Personal Space

It finally rained here after more than two weeks of nada. Nothing but sunshine, sunshine, sunshine. It was horrible. I don't know how I survived not having to hike through calf-high mud, pulling wet, stringy hair out of my mouth while clad in my signature look of rain slicker and purple wellies.

But now everything has returned to normal and I stepped out this morning to a sparkling green world where everything smelled fresh. As I rounded the driveway, I did my usual morning head count of the sheep. There they were, all 9 of them, clustered in the horse stalls, warm and dry. Warm? You bet, all 9 were jumbled together like newborn puppies in their mother's basket.

So I started wondering. What about personal space? I know I have an invisible ring around my person and there are very few people I am comfortable with having step inside that ring. That is true with most people although the size of the ring varies depending on personal preference and cultural norms. In a country as crowded as Japan, I understand that personal space is mostly a perception thing. Great if you can do it. I can't. I need physical space. Don't keep touching me while trying to sell me something; I most definitely won't buy whatever you're selling. Even if its on sale.

But sheep seem to be different. There they were; a bunch of woolly bodies all entangled. I couldn't separate them visually into various bodies. They seemed fine with it. It is obviously part of their culture. When in the paddocks, they sprawl some separately, some together. Just a matter of where they land when they decide to snooze.

Is this true of all animals? I know my cats and dog would all sleep together. As low as my husband kept the temperature, it was a matter of body warmth or freezing to death. I used to bribe my pets to sleep with me just to stay warm. I continued my walk with that question on my mind. The steers were still down and gathered near one another but each body was easily distinguishable from the others. So personal space with dignity. Just what I would have expected from them.

I walked further and came to the lambs. Once again, all bunched together. I could separate each body only because they were 3 different colors but the white, the brown and the cafe au lait were decidedly intertwined. What did that propinquity do to the young ram? Did it bring on an unnaturally early sexual awareness? I know that both ewes are his sisters but does incest matter in the sheep kingdom? Yet another question I am too embarrassed to ask. Yes, I have others. The top of the list is how exactly does a rooster fertilize the eggs? When the eggs are still in the hen? When they are in the nest? Now you see why Dan keeps me secluded here at the farm. Either he doesn't know the answers or he's afraid I'll ask them out loud and some sane person will overhear.

Permaculture

I may have heard the word ‘permaculture’ but if so I don’t think it made an impression on my increasingly sieve-like brain. It is so different now! Dan has been reading up on permaculture. A fairly innocuous statement, you’d think. You don’t know Dan. The world lost a great researcher when he turned to finance.

For Dan to ‘read up’ on something includes following every website link to the bitter end; reading every printed word; and talking to anyone with any knowledge on the subject here, there and everywhere. Skype was designed specifically for him.

So when he informed Yael and me that he was thinking of applying the principles of permaculture to our farm, we sat very still. We didn’t dare look at each other because it would expose our total lack of knowledge on the subject. When Dan explained it – very, very generally – it sounded good but what did it mean? Did it mean more work? More money? Getting rid of RAMbo, et al?

So I started reading. Now my reading range is a dictionary definition, a book list from Amazon from which I read the blurbs, and one or two short books with lots of illustrations. I am presently reading “Sepp Holzer’s Permaculture” and a fascinating read it is too.

Basically I have to throw away everything I know about farming. Not too hard since I don’t know much of anything. Then I have to try to visualize an integrated, interconnected system of elements ranging from weather, topography, soil type, plants, preferences, animals, etc. etc. This is a lot to expect from someone who can’t visualize what her menu will be for the next day.

But I am trying. Yael caught me standing on the road gazing forlornly at paddocks #1 and #2 beyond the red, red barn. Being exceptionally well-mannered, she didn’t ask me what I was doing but I explained anyway. “I am trying to visualize what the paddocks need.” I could tell that this was way more information than she wanted. I’m pretty sure she went back up to the house to look up inherited insanity. She does have my granddaughters to think of, after all.

According to Mr. Holzer, “a permaculture landscape is designed so that all of the plants and animals living there will work in harmony with each other.” (I wonder if that includes RAMbo?)

I haven’t broken this new concept to the stock yet. Let them enjoy these warm, dry Autumn days while they can. Soon the knacker will come ( the person who ‘home kills’ and dresses our meat for our freezer). Then the 3 lambs and 2 of the steers give their all to keep us fed for the next year or so.

And the shearers will be back soon. I can’t wait. Perhaps then I’ll be close enough to see if any of the ewes are pregnant. With RAMbo strutting his stuff on a daily basis, I have high hopes. Alessia asked me if any of the sheep had ‘babies in their bellies?’ I was a bit startled at this bit of knowledge and stammered out a “what?” So she explained that “sheep have babies in their bellies like grandma had Daddy and Mommy had Naavah and me. And I had my baby” (Doggie, her stuffed constant companion). But she only had Doggie in her stomach at night. Why, I don’t know. But it would sure make things easier if we could all only be pregnant while we slept.

I have been researching (in my slipshod way) chickens. I still want them but have resigned myself to another breed other than Buff Orphingtons. This breed doesn’t seem to be available here. So I’ll settle for my second choice which is Rhode Island Reds. These chickens are both good layers and good eating. They also don’t seem to fly away. Did you know that chickens can escape through flight? Neither did I. I assumed they just walked into the road and committed suicide.

I also want us to try a different breed of sheep. There is a Wiltshire breed that is resistant to flystrike, doesn’t need shearing and often has multiple births. Obviously they are meat sheep only but that’s fine with me. I’m out of the wool cleaning business permanently.

RAMbo

The ram has been looking pretty spiffy these last few weeks. Compliments of his severe flystrike illness, RAMbo had to have a serious shearing. We had to cut away a lot of his wool to get at the maggots. He now is the proud possessor of a poodle cut. Yes, folks, possibly the only poodle cut ram in the North Island, perhaps even all of New Zealand.

And isn’t he proud of himself! He prances around our paddocks with all his old vim and vigor. Part of it is due to having Snowball, the young ram, in another paddock and part is he is no longer sick, but the majority is that he is now seeing himself as the Don Juan of sheep.

This has translated into, how shall I put this?, increased vitality. He is absolutely certain that he is irresistible to ewes. The ewes? Not so much. Yesterday, RAMbo was making an absolute pest of himself to the rest of the flock. He was everywhere, sniffing butts and making advances. I could almost hear him saying, “where’ve you been all my life, cutie.”  

The ewes were pretty forbearing, all things considered. They just continued grazing. Occasionally they moved a few steps out of the path of the damp nose but were fairly tolerant. Up to a point. That point was reached (pun intended) when the ram got down to business.

At first I couldn’t understand why they weren’t more enthusiastic but I soon saw why. First of all motherhood is not an unmixed blessing if you would be giving birth in a wet paddock in the middle of winter. Second, a girl likes a bit more individual attention than just being the fourth butt sniffed in the last four minutes.

But the third reason was the most compelling of all. RAMbo was definitely a ‘wham bam thank you mam’ ram. Three very rapid thrusts and its over and out. The ewe never even stopped eating. I doubt she had time to swallow. I am beginning to have serious doubts about the viability of this ram increasing our flock to any significant degree. He may have the desire, but his follow through is lousy.

Next time, a recap of what’s happening here on the farm now that Fall has arrived.

Back on the Farm

I just got back from Arizona where I had a great time catching up with old friends and reacquainting myself with myself with my home. But it was winter there and I ran into 27" of snow my first weekend back. Fostered idyllic dreams of New Zealand as I slowly (very slowly) shoveled my way out.

So I get back to Auckland and what do I find? That the warm, dry weather they have been having for the entire time I was gone is over. I brought cool, wet weather with me. Do you think I have a calling as a rain maker? Not the advertising type rain maker but the clouds hear me type of rain maker. If so, I can quit buying those lottery tickets and make my fortune that way.

So, how are things on the farm? They seem pretty much the same. The steers are still valiantly eating the pasture grasses down to an acceptable size. The flock (which consists of the ram and 8 ewes) seems fine. I am concerned about two ewes, tho. One seems to be battling flies and the other is lying around a lot. Luckily they are in the new barn paddock so all I have to do is cross the driveway to keep an eye on them. The ram has rejoined his harem now that we have moved the young ram (Snowball) to another field.

And Snowball is with the other two lambs. Both of these are black ewes. One is Starlight and the other is lamb #3. While I was gone, Starlight got flystrike and Dan had a heroic battle to save her. I think she is all right but she appears to be a bit weak and the poor thing has lost a lot of her coat. Still, its not all bad because we will be calling for the shearers in a month or so anyway

The fig tree has figs which amazes me since possums love figs. I can only figure that our possums are so fat on my raspberries, cherries, tomatoes, etc. that they couldn't climb our admittedly slender fig tree. I, however, simply bend  the branches and have a treat fit for a king. Or, in my case, a Lord.

If, when, it stops raining I need to dismantle my garden for the winter. Dan has thoughtfully filled the wheelbarrow with grass clippings so I first have to empty that. Then pick up the rest of the clippings around the yard and wheel them to the compost heap. I hope I can find it this time. I have a hunch that this is Dan's subtle way of making a statement about my aimless dumping wherever I want instead of actually finding the compost pile. Oh well, I'll worry about it later. Plenty to do. It's good to be back!