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!