The Tape Measure

When Dan was small, I got interested in sewing. I now sew clothes for my granddaughters, quilts, etc. To do this, I need cloth. So I carry a tape measure. It’s a wee, little thing that lives in the bottom of my purse. I whip it out whenever I come across a cloth fragment on sale to see if it will fit my current quilting project – whichever one that is.

So this round little metal disc housing the tape itself has been my constant companion for many years. Today I decided to use it to measure the grass. Yes, folks, the grass.

Dan had asked me yesterday to go to paddock #2 (where the steers are) and see if the grass was too short and if it was to move the steers to paddock #4. Now I don’t know what ‘too short’ means to Dan, or even to me. So I decided to measure it and report back to Dan for the definitive answer.

I went down into the garage to don my poor, bedraggled purple wellies. Constant farm use has taken its toll and my wellies are cracked, split and no longer waterproof. But they are all I have. I put out a hand to steady myself as I slip into the boot and touch a nice, big metal tape measure. Aha, I thought. Just the thing. I can drop it to the ground to measure and not have to hold my cloth tape in the wet, muddy grass.

So off I go. Through paddock #4 and into paddock #3. When I approach paddock #2 even I can tell that the grass is pretty well cropped down. But I measure just to make sure. It’s about 13 mm. So I set about opening the gates through which to usher the steers.

But the gate between #4 and #3 won’t stay open. So I get out my trusty old friend, the wee tape measure, and loop it loosely over the gate and the fence to hold the gate open. Then off I trot to open the gate between #2 and #3. Oh, did I remember to tell you that it has rained like crazy for days. Well, it has. And the paddocks are potholed mud pools. My porous wellies squelch through the mud and occasionally I have to bend down and pull my foot and boot up through the mud which seems to have become infatuated with my purple boots and wants them to stay.

I find the steers and try to urge them to come to the nice fresh grass but no dice. I give up and retrace my steps back into paddock #3. At this point 3 of the steers decide to join me and trot obediently into #4. Another one stops dead in the gateway and begins eating. The last bellows mournfully and again can’t figure out how to get through a gate.

I go back to help him but before I can get there, he spies my tape measure. And starts eating it!! Visions of having killed my first cow flash through my head. Then I begin postulating my explanations for the vet and more importantly, for Dan. “Well, you see, it was this way.” Since I can’t come up with a reasonable scenario, I take off after the steer who has playfully clumped his way halfway down paddock #2.

I alternate between slipping in the mud, pulling my boots out of the mud, and trying to get close enough to the steer to pull the tape measure out of his mouth. Luckily for me, the metal disc is the end that is not in the mouth. I get closer and closer. The steer looks up, sees me and scampers off again. Finally, he starts rubbing his head against the fence and the tape gets tangled in the wire. He leaves and I grab the soggy remains of my long time companion.

But I’m not out of the woods yet. The steer in the gateway decides to come see what all the fuss is about and has re-entered paddock #2. Thankfully, the last steer wanders off in the right direction and the explorer follows. I eventually manage to get all 5 into #4 and then retrace my steps to shut all the gates.

Now all I have to do is traverse #4 to the gate to the road, go back to the house, and clean all the mud off my clothes (I am pure mud from knee to boot and beyond). Oops, not yet. The herd has decided to congregate right in my path. I don’t care. I stomp up to them and they run up the hill away from me. Fine by me! But then they follow me, and slipping in the mud, scramble halfway down the hillside and come charging mere inches from me.

I figure I have had it and am just beginning to cover my head and roll in a ball when, with Herculean strength, the steers dig deep into the mud and propel themselves up the hill again. Believe it or not, they repeat this process twice before I manage to escape. That will teach me to tick off cows that outweigh me 10 to 1. Okay, 5 to 1.

Dan Bows to Reality

With the best will in the world, I am not a natural herder. That fact is one that Dan had trouble accepting. He can move the stock anywhere he wants and they placidly follow him, turn on a dime, and obediently trot into the appropriate paddock.

It is not so with me. I think we can best rate me as clueless novice. It’s not that I don’t want to help out. It’s just that every time I try, chaos comes knocking. Remember me running the whole flock into Dan’s face? How about scattering the seven steers all the way to the road and then watching them race a mile back up to the original paddock?

So when Dan called today to say that it was time to move the steers, my heart sank. It perked right back up though when he continued to reassure me that all I need do was open the gate between paddocks #1 and #2. The idea was that eventually the steers would wander over.

So I did. The steers kept well out of range and stood with no expression on their faces. I called them but of course they didn’t come. So I left. I climbed two of the gates and happened to turn around. There were the steers RUNNING toward the gate. One even did a ballet leap in the air. They literally pushed each other in their haste to get into paddock #2.

I waited until they were well inside and busy eating, climbed back over the two gates, shut their gate, went back and climbed the three gates to the road and went home. I can’t wait to tell Dan. I am now a herder! You just have to know how.

The Perils of Power Washing

Last week we had four days of sunshine and we decided to forge ahead with our plan to paint the house. The sun is really intense here and wreaks havoc on painted wood. And our house is old painted wood. So on to the first step which is hiring someone to power wash the house.

Out came this nice man with his powerful jet spray and chemicals and 7 hours later we had a pristine house. So pristine that I briefly thought we could hold off painting for another year but a closer inspection showed that we still needed the paint. But, I thought triumphantly, at least the roof is done.

The metal roof is covered with patches of lichen/mold (?) and a special  chemical spray is used to kill it. After a few months the patches just slide off, washed away by the ever present rains.

All was well for another few days and then I woke up feeling really, really punk. I thought I had some kind of stomach bug. But no! I'll spare you all we went through as Dan also succumbed to the 'bug'. But we finally figured it out. Petrhaps it was the bubbles and chemical scum that tipped us off. There had been a heavy rain, and all that lichen-killing chemical stuff had gotten into our water supply. I have a habit of not sleeping well and often make myself a cup of tea (or 2) in the small hours of the morning. I had done so that night but the water was full of some chemical and in the dark and my drowsy state, I hadn't noticed.

The rest of the family was due to head back to Auckland and I was to stay here on the farm. Great, except that I still need water. And Dan needed to drain our 3 huge water tanks. So here we are with 3 hoses spewing water into the paddock in front of our house in the middle of an all day deluge of heavy rains. That paddock is now one of New Zealand's larger swimming pools.

I am collecting water from the dehumidifiers (makes for a slightly metallic cup of tea) and rationing the bottled water we have on hand. For the first time I realize how lucky we have been. Our water is so clean and good that drinking it has been a positive pleasure. I am also running around every half hour checking to see that the tanks don't drain completely and burn out the pump. And of course, I check the hoses. These tanks are seriously huge and don't drain quickly.

Oh, and did I mention that it is still bucketing rain? Of course it is!

Cold, Cold, Cold

For all you Northern Hemisphere types, let me remind you that it is the dead of winter here. And it has been cold. Yes, cold! Right here in the midst of all this greenery, ferns, and even some flowers, we have had a few hard frosts. Now I grew up in Washington, DC and we had some cold winters. Not Maine cold, or even North Dakota cold but certainly cold enough.

The difference is that we had central heating, weatherproofed houses, and I must confess, appropriate winter clothing. None of which are available to me here. So I walk around wearing my trusty farm parka indoors and out. The farmhouse you see at the top of your screen is lovely but it is old. There is no weatherproofing. We had some kind of vine growing up through the floorboards in the living room when we first moved in. There is no central heating.  There is a wood burning stove and Dan devotes a great deal of his time to keeping it going at night.

In my rooms I have nothing to complain about (although that won't stop me). I have a portable heater and stay comfy inside. Its just going out that is problemmatic. I also worry about the pregnant sheep. They seem fine. They are still bunking in the horse stalls and Dan has carried water in for them at night so they don't have to venture out. And they don't. You should see the poo palace in the mornings after they leave for breakfast.

Still, it has its upside. I shovel up the poo infested straw and lay it in the garden beds. The strawberries are thriving despite the weather. I have mulched in this powerful straw and surrounded them with large stones (to reflect heat) and the hard frosts haven't stopped them at all. They are even flowering.

We are still trapping possums down by the red, red barn but up here in my garden not so much. I guess the lower paddock possum is a hardier breed. The cold and rain don't bother him and off he goes to the nearest trap. The house possums are a cannier breed and are waiting out the weather somewhere in the bush.

Did I explain that half of Dan's farm is 'bush'? That means unspoiled forest and undergrowth to us. It also means that it is protected and cannot be touched, cut, or cultivated by law! I still wrestle a bit with that concept. You bought a 40 acre farm, 20 acres of which you can't use. You have no control over its usage or in this case non-usage. To me it seems that the country has protected land that Dan gets to pay for and I guess take care of (fire, etc.). I don't quite understand but what do I know? I'm just a doddery old American trying to adjust to life down under (way down under).

Stoic Stock

Winter is strange here. At least it’s a puzzle for me. I can’t get my head around this southern hemisphere stuff and was seriously jangled to hear Xmas music at the peak of summer. Now the 4^th of July is coming up and instead of sun tan lotion and fireworks, I’ve got parkas and freezing temperatures.

But I don’t suffer alone. My stoic stock are out there right now in a vicious rain and serious wind. And I expect them to continue on their high grass diet. At that they are better off than most of the stock around here. Dan is trying to raise the soil level here so we are running very small herds of both the sheep and cattle. This cuts way down on the damage that they can do tromping around the muddy paddocks digging up divots with their hoofs.

This also means that there is more grass for them than there would be in heavier used paddocks. So our stock is still grazing off the good stuff while other farmers have already turned to hay for feed. The down side is that the grass is out in the paddocks not under the sheltering trees or in the horse stalls of the new barn. They have to get out into the weather to eat.

This they do all day long. Right now the steers are in paddock #3 which has the creek and all those willow trees so even denuded trees afford some shelter. The animals seem happy enough but I can’t figure out why they choose to spend their nap times in the gullies at the bottom of the hill. I would assume that these are massively muddy but perhaps they are more sheltered from the wind. Hobson’s Choice – wet and muddy or wind lashed and wet.

The sheep are better off. They can always go into the barn. Of course then they can’t eat but they can be dry. I have been worrying about them since they were recently shorn and all 9 ewes are supposedly pregnant. So I decided to make their shelter a bit more welcoming. After all a birthing center should be attractive.

Yesterday I took my trusty shovel and really great wheelbarrow and went to the barn for a quick clean up. No such thing when 10 sheep have been dossing down there for a week. I wouldn’t want to have to pop out my kid there (play on words alert!). Sheep have very poor personal hygiene and their residence reflects that. I started with the bigger stuff and tossed that into the paddock for the weather to deal with. The pellet poop I carefully gathered in the wheelbarrow (along with straw) and went to my raised beds. I was going to put the poop into the beds and work it in.

Unfortunately the rains came. And how! Its like some movie set for the rains of Ranjipoor or something. Too wet and too cold for me. So right now I am sitting in my snug residence and the poop sits in the garage below me. I am sure the sheep have some terse words about my personal hygiene right now