt down to the area around the new barn. Here we have another set of identical decorative gates, which I shut. There is very little room in this anteway to the barn. Just a driveway and a verge. And now 8 huge cows who are rapidly destroying everything in sight. I can't let them into the paddock beyond the barn because the sheep are there. But I realize that eventually I will have to lead/push/pray those cows through the sheep's paddock to the gate of the far paddock and corral them there. There is literally nowhere else for them to go that has not been overeaten.

Off I trudge down the driveway, through the decorative gates to my neighbors, Steve and Michelle. They are in the midst of getting their 3 children ready for school. A bastion of efficiency, they get 3 children on their way to catch the bus, round up wellies, prods, and off we go. It is now about 7:45. The cows are still there. We can't get them to move. We plan ways to lure them through a corridor consisting of me, Michelle, and a ladder (from the horse stall I fell in). Steve will do the heavy lifting.

This plan doesn't work. The cows are extremely skittish. They seem to react marginally better to me. Steve and I swap places. I try to tease them with hay. It works with Romeo but the others hang back. And then something happens. I have no idea what. But they bolt. There is nowhere to go. Suddenly the air is filled with bodies flinging themselves around, hooves slashing near my head, and cows running. One runs right through the fence (a four strand wire fence) three thunder down into the sheep, and four make it to the proper paddock.

I am shaking. Steve is thunderstruck; he has never seen a cow go right through a fence like that. Michelle is as serene as ever. I could take lessons from that lady. She'd give them to me, she's that kind of person. Steve and Michelle are both very special people and I am grateful for neighbors like these.

Now we have to get four cows (sound familiar?) from the sheep's paddock into the back paddock. "Altogether now, let's race up and down the hills, dodge the humans, scatter the sheep, and wreak havoc wherever we go." One gives up and joins the four good girls. Now I stand where I can keep them from joining the three mavericks in the wrong paddock. Sure enough, they try. But I am pretty p.o.ed by now. I wave my arms and mutter dire threats. They turn and exit this scene.

I keep an eye on them just to make sure and join Steve and Michelle as we get our daily exercise sprinting up and down the hills after those three **** cows. Eventually we give up. The cows too seem to have had enough. They cluster as far away as possible in a little nook between a tree and a fence. Steve comes up with the brilliant idea of putting up a portable electric fence corridor. This amazing invention runs on solar power and since there is no sun today, we use a car battery. Steve runs this fence in a wide sweep down to the fence line. Inside it is the gate to the new paddock and plenty of room for the cows to saunter back up the hill and join the good girls.

"What do I do now?" I plaintively ask my wonderful neighbors. The answer is so typical New Zealand that I am still smiling about it. "Go have a cup of tea, put your feet up and wait for the cows to amble into the paddock." It seems that once everything calms down, they will want to rejoin their friends. "What about the sheep? Won't the fence kill them?" No. Sheep stay away from things like that. I thank my rescuers but probably not enough and go off for that cup of tea. It is about 9:30.

Every 15 minutes I look out my window to see if the cows have shifted. After about an hour, I can't see them and pray that they are really and truly in the right paddock. I go down to see. I can't see them; I climb the gate and walk to the crest of the hill. They have moved halfway up the hill and are lying under a tree. The tree is in the right paddock. They are not. The tree overhangs the fence. I begin to despair of ever getting them back to the herd. For the next 4 hours I repeat the trudge down the driveway, the climb over the gate and the cresting of the hill. Over and over.

This last time something new has been added. No, the cows have not moved. But the ram has. I can't figure out how but he is lying inside the electric fence on the cows' side of the paddock. I am afraid he is dead. Did he hit that 9,000 volts and get thrown over the wire to die? I stand still; I don't want to spook anything. I don't want any more sheep wandering in the demilitarized zone and I definitely don't want those cows freaking out again. I back up to the gate, climb it and walk around the paddock and down the road. I think the farm fairies had had enough of a laugh for the day because the cows have joined 'the girls'. And the ram is up and walking around inside the electric fence. Then he walks back to his herd and I realize that somehow the fence has been blown to the ground and by some miracle the ram has not stepped on it either when he went in or when he went out. But that couldn't continue.

Now I hotfoot it to the battery, unclip it, slip over the fence, shut the gate and all eight cows are now confined in the proper paddock. Next I go down to the fence and start winding the fencing up, pulling up the holding stakes at the same time. I am pretty close to done in at this point. Everything hurts; I am bruised, battered and aching. I gather all the fencing equipment and haul it to the gate. Lugging the battery over the gate almost does me in but I manage.  I store all Steve's stuff in the barn, put the fencing in the garage and head for the showers. The first team is off the field. Bring in the second string. Terry is done!