The Bug

The Lord family has been laid low with a malevolent stomach bug that ran right through all of us (pun intended). Naavah got it first but being the last of the 2-year-old Stoics, simply reported that her stomach hurt. Since she continued playing, etc. we didn’t pay too much attention. That is until we saw that she had been vomiting into her quilt. Not a word, no complaints, just soldiering on.

Her sister, on the other hand, made sure the entire family knew when the bug bit her. This was at 1 in the a.m. and from then on, she stayed in my bed with me. We quickly got into a routine. She would vomit, I would take the basin and clean up. I would return to the bed, continue the story I was telling her until the next episode. Once she realized that we were very sorry she was sick but that there was little we could do, she settled down and was as stoic as her sister.

She was over it within 12 hours. Dan and Yael took 2-3 days and I was flat out for 6 and have been staggering around ever since. This getting old stuff is sooo much fun!

What with the bug, etc. it was 5 days before I could drive around the farm to see how things were doing. The answer is: not too well.

First, the steers took advantage of my relaxed vigilance to kick over their water trough and so were without water for several days at least.

 

Next up were the bugs. No, not the bacteria type; the eat everything that grows type of bug. As an example, most of the corn is gone. Not a trace. There are a few scattered stalks and you can see from the picture how well they're doing.

The possums have totally destroyed my roses. I am livid but there is nothing to do but wrap the plants in netting and pray.

However, there is some good news. This hot, humid weather has been great for my tomatoes. I should make a ton of tomato sauce from these glorious specimens. Most of the plants are heritage tomatoes so I am looking forward to finding out what the taste differences are. Probably the difference is that the heritage tomatoes actually have a taste. 

Shearing Season

It is shearing season once again and I thought you might like a quick view of our miracle lamb. She's the one in the center facing us. Remember, she was born during the last shearing and everyone thought she would die. Obviously she didn't. I feel a special affinity for her and love to see her hopping and leaping in the paddock (running away from me as fast as she can just like all the others).

The rest of the family was back in Auckland so it was up to me to "supervise". This always elicits a few chuckles from family and friends. John is more than capable of doing the whole operation on his own. In fact, this time he almost had to. He didn't call me went he got to the shearing shed so I had no idea he had started.

On a vague whim, I drove down to check on how the sheep were doing since they were cooped up waiting. John was there and so were 4 sheep already shorn. I told you he was more than capable. Anyway, my heart stopped as I saw one ewe with blood trickling down the side of her face (see picture). I stuttered as I asked John if that was something I should be concerned about. "Nope," he answered, "Sheep heal quicker than about any other animal."

Maybe so, but she bled the whole 3 hours. Not only that, by the time John finished, the place looked like an abbatoir. You can see how closely they are confined. As she moved around, she wiped her blood all over the pretty shorn coats of the rest of them. Not a pretty sight. I was just glad the girls weren't here. I have no idea how I would have put a happy spin on that one.

I checked on the flock this morning and the overnight rains have washed the fleeces and I can't even figure out which ewe got nicked on the ear. I guess they are quick healers. Lucky for them!

Market Garden Update

It has been a few weeks now since my last blog on the market garden (MG) so here is an update. A few weeks can be a lifetime in the Spring garden and I wish I could say that was the case for the MG. But it’s not.

The bugs continue to win what I now consider to be a very unequal contest. As you can see, the tomato plants in the foreground are struggling to survive. Only one bean plant (in the back of the tomatoes) is growing and that is a replacement for its 9 dead relatives.

 

I have scattered tomato plants throughout the garden and most of them are still alive which I guess means the battle is still being waged. But they are obviously in some distress. I water every day which is a worry since it is very early in the season to be using so much water. I read somewhere that beneficial bugs live under soggy logs so I have started importing some. We’ll see.

The only area in which I can claim success is as a possum burial site. Dan and I inter our possum kills right in the soil. Dan thoughtfully makes sure that the tails are left exposed (that is what you can see directly below the corner of the white board). This is so that when I plant seeds or seedlings, I don’t inadvertently dig into a carcass.

 

There are so many things I never dreamt I’d be doing. Burying possums; catching snails and using them for chicken protein; cleaning out barns and chicken coops; hauling water, etc. etc. I look back on the Suburban Terry with some astonishment. Did I really expect to go through life never being in touch with the reality of food production? I guess so. I honestly never thought about it. This adventure has truly changed my life. I hope I am more humble. Losing the ongoing battles to a bunch of insects surely is humbling enough to do it for me.

