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.
StoneTree Farm
StoneTree Farm
Wednesday 29 June 2011
Saturday 25 June 2011
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!
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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!
Monday 20 June 2011
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.
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.
Thursday 16 June 2011
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!
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!
A Day To Remember
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| Horse Stalls in the New Barn |
Thursday dawned bright, sunny, and most of all - warm. Just what I was waiting for; a day designed for painting. Yes, I was going to try again. And another ceiling yet. This ceiling was in the extension of the new barn where the horse stalls are located. The stalls have 3 walls, with the 4th wall not there but open to the paddock. This is where the sheep go to shelter from the weather. The back of the stalls are stacked with bales of hay to within about 3 feet of the ceiling.
So I put on my painting togs, mix the turpentine and polyurethene in a cut off milk jug, swipe a new brush from Dan's stash and down I go to the stalls. Since I cannot manage the fence lock, I heave the tarp, ladder, and paint supplies over the gate then heave myself over. I have a hunch that my fence climbing days should be behind me but needs must.
There are a few challenges to working with polyurethene. One is that it is awfully sticky, another is that it runs down the brush and then your arm. I am a towering 5'3" and even standing on the 3rd rung of the ladder I cannot easily reach the ceiling. I am afraid to go up the 4th rung; that is when I call in the professionals. So I decide to start at the back of the stalls and lie on the hay bales and paint that section of the roof. The 3rd problem with polyurethene is that hay sticks to it and I look a bit like the straw man from the Wizard of Oz within 5 minutes.
There is also a problem with painting a barn ceiling. The problem is spiders. There are lots of them and they dangle in your face, get caught on your polyurethened arm, enmesh themselves in the hay and scare me a lot. I never used to mind spiders but then a white tail spider bite almost cost me my leg and I have been skittish ever since.
I have crawled down to the corner of the stalls and am lying on my back painting my way up. That is when I discover a truism that should revolutionize art history. Michelangelo did not like to sing. I think that this contributed mightily to the lyricism of the Sistine Chapel. He channeled his thwarted musical aspirations into his painting. The result is a miracle of beauty. How do I know he didn't like to sing. Because I was singing the Teddy Bears' Picnic while I painted and got a mouthful of polyurethene and spider. I bet the same thing happened to Mike. He was singing away and got a glob of blue right down the tonsils. Probably didn't have any spiders in it; they would not have been so irreligious as to hang around a Chapel (or would they)? Anyway, I am spitting out poly and spiders (careful not to taint the hay) and I wipe my mouth with my shirt. Please don't tell my mother!
With mouth fully shut, I inch my way down toward the center of the stalls. And then the hay shifts. And it falls into some black hole. And so does my milk jug of polyurethene. And so do I. Well, actually I fall to the outside of the bales onto the gravel in front. I have a huge bruise on my hip and a slightly sprained wrist and a massively dented ego.
So much for not tainting the hay; I have now dumped an entire jug of polyurethene and turpentine into the cows' winter feed. I am not precisely proud of my morning's efforts but I face the music and Skype Dan to tell him what happened. He is gratifyingly more concerned for my well being than his ceiling, or his hay. I retire to bed for a nap.
I awake around 4:30 and after puttering around for a while I go to the main house to make myself an early dinner. That is when I realize that my day of disasters is not yet over.There are six gigantic cows in the patio and destroying Dan's perfect patch of lawn. Two cows have stayed in the paddock but the other six have broken through the fence, climbed the berm, and are now chowing down on the good stuff - formerly known as our lawn.
At any moment, they will break the glass topped table and metal chairs, knock against the deck stairs, and wander to the front of the house and from there out to the driveway and up and out to freedom. Thinking clearly and quickly (take note, Dan) I dash for the front gates which are always left open. I stop to spring the possum trap to avoid having a heavy hoof step in it and snap a bone. I shut the gates, go back to the house to make sure I'm not halucinating, shut all other gates and head up to a neighbor's to get some help. It is growing very dark but as I step to the roadway, I see headlights. Sir Merv is driving home and being the gentleman he is, he stops and lends a hand. Really, he is all the hands. I have no idea what to do.
He tries to herd the cows back into the paddock but gives up. Even he, a master cowman, cannot work with these cows. He calls them wild; I call them a gift from Hell. He leaves and comes back with a friend and the two of them patch the broken fence; somehow get the cows back into the paddock and reassure me that everything will be fine until tomorrow when I can open a gate to another paddock and the cows will saunter into that lower paddock where there is fresh grass.
I check that all the gates are shut and go to my quarters with paeans of praise for Merv and the kindness of strangers. New Zealanders have to be the loveliest people on planet. I also start Googling pot roast recipes. I think it's time to cull the herd.
Tuesday 14 June 2011
Lamb Update
I have been touched by the numerous emails asking for an update on the lambs. Thanks to both of you. Starlight was born a week ago today and Lamb2 a day later. At first they stuck really close to their mothers and their mothers stayed a reasonable distance from the other sheep. By the time I left for Auckland on Monday, the two mothers had formed a support group of their own. I believe this to be in response to Starlight's hyperactivity. He jumps at all possible times; he prances, he nudges. In short, he drives his mother crazy.
Lamb2 seemed a tad more restrained but that could be because she is younger and following the more worldly one. So my last view of them was with Starlight's mother stretched out tail to the west and nose to the east and the brown ewe in the mirror position. Both ewes had their noses close together. Starlight was bouncing up and down in the northen position and Lamb2 was standing quietly to the south. A true southern belle.
The mothers appeared to be exchanging war stories. Starlight's mum has obviously been down this motherhood road before. No matter how frenetically Starlight tries to get her to play with him, she continues to absorb the calories. Occasionally he goes too far and she nudges him away with her nose and resumes eating. The brown ewe, however, is new to the game. She stands guard whenever I approach the fence. She doesn't move away like the other sheep, nor does she ignore me like Starlight's mum. She just stands very straight and watches me for however long I'm there. And I can be there for a half hour or more. Watching sheep is hypnotic. Now I know why people count them when they have insomnia.
When I got to the farm today, all was bucolic (I promise never to use that word again). Anyway, all was calm. The sheep were eating and the lambs were playing. They were chasing each other, leaping, gamboling about. Yael was entranced. It's hard not to be.
However, there are no new playmates, also known as lambs, for me not to name. But I'll keep you all updated.
Lamb2 seemed a tad more restrained but that could be because she is younger and following the more worldly one. So my last view of them was with Starlight's mother stretched out tail to the west and nose to the east and the brown ewe in the mirror position. Both ewes had their noses close together. Starlight was bouncing up and down in the northen position and Lamb2 was standing quietly to the south. A true southern belle.
The mothers appeared to be exchanging war stories. Starlight's mum has obviously been down this motherhood road before. No matter how frenetically Starlight tries to get her to play with him, she continues to absorb the calories. Occasionally he goes too far and she nudges him away with her nose and resumes eating. The brown ewe, however, is new to the game. She stands guard whenever I approach the fence. She doesn't move away like the other sheep, nor does she ignore me like Starlight's mum. She just stands very straight and watches me for however long I'm there. And I can be there for a half hour or more. Watching sheep is hypnotic. Now I know why people count them when they have insomnia.
When I got to the farm today, all was bucolic (I promise never to use that word again). Anyway, all was calm. The sheep were eating and the lambs were playing. They were chasing each other, leaping, gamboling about. Yael was entranced. It's hard not to be.
However, there are no new playmates, also known as lambs, for me not to name. But I'll keep you all updated.
Monday 13 June 2011
This Is A Test
Dan asked me to move the cows on Friday. Simple sentence, complex execution. I sense that this is a test to see how well I can do on my own.
I need to draw you a verbal map of the shifting site. There are two paddocks, each bladder shaped with the wide ends spreading up and out and over a steep hill. They are next to each other but both necks empty into a small corridor that then empties into the red, red barn paddock. Don't let the red, red barn description fool you. It is actually an old shed in which we store hay that in some distant past had one wall painted red. Alessia calls it the red, red barn and now, so do we.
Aside from the obvious problems of hiking up a steep, wet, poo-infested hill, there is the challenge that you cannot shut off the left hand paddock from the right one as you maneuvre the cows down into the front paddock. One gate swings the right way for blocking access but the other only goes in the wrong direction, leaving a bolt hole of significant size. I can only assume that previous farmers had better behaved cows than we do.
So I decided to get smart. Sort of like cramming for an exam. I reconnoitred on Thursday. Noted all the ways into the occupied paddock and laid a hay path from the gate through the corridor and into the front paddock. It was fairly late when I finished and I decided not to attempt to round up 8 cows all of whom are clad in basic black in the dark. Three of the cows are a chic all black, and the rest have white faces. Three have pure white faces, one has black circles around the eyes, and then there is Sour Puss. Someone threw a chocolate mud pie right in her face (probably richly deserved) and she has black spatter all through her white face.
So back up the hill I go and wait for Friday. Do I need to tell you that it rained all night? Howling winds, sideways rain, the whole bit. Friday everything was sodden. Walking was a real challenge. Down I went, dodging puddles, into the front paddock, right by the drenched hay (not too appetizing now), swing open the gates and go to greet the cows who are miraculously gathered near the gate and not up over the hill.
Romeo steps out perkily to meet me and is followed by one other white faced cow. They both saunter blithely by me and right into the front paddock, stepping on the hay as if it were their own special red carpet.
I am mightily heartened. This could be easier than I thought. But alas, I had forgotten about Sour Puss. Most of the rest of the cows, hesitantly start to follow Romeo. Sour Puss cuts them off, wheels sharply, and up over the hill go the remaining six cows. Followed by a very dejected me. I know already how this will turn out. Sure enough, it does. Several fruitless forced marches over the hill later, I turn to Plan B.
Leaving the interior gates open, I go back to the road, walk up and around the paddocks, cross through a different paddock to the right of the one the cows are in. Hike through the tall, wet grass, climb another gate, and approach the cows from their rear. Or so the plan went. Unfortunately, Sour Puss was on the alert. She would have made a marvellous sentry in WWI. She throws back her head, calls the troops, and up over the hill they go. All six. Romeo and Mercutio stay in the front paddock. I give up. I try again in the afternoon but it is a repeat of the morning, When I check in the evening, all 8 are in the front paddock but I don't have the heart to try to get in to shut the gates behind them. They'll just run back up that hill, or worse, the hill of the other paddock. I decide to leave them until Dan comes on Sunday.
Dan arrives and I explain the previous events. I have obviously failed the test. Dan accepts this like the stoic he is and goes down and shuts all 8 cows in the front paddock. Sour Puss and chorus were already there when he went down and didn't even rouse themselves when he walked through them to shut the upper paddock gates. I nervously ask when we will be moving them to the new paddock. "Tomorrow morning" is the terse answer.
Monday morning arrives. Alessia goes, once again, into the car seat. We drive (!!) down the hill, shutting all our neighbors' gates, shut the gate to the road and then park blocking access down the hill. My new job is pretty darn simple. That's what I get for flunking Friday's lightening round. I stand by the car. That's it. All of it. Once the cows have rounded the first leg of the hill and are on the verge, I get in the car and drive it slowly up and past the entrance to the new paddock, and park it to block the cows from continuing on into our garden.
I stand. The cows amble out the gate, Dan moves them gently up the hill and around. I follow in the car. Romeo spots me and stops dead in the road. He is puzzled. Don't I like him anymore? Is there no hope? Why am I abandoning him to this 'man' when I could be giving fists of hay to a deserving swain? This is not a bull of quick intelligence but he is faithful. I don't want to honk the horn; that would be chaos. Nothing for it but to wait for Dan. Up he trudges and Romeo obediently moves to the verge. Dan doesn't even ask why I haven't managed to get the car into position. But I do see his shoulders sag as he goes on by.
The rest of the shifting is uneventful. The cows walk smartly into the paddock and we're finished. We pack up to go back down to Auckland and as we drive by, all 8 cows are lined up on the fence placidly watching ouur departure. I am irresistably reminded of the Gary Larson cartoon where you see all these cows in a pasture standing arounding smoking, chatting, etc. One (an ancestor of Sour Puss) is sentry and calls out 'CAR' and all the cows drop down to all four and begin eating grass. I'm pretty sure that all our cows are standing around chatting right now. Not smoking; after all this is an organic farm.
I need to draw you a verbal map of the shifting site. There are two paddocks, each bladder shaped with the wide ends spreading up and out and over a steep hill. They are next to each other but both necks empty into a small corridor that then empties into the red, red barn paddock. Don't let the red, red barn description fool you. It is actually an old shed in which we store hay that in some distant past had one wall painted red. Alessia calls it the red, red barn and now, so do we.
Aside from the obvious problems of hiking up a steep, wet, poo-infested hill, there is the challenge that you cannot shut off the left hand paddock from the right one as you maneuvre the cows down into the front paddock. One gate swings the right way for blocking access but the other only goes in the wrong direction, leaving a bolt hole of significant size. I can only assume that previous farmers had better behaved cows than we do.
So I decided to get smart. Sort of like cramming for an exam. I reconnoitred on Thursday. Noted all the ways into the occupied paddock and laid a hay path from the gate through the corridor and into the front paddock. It was fairly late when I finished and I decided not to attempt to round up 8 cows all of whom are clad in basic black in the dark. Three of the cows are a chic all black, and the rest have white faces. Three have pure white faces, one has black circles around the eyes, and then there is Sour Puss. Someone threw a chocolate mud pie right in her face (probably richly deserved) and she has black spatter all through her white face.
So back up the hill I go and wait for Friday. Do I need to tell you that it rained all night? Howling winds, sideways rain, the whole bit. Friday everything was sodden. Walking was a real challenge. Down I went, dodging puddles, into the front paddock, right by the drenched hay (not too appetizing now), swing open the gates and go to greet the cows who are miraculously gathered near the gate and not up over the hill.
Romeo steps out perkily to meet me and is followed by one other white faced cow. They both saunter blithely by me and right into the front paddock, stepping on the hay as if it were their own special red carpet.
I am mightily heartened. This could be easier than I thought. But alas, I had forgotten about Sour Puss. Most of the rest of the cows, hesitantly start to follow Romeo. Sour Puss cuts them off, wheels sharply, and up over the hill go the remaining six cows. Followed by a very dejected me. I know already how this will turn out. Sure enough, it does. Several fruitless forced marches over the hill later, I turn to Plan B.
Leaving the interior gates open, I go back to the road, walk up and around the paddocks, cross through a different paddock to the right of the one the cows are in. Hike through the tall, wet grass, climb another gate, and approach the cows from their rear. Or so the plan went. Unfortunately, Sour Puss was on the alert. She would have made a marvellous sentry in WWI. She throws back her head, calls the troops, and up over the hill they go. All six. Romeo and Mercutio stay in the front paddock. I give up. I try again in the afternoon but it is a repeat of the morning, When I check in the evening, all 8 are in the front paddock but I don't have the heart to try to get in to shut the gates behind them. They'll just run back up that hill, or worse, the hill of the other paddock. I decide to leave them until Dan comes on Sunday.
Dan arrives and I explain the previous events. I have obviously failed the test. Dan accepts this like the stoic he is and goes down and shuts all 8 cows in the front paddock. Sour Puss and chorus were already there when he went down and didn't even rouse themselves when he walked through them to shut the upper paddock gates. I nervously ask when we will be moving them to the new paddock. "Tomorrow morning" is the terse answer.
Monday morning arrives. Alessia goes, once again, into the car seat. We drive (!!) down the hill, shutting all our neighbors' gates, shut the gate to the road and then park blocking access down the hill. My new job is pretty darn simple. That's what I get for flunking Friday's lightening round. I stand by the car. That's it. All of it. Once the cows have rounded the first leg of the hill and are on the verge, I get in the car and drive it slowly up and past the entrance to the new paddock, and park it to block the cows from continuing on into our garden.
I stand. The cows amble out the gate, Dan moves them gently up the hill and around. I follow in the car. Romeo spots me and stops dead in the road. He is puzzled. Don't I like him anymore? Is there no hope? Why am I abandoning him to this 'man' when I could be giving fists of hay to a deserving swain? This is not a bull of quick intelligence but he is faithful. I don't want to honk the horn; that would be chaos. Nothing for it but to wait for Dan. Up he trudges and Romeo obediently moves to the verge. Dan doesn't even ask why I haven't managed to get the car into position. But I do see his shoulders sag as he goes on by.
The rest of the shifting is uneventful. The cows walk smartly into the paddock and we're finished. We pack up to go back down to Auckland and as we drive by, all 8 cows are lined up on the fence placidly watching ouur departure. I am irresistably reminded of the Gary Larson cartoon where you see all these cows in a pasture standing arounding smoking, chatting, etc. One (an ancestor of Sour Puss) is sentry and calls out 'CAR' and all the cows drop down to all four and begin eating grass. I'm pretty sure that all our cows are standing around chatting right now. Not smoking; after all this is an organic farm.
Sunday 12 June 2011
Painting the Pied a Terre
How many of you know the song "The Teddy Bears' Picnic'? I had never heard of it, or heard it until Yael stuck it in the car's CD player for Alessia. It was played several times over the next few hours and then my brilliant granddaughter decided to return to the classics - Baa baa black sheep, Twinkle, twinkle, etc. I, however, was not so fortunate.
It has been stuck in my brain for four endless days as I paint the ceilings of my rooms. Painting ceilings is horrible enough - even worse when they are attic ceilings and slope almost to the floor - but painting ceilings with Teddy Bears' Picnic on an endless loop in your head must rank as cruel and inhuman punishment. I heard it as I gloweringly faced yet another batch of horrible, inferior paint, as I watched the sheep and ewes from my ladder and as I edged and edged and edged the ceilings.
The reason for all this painting is that I come from the sun drenched Southwest and need light. I mean I really need light and sunshine and the feeling of warmth. This is a recurring theme. The first time I saw my rooms, it was a rainy, dreary October day and the rooms were painted a pallid gray/blue and so were the ceilings. It felt colder inside than out (well, almost).
So on my next visit down under I painted the walls a deep yellow. I spent $278 on paint - it has to be chemical free or whatever. All I know is that I had to mortgage my house to buy the stuff and then it turned out to be the worst paint I ever used. And I have used a lot of paint in my day. I have painted the interiors of new houses, refurbished houses, houses bought on spec, and now this. The paint ran; I can still see trails of paint and globules hanging on the walls. I was livid. And then I realized that I needed two coats. Actually I need three but I was going to die in a ditch before I forked over more money for more of that blankety-blank paint. So I stuck with two coats. Luckily it is usually fairly overcast so the imperfections are not noticeable to anyone but me. And probably everybody else but they are too polite to mention it.
It took me six months and a tour back in the States before I felt ready to tackle my ceilings. I bought a cheaper paint that worked about like the gold standard paint and needed two coats. I have been inwardly seething for the whole four days and the Teddy Bears' Picnic loop didn't help any. Then I decided to devote all my time to it and just get it done.
I got it done. But I also had to try to move the cows; shift the sheep, pull the weeds, trap the possums, catch the mice etc. This farm work is unbelievable. I once worked two full time jobs and had a life and still had more free time than any farmer does. There is never a day off; there are a wide variety of things that go wrong every day, starting with the weather and working outward. And yet these farmers get up the next day and try all over again to make it work. I understand it. I think I do anyway. When I get up in the morning and see the mist and the rainbow and the green, green valley across I feel sublime. But I don't have to get up at 4:30 am and I don't have much livestock, and I don't have barns and fences to repair, machinery to cajole into working for just one more day. I am a gentleman (woman) farmer and grateful for it. But I am much more grateful to all those farmers who accept this life and enable me to eat healthy, life-giving food. And to be able to give it to my granddaughters. I knew all this intellectually before but now I am learning it in a whole new way. And if there are any farmers out there who have a spare moment and are reading this, I just want to say 'Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I will never, never take you for granted again.'
It has been stuck in my brain for four endless days as I paint the ceilings of my rooms. Painting ceilings is horrible enough - even worse when they are attic ceilings and slope almost to the floor - but painting ceilings with Teddy Bears' Picnic on an endless loop in your head must rank as cruel and inhuman punishment. I heard it as I gloweringly faced yet another batch of horrible, inferior paint, as I watched the sheep and ewes from my ladder and as I edged and edged and edged the ceilings.
The reason for all this painting is that I come from the sun drenched Southwest and need light. I mean I really need light and sunshine and the feeling of warmth. This is a recurring theme. The first time I saw my rooms, it was a rainy, dreary October day and the rooms were painted a pallid gray/blue and so were the ceilings. It felt colder inside than out (well, almost).
So on my next visit down under I painted the walls a deep yellow. I spent $278 on paint - it has to be chemical free or whatever. All I know is that I had to mortgage my house to buy the stuff and then it turned out to be the worst paint I ever used. And I have used a lot of paint in my day. I have painted the interiors of new houses, refurbished houses, houses bought on spec, and now this. The paint ran; I can still see trails of paint and globules hanging on the walls. I was livid. And then I realized that I needed two coats. Actually I need three but I was going to die in a ditch before I forked over more money for more of that blankety-blank paint. So I stuck with two coats. Luckily it is usually fairly overcast so the imperfections are not noticeable to anyone but me. And probably everybody else but they are too polite to mention it.
It took me six months and a tour back in the States before I felt ready to tackle my ceilings. I bought a cheaper paint that worked about like the gold standard paint and needed two coats. I have been inwardly seething for the whole four days and the Teddy Bears' Picnic loop didn't help any. Then I decided to devote all my time to it and just get it done.
I got it done. But I also had to try to move the cows; shift the sheep, pull the weeds, trap the possums, catch the mice etc. This farm work is unbelievable. I once worked two full time jobs and had a life and still had more free time than any farmer does. There is never a day off; there are a wide variety of things that go wrong every day, starting with the weather and working outward. And yet these farmers get up the next day and try all over again to make it work. I understand it. I think I do anyway. When I get up in the morning and see the mist and the rainbow and the green, green valley across I feel sublime. But I don't have to get up at 4:30 am and I don't have much livestock, and I don't have barns and fences to repair, machinery to cajole into working for just one more day. I am a gentleman (woman) farmer and grateful for it. But I am much more grateful to all those farmers who accept this life and enable me to eat healthy, life-giving food. And to be able to give it to my granddaughters. I knew all this intellectually before but now I am learning it in a whole new way. And if there are any farmers out there who have a spare moment and are reading this, I just want to say 'Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I will never, never take you for granted again.'
Wednesday 8 June 2011
Lamb2
It was very misty and overcast this morning so I didn't get to the sheep paddock until almost 9am. Why go when I couldn't see a thing. I discovered that the brown ewe adhered strictly to her doctrine that a little learning is a dangerous thing. She decided to forego my help with her birthing process and do it on her own. I'm not hurt; really, I'm not. I agree that a little learning can be dangerous but I read those chapters several times and would have liked to be given a chance to show off in front of the ram. I believe he would have been impressed. So I'm not hurt, just a tad disappointed.
Still, she has given us a charming little white lamb. And it must have happened fairly soon before I arrived because it lay around most of the morning. So, the white ewe has a black lamb and the brown ewe has a white lamb. But the ram is ecru colored. I really must refresh myself on Gregor Mendel's theory. I think it was sweet peas. Perhaps the theory doesn't extend to the animal kingdom. There I go again, running to the books for answers. It could be as simple as the ram has been cuckkolded. By both a black ram and a white ram? Probably not. I guess I'll google Mendel after all.
Still, she has given us a charming little white lamb. And it must have happened fairly soon before I arrived because it lay around most of the morning. So, the white ewe has a black lamb and the brown ewe has a white lamb. But the ram is ecru colored. I really must refresh myself on Gregor Mendel's theory. I think it was sweet peas. Perhaps the theory doesn't extend to the animal kingdom. There I go again, running to the books for answers. It could be as simple as the ram has been cuckkolded. By both a black ram and a white ram? Probably not. I guess I'll google Mendel after all.
The Lambs Are Coming, Tra La, Tra La
Okay, it's settled. I am staying up here on the farm this week to assist the ewes in what promises to be a fertile lambing session. I once watched my cat give birth; total extent of my knowledge. I was pretty much knocked out when Dan came and have no recollection of the event. Besides that was almost 42 years ago.
So we decide to help me prepare. How does any overeducated townie approach a challenge? We read. Thanks to Amazon, I came from the States laden with farm books. So we begin our research. It all sounds overwhelming to me but Dan flies around gathering rubber gloves, jelly, something to give the ewe to restore her to vigor; Yael contributes an old towel, and I read. After all, I'm the one who is supposed to actually wear the gloves, pull the lamb out, and rub it down. I ask a simple question. "How will I even get close to the ewe given that the whole herd (Including a disgruntled large Ram) hates the very sight of me after our shifting of them yesterday?" Somehow my attentive children manage not to hear that question. The question trails after them as they hop in the station wagon and drive off down to Auckland.
I nervously watch the herd all day as I weed. And as I paint my rooms since one of my windows looks over and down at the appropriate paddock. We moved them to this nearest paddock because it provides shelter. Which the books say ewes need. Unfortunately a lot of hay is stored there too. This space was originally two horse stalls attached to the back of the new barn. So Dan is worried about the sheep coming into the stalls; not to give birth but to eat. And there goes the winter feed. While Dan and Yael were assembling emergency obstetrical supplies, I was sent down to muck out the stables. Which I did. The dung had been left to dry out in the expectation that it would be easier to shovel. Great idea; wrong premise. Dung does not dry out in a wet climate. Still, I did my bit and mucked out.
I fret all night. These are downright costly livestock. Any time you hear the word 'organic' add two zeroes. And these were premium organic sheep. Premium organic wool; premium organic lamb chops. So Dan and Yael have repeatedly warned me not to name the stock; not to get emotionally attached. Who? Me! Now remember this is from my lovely daughter-in-law who croons to sheep as if they were her own children. So I don't get involved. Not hard to do since the cows are too big to cuddle and the sheep bolt at the sound of my bright purple wellies crunching down the driveway.
That all ended yesterday morning when I tramped down through the mist to count the sheep. All were accounted for. The brown one was huddled by the fence batting the post with her head. Even I (with the help of the books) could tell she would move into the world of motherhood pretty darn soon. And then one of the ewes moved away from me but slowly. And 4 other ewes surrounded her and all stared at me with grave suspicion. All were white ewes but I kept seeing little flashes of black around their legs. One very clever ewe, not having read the right books, had decided to give birth without me. And to the most adorable little black lamb with a white blaze on its forehead. I call it Starlight but only here on my blog. Back at the farmhouse I will call it Lamb1.
So we decide to help me prepare. How does any overeducated townie approach a challenge? We read. Thanks to Amazon, I came from the States laden with farm books. So we begin our research. It all sounds overwhelming to me but Dan flies around gathering rubber gloves, jelly, something to give the ewe to restore her to vigor; Yael contributes an old towel, and I read. After all, I'm the one who is supposed to actually wear the gloves, pull the lamb out, and rub it down. I ask a simple question. "How will I even get close to the ewe given that the whole herd (Including a disgruntled large Ram) hates the very sight of me after our shifting of them yesterday?" Somehow my attentive children manage not to hear that question. The question trails after them as they hop in the station wagon and drive off down to Auckland.
I nervously watch the herd all day as I weed. And as I paint my rooms since one of my windows looks over and down at the appropriate paddock. We moved them to this nearest paddock because it provides shelter. Which the books say ewes need. Unfortunately a lot of hay is stored there too. This space was originally two horse stalls attached to the back of the new barn. So Dan is worried about the sheep coming into the stalls; not to give birth but to eat. And there goes the winter feed. While Dan and Yael were assembling emergency obstetrical supplies, I was sent down to muck out the stables. Which I did. The dung had been left to dry out in the expectation that it would be easier to shovel. Great idea; wrong premise. Dung does not dry out in a wet climate. Still, I did my bit and mucked out.
I fret all night. These are downright costly livestock. Any time you hear the word 'organic' add two zeroes. And these were premium organic sheep. Premium organic wool; premium organic lamb chops. So Dan and Yael have repeatedly warned me not to name the stock; not to get emotionally attached. Who? Me! Now remember this is from my lovely daughter-in-law who croons to sheep as if they were her own children. So I don't get involved. Not hard to do since the cows are too big to cuddle and the sheep bolt at the sound of my bright purple wellies crunching down the driveway.
That all ended yesterday morning when I tramped down through the mist to count the sheep. All were accounted for. The brown one was huddled by the fence batting the post with her head. Even I (with the help of the books) could tell she would move into the world of motherhood pretty darn soon. And then one of the ewes moved away from me but slowly. And 4 other ewes surrounded her and all stared at me with grave suspicion. All were white ewes but I kept seeing little flashes of black around their legs. One very clever ewe, not having read the right books, had decided to give birth without me. And to the most adorable little black lamb with a white blaze on its forehead. I call it Starlight but only here on my blog. Back at the farmhouse I will call it Lamb1.
Monday 6 June 2011
Shifting Sheep
We had a long, holiday weekend here (Queen's birthday) so up came the family from Auckland. Everybody had a list of things to get done with the blessed extra day. We even have a white board to keep up on task. Can anybody guess whose idea that was? Nope, not guilty. I didn't even know what one was until I got here. I come from the day of the appointment book written in pencil.
So Friday was get here, finish up work that Dan and Yael get paid for - he's finance and specializes in helping corporations turn around. Yael is a computer person. So long distance wireless is fine for an afternoon. My job was keeping my two-year-old granddaughter Alessia occupied. I had the hardest and most rewarding job.
Friday night started the Sabbath and since my son and his family are modern Orthodox Jews (I am Conservative myself but follow the house rules as best I can) there is no work on Saturday. Sunday was devoted to moving a neighbor's fallen tree (free firewood which Dan gets to chop up). Did I mention that the main house is heated by two wood burning stoves? Yup. My pied a terre (can you have one of those in the country? I guess so since I do). Anyway my digs (local jargon) are over the 3 car garage. And I am campaigning for an electric heater. Odds are good that I'll get it. Old bones and all that. We have electric heaters for the bedrooms. Burying yet another stupid possum; setting traps, etc. etc.
So Monday is moving the cows and sheep day. Must be; its on the white board. Dan and Yael go down to move the cows. I stay with the kids. See a pattern here? Just wait. Dan and Yael come back. The cows moved fairly easily. Probably because I wasn't there for the love fest. But! And there is always a but on a farm. The cows had broken off the ballcock in their water trough and so it had run and run and run. Pretty much drained the water tank that services all the paddocks. The rest of the day was spent borrowing parts (there is nothing open on the Queen's birthday, except Buckingham Palace I assume). With the aid of one of NZ's greatest neighbors, Merv, the thing is jerryrigged but not permanently fixed. and the pump is not working properly.
The sheep still need to be moved. If they aren't moved, they get parasites in the paddocks. Parasites are bad; in our tummies or in theirs. So off go Dan and Yael to shift the sheep.I stay with the kids. Time passes; way too much time. Alessia is fretful; she is a child of charming directness. Where is dinner? Her younger sister, Naavah, at 5 months is asking the same question with ever increasing intensity. I can feed Alessia; no such luck with Naavah. She is being breast fed and has not taken to the very occasional bottle and anyway there is not expressed milk available. We wait and scream. All three of us.
Dan and Yael return. They have chased those sheep up hill and down dale. But it is dark and the sheep aren't going anywhere. We'll all try tomorrow morning before they race back to Auckland and their busy lives. It is decided that I'll stay on the farm and watch out for birth-giving ewes. That time is on us. I'll write about that another time. If I survive.
Tuesday morning bright and early we go to shift the sheep. The kids are once again in the car seats and the car is parked across the road to prevent any strays racing for the highway and freedom or death. Dan gives me two green cloth grocery bags to put over my hands. My job is to stand wherever he places me and wave like a semiphore if the sheep turn in my direction. So up the hill I hike. Through dung, pot holes, thigh high grass (wet of course). And stand at my appointed post. Dan tries to block off another part of the very high hill. Yael is to move the sheep along the fence line toward the open gate which is luckily almost oppposite the gate of the paddock into which they should go. She croons to the sheep; sounds just the way she croons to Naavah as she gives her child a bath. "This way sheep. You'll like it in the new paddock. That's the way. It's all right sheep. We're doing fine." Except we aren't. They race toward me. I semiphore for all I'm worth. I guess it was too much. They wheel around Yael in a flanking operation that Patton could have orchestrated. And back over the hill they go. Toward Dan. Who now runs back up the hill to head them off. He doesn't make it.
Eventually they huddle down in a crevasse near the fence. I go and semiphore (more softly this time) and they move toward the gate. Dan comes down the hill; Yael croons them through the first gate. And across the road they go toward the awaiting gate. And then Alessia, bored with the whole thing, starts to sing. Appropriately enough it is Baa Baa Black Sheep but sung with fervor. Which in the case means loudly. The sheep stop, begin to wheel but Yael is close behind and I am in front with the green bags. They reverse back toward the hill. Nope; Dan's coming. In order for Dan to get in position in time, he has to jump the fence. Which he does and lands in a briar patch. That is why I always wear long pants. Guess who was wearing shorts! So the sheep are trapped. They can only go through the gate. Except that they don't; they just stand in the grass and eat. We are pretty darn tired by this time and it isn't even 9am yet. We stand for a while trying to figure it out. I finally get Alessia to quit singing. Yael encourages them yet again. "You are doing so well. We're all so proud of you. You can do it. See the gate is right there." It works. And the sheep are shifted at least for now.
So Friday was get here, finish up work that Dan and Yael get paid for - he's finance and specializes in helping corporations turn around. Yael is a computer person. So long distance wireless is fine for an afternoon. My job was keeping my two-year-old granddaughter Alessia occupied. I had the hardest and most rewarding job.
Friday night started the Sabbath and since my son and his family are modern Orthodox Jews (I am Conservative myself but follow the house rules as best I can) there is no work on Saturday. Sunday was devoted to moving a neighbor's fallen tree (free firewood which Dan gets to chop up). Did I mention that the main house is heated by two wood burning stoves? Yup. My pied a terre (can you have one of those in the country? I guess so since I do). Anyway my digs (local jargon) are over the 3 car garage. And I am campaigning for an electric heater. Odds are good that I'll get it. Old bones and all that. We have electric heaters for the bedrooms. Burying yet another stupid possum; setting traps, etc. etc.
So Monday is moving the cows and sheep day. Must be; its on the white board. Dan and Yael go down to move the cows. I stay with the kids. See a pattern here? Just wait. Dan and Yael come back. The cows moved fairly easily. Probably because I wasn't there for the love fest. But! And there is always a but on a farm. The cows had broken off the ballcock in their water trough and so it had run and run and run. Pretty much drained the water tank that services all the paddocks. The rest of the day was spent borrowing parts (there is nothing open on the Queen's birthday, except Buckingham Palace I assume). With the aid of one of NZ's greatest neighbors, Merv, the thing is jerryrigged but not permanently fixed. and the pump is not working properly.
The sheep still need to be moved. If they aren't moved, they get parasites in the paddocks. Parasites are bad; in our tummies or in theirs. So off go Dan and Yael to shift the sheep.I stay with the kids. Time passes; way too much time. Alessia is fretful; she is a child of charming directness. Where is dinner? Her younger sister, Naavah, at 5 months is asking the same question with ever increasing intensity. I can feed Alessia; no such luck with Naavah. She is being breast fed and has not taken to the very occasional bottle and anyway there is not expressed milk available. We wait and scream. All three of us.
Dan and Yael return. They have chased those sheep up hill and down dale. But it is dark and the sheep aren't going anywhere. We'll all try tomorrow morning before they race back to Auckland and their busy lives. It is decided that I'll stay on the farm and watch out for birth-giving ewes. That time is on us. I'll write about that another time. If I survive.
Tuesday morning bright and early we go to shift the sheep. The kids are once again in the car seats and the car is parked across the road to prevent any strays racing for the highway and freedom or death. Dan gives me two green cloth grocery bags to put over my hands. My job is to stand wherever he places me and wave like a semiphore if the sheep turn in my direction. So up the hill I hike. Through dung, pot holes, thigh high grass (wet of course). And stand at my appointed post. Dan tries to block off another part of the very high hill. Yael is to move the sheep along the fence line toward the open gate which is luckily almost oppposite the gate of the paddock into which they should go. She croons to the sheep; sounds just the way she croons to Naavah as she gives her child a bath. "This way sheep. You'll like it in the new paddock. That's the way. It's all right sheep. We're doing fine." Except we aren't. They race toward me. I semiphore for all I'm worth. I guess it was too much. They wheel around Yael in a flanking operation that Patton could have orchestrated. And back over the hill they go. Toward Dan. Who now runs back up the hill to head them off. He doesn't make it.
Eventually they huddle down in a crevasse near the fence. I go and semiphore (more softly this time) and they move toward the gate. Dan comes down the hill; Yael croons them through the first gate. And across the road they go toward the awaiting gate. And then Alessia, bored with the whole thing, starts to sing. Appropriately enough it is Baa Baa Black Sheep but sung with fervor. Which in the case means loudly. The sheep stop, begin to wheel but Yael is close behind and I am in front with the green bags. They reverse back toward the hill. Nope; Dan's coming. In order for Dan to get in position in time, he has to jump the fence. Which he does and lands in a briar patch. That is why I always wear long pants. Guess who was wearing shorts! So the sheep are trapped. They can only go through the gate. Except that they don't; they just stand in the grass and eat. We are pretty darn tired by this time and it isn't even 9am yet. We stand for a while trying to figure it out. I finally get Alessia to quit singing. Yael encourages them yet again. "You are doing so well. We're all so proud of you. You can do it. See the gate is right there." It works. And the sheep are shifted at least for now.
Sunday 5 June 2011
Herding Cattle
Well, I've been in New Zealand for a month now and my old life seems pretty far away. It is cool and damp here while the Prescott weather sounds heavenly. I have a hard time getting my mind around the fact that we are in late Fall here entering into Winter. It is more obvious on the farm where I see dying grass, leaves changing, and heavier coats on the lifestock. I have spent about half my time at the farm which is great. I love it there but it is very different.
New Zealand has a tremendous problem with possums. There are about 20 million of them and only 4 million humans. The humans are serious about saving the trees, the nature, the environment in general. The vastly over populated possums are intent on destroying anything that grows. Dan has about 20 acres of protected woodland which is quickly being destroyed by the tree eating possums (they start with the bark and eat in and up). I won't even mention in the impossibility of harvesting anything from our vegetable garden or fruit trees. Literally not a single morsel has been left for us unless we want to eat the half chawed fruit contemptuously tossed on the ground. So Dan bought a trap. A trap that kills. Not a nice politically correct trap that allows us to move them to another area. There is no other area. So, here we have this bright yellow trap that kills the critters (instantly and humanely if killing can so be described). But Dan is only on the farm for one or two days a week. Who is to empty the trap, bury the carcess and reset the trap? Guess! So far I have accounted for 7 possums in 7 days. And this is not in the woods - oh no, it is literally on the sidewalk running around our house. So here I am in the driving rain digging yet another grave. Did you know that dirt is very heavy when it is wet? I didn't; I do now. Possums are inordinately fond of apple slices sprinkled with cinnamon. Which reminds me, I'll be at the farm for most of next week and should go to the store and buy more cinnamon. Have I moved beyond my old theory of never killing anything? Yes and it took New Zealand to do it. Starting with that white tail spider that almost cost me my leg and moving through the bee and wasp stings and now watching the oranges, grapefruit, figs (I love figs) all eaten by possums, I have decided that I will embrace the them or me philosophy.
Lest you think that I have turned into a slavering killer of all of Mother Nature's creatures, I have to tell you that I have bonded with the cows. All 8 of them. When we got them I was still in Prescott. But I heard the stories. The cows were supposed to have been hand reared and easily led. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Every farmer on the mountain has made it a point to tell me between gales of laughter of Dan and Yael "herding" all 8 cows to pasture. It took over 3 hours and the cows continually bolted off down to the main road and had to be gathered again. The kids were in their car seats with the car parked across the driveway so the cows could not actually get into the main thoroughfare. Dan still doesn't think it funny and Yael somehow managed to stay in Auckland the day Dan and I moved them to new pastures. One of the farmers had told me that I needed to get the cows used to me. Remember I am all alone on the farm and if I have to "shift" the cows (local jargon), I need them to trust me. So every rainy, cold day, I walked a mile down to the far pasture with an armful of hay singing 'Bossie, Bossie". The first day they almost crashed through the fence trying to get away from me (I refuse to believe it could have been my singing.) But after a few days, they accepted me and would edge toward the hay and start eating as soon as I began the trudge up the road to the house. Why is it that a mile down is so much faster than a mile up? Don't answer. I would like to think of that as one of the great riddles of the modern age. By the end of the week, they would come up to me while I still had hay in my hand. All except one. I didn't fool her for a second. She stood off to one side waiting for her sisters to collapse from the poisoned hay.
So finally it is Sunday and here comes my son and heir. We are going to shift the cows. They see Dan, and skitter away from him but in the right direction up the road. My job is to get behind them and nudge them up ever up toward the higher pasture. Dan will make sure they don't go too far or veer off the roadway. Sound simple? May I remind you that I have been handing out tasty bovine treats all week. Well, I would never leave that hand that gave me Godiva chocolates and those cows weren't leaving me. Except for old sour puss who continued to act as if I were Typhoid Mary. She walked over to the tall grass and started chowing down. Exit cow, stage left. The rest wouldn't move for love or money. Stick with Terry, she has to have the hay somewhere. So down comes Dan, disgusted with my lack of herding skills. They see him. They run. All the way down to the main road. Luckily we have shut the gates. Repeat. Several times. Finally sour puss takes off up the hill and almost all the cows follow. I thought Dan would be pleased but it seems that it is the kiss of death for the herd to separate. I finally have to lightly tap my most fervent admirer to get him (castrated bull) to move. He keeps looking behind him to make sure I am close enough. Yes, the old lady is following; but no hay. He bellows to express displeasure and dumps a load right next to my feet. I spring lithely aside but the romance is over. No more hay. I have become too accepted and they won't heed their leader. So no more Mrs. Nice Guy. I'd rather be obeyed than loved. Particularly considering the type of gifts I have received (or would have if I hadn't jumped).
So, we are recruiting for two week stays on the farm. All are welcome. Come catch a possum, bond with a cow, get rained on. Whichever is your pleasure, we can make it happen for you. Oddly enough, I am having the time of my life. Serious life altering events.
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