How Did They Do It?

 

Now that I am struggling with the organic garden concept, I look back on our evolutionary progress (?) with great puzzlement. How did they do it? I can’t get a lousy 9 bean plants to survive in the natural environment. How on earth (pun intended) did our ancestors move from hunter/gatherers to farmers and survive?

I am not saying that I share my beans and peas with the earth and all its critters and insects. I am saying that I am ceding my beans and peas to them. Look at the picture. Where do you see 4 and ½ plants surviving to feed me and my family? Nowhere! The critters and insects have demolished the whole crop and have moved in on the peas. How did those ancestors manage to grow enough for them to survive?

I am still faithfully (and it takes a whole lot of faith let me tell you) planting my cherished seedlings in the market garden. They are protected by wood plank walls and bird netting and still they are nothing more than a portable feast for whatever.

I am also planting seeds directly in the soil. The soil, by the way, which is overrun with weeds.  Remember all the paper we smoothed out and then laid out?  How about the top soil, compost, and mulch? Remember them? My aching muscles do. Dan and Yael’s aching muscles also vividly remember. But the weeds were born without shame and continue to thrive in our organically correct market garden. I just pray that enough of our plants thrive to feed us this Autumn and Winter. But I’m not too optimistic.

Organic Hand Care

Before I give you my soon-to-be patented recipe for hand care, a little background is required. It is now Spring and the torrential rains have pretty much petered out. So in our never ending attempt to conserve grass, Dan has come up with a complex grazing system. This system includes polytaping (electrified fencing) off parts of the tree sanctuary in front of the house (see above photo). The blue box in the lower right covers the battery. 

But the important part of this picture is that round, blue container set in the paddock. It is filled with water. How do I know? Because I filled it just before I took that picture. The down side of this grass conservation system is that the water troughs are often not located where the fencing and cattle are. In comes the intrepid grandma, hose across shoulders, climbing the fence and dodging cow patties on her way to the trough. Still it's better than last week when the hose system failed and I had to haul buckets of water to both the steers and the sheep - twice a day!

That aside, it's time for the first part of my recipe: get splinters in your hands from the rough wood fencing.

The second ingredient comes from my love of flowers; in this case roses. I have planted 5 different rose bushes in containers around the house, wrapped them in chicken wire (possums also eat roses!), and walked out to see if there are any blooms at least twice a day. There aren't any blooms but there are aphids. Not my favorite pest but there they are.

I go to my handy gardening magazine and it tells me to spray with a fish emulsion mixture. I do that. My hands get liberally coated and stink to high heaven for days. I usually sleep with one hand under my pillow but until the mixture wears off, I find myself sleeping as far away from my hands as possible. Not an easy feat.

So fish emulsion is my second ingredient. The splinters have opened up wounds in my hands and wrists and the emulsion is able to penetrate beneath the skin. So far all is working well.

The third ingredient is the aphids themselves. Oh, didn't I mention that the fish emulsion had absolutely no effect on the aphids? So I moved on to Plan B which involves manually crushing the aphids and squooshing them off the buds and leaves. This puts the squashed aphids on my hands. The aphids then enter beneath the skin by sliding in on the fish emulsion.

Dan and Yael have now screened off the whole market garden. It is quite an accomplishment. I am able to walk around in there standing upright. And it is big, really, really big. After an incredible amount of discussion, we decided to locate the garden there in the middle of our fruit orchard. Any number of reasons but there is water nearby, it is flat, it is not taking a grazing paddock out of circulation. An excellent decision but there is one drawback (of course).

The drawback is snails. They are all over the paddock, the grass, and the trees. So the girls and I go out to catch snails. And (this was my idea, I'm thinking of writing it up for some agricultural journal) we take the snails back to the chickens for their weekly protein. Everybody wins! Well, maybe not the snails.

So the girls and I go out and we average about 40 snails a trip. Not bad? Ha! I read this reminiscence from a woman who tells of being hauled out of bed by her father so that they can go snail hunting at night. It seems the little slimeballs are nocturnal. I hadn't known that. So the next morning I go down right after feeding the chickens. The girls are back in Auckland and I bag 412 snails. I'm not kidding: 412. My chickens have erected some kind of golden idol to me and genuflect when I pass. I have not reached that height again but I average way past the old record of 40 snails.

And that brings me to the final incredient. Remember, we have the open splinter wounds, the fish emulsion and the aphids. Now we have snail slime. This coats the hands and keeps them moist. So what do you think? Any takers for investing in my hand lotion company? Well, let me know.

Chickens Are Not Cheap

Chicken feed is even more expensive than cat food. Wood shavings are pretty darn pricey too. My cat uses the great outdoors so I don't have the kitty litter bill to compare but all in all, chickens are not cheap.

They are also expensive in terms of time and emotional energy. We'll take the time element first. In order for them to get the maximum daylight they require for optimal egg laying, I have to let them out of the coop at sunrise and return them at dusk. So what's the problem? The problem is that I occasionally (like always) prefer to stay in bed past 5:45am and as dusk falls I prefer eating chicken to chasing chickens.

As twilight creeps over the mountain, here I am darting to and fro chasing our feathered friends. I am convinced that chickens are really very bright and I read an article recently that confirmed it. In some areas chickens out think human toddlers! It's for sure that all 6 of my chickens can outthink me. They can also outrun me.

For a few days I thought I had trained them to come into the coop at dusk as I poured that dearer than gold chicken feed into the feeder. Then just as I was congratulating myself, 3 showed up and 3 were AWOL. I spent about a half an hour searching in the gathering gloom before they magically appeared at my feet. I still have no idea how they do that, but it is becoming a regular thing now.

Emotionally they are very taxing. They seem happy enough but they won't leave me alone for a second. I can't weed the garden because they hop up onto the beds and peck away right next to my trowel. I can't walk with my granddaughters because both of the girls are needlessly terrified of the chickens and Naavah's screams could pierce the clouds. Alessia runs for the fence, bolts over and dodges into the garage. I don't have to do anything to protect the kids since the chickens are totally uninterested in any human being but me. They walk with me weaving dangerously around my feet and chatter constantly.

And that brings me to another thing, my 8 month old grandson has perfected the chicken squawk and I am constantly whirling around thinking that one of the hens has gotten into the house. Why not? They get into everything else. Frankly it has been a nightmare. There is chicken poop everywhere. The gardens are a hen scratched mess and I back out of the garage at 1/2 mile an hour because they KNOW I'm in there somewhere and are determined to flush me out.

So far the fences and the gate have not been enough to confine them so on Sunday we pulled out all the stops. We clipped the wings of every last one of them. Now perhaps I'll get some peace.

Frustration Continued

I promised you the rest of the story. Here it is. While I was madly winding polytape and shooing steers, I was also chasing chickens. This was not new. I was spending about 2 hours a day crouched down waving my arms as I herded the flock back from the forbidden zones.

The problem was that there were way too many of these zones. I had to keep them out of the steers' paddock for fear they would electrocute themselves. I had to keep them out of the farm buildings for the damage they would do. And, most importantly, I had to keep them out of our gardens and the raised beds. To that end, I carefully squeezed myself through the gates to keep them contained in the chicken area.

You can see from the above  picture how well that worked out. They just flapped their (supposedly clipped) wings and hopped over. Now I was forced to keep the garage doors closed so they wouldn't join me for tea in my apartment. Since I provide the chicken feed twice a day, I am Queen of the Hill. They follow me everywhere! I can't move without them. And they're smart. By the time I have raised the garage door, they are lined up there waiting for handouts. So while I am frantically trying to contain the steers, I also have to contend with the chickens.

But that's not all, folks. We now come to the sheep. All 30 sheep were supposed to be getting to know each other in paddock #3. So imagine my excitement when I glance up the hill at #4 and there they are. Thrilled does not begin to cover it.

About 10 of them are strolling happily through #4. This is one of the paddocks which is 'resting'. Dan has an intricate system of grass rotation that kept our stock happy and well-fed even through the worst drought in 50 years. He plans to continue that success this year. But not  if we have errant sheep wandering around.

So in my spare time I hike over and shoo the sheep back into #3. I can't find any gaps in the fencing so I figure one of the neighbor's kids forgot to latch a gate and then latched it on a return trip. I was wrong. Several hours later, the sheep are back again. Only 4 this time but in a way that makes it harder to herd them. A flock with large numbers tends to stay together and a few scattered ones will just run all over the place.

But my big problem is to figure out how they are getting in. It takes a while but I manage to get all 4 of the Suffolk sheep back to #3. Then it dawns on me: the sheep were shorn last Sunday! Aha. Move over Mr. Holmes. Shorn sheep are much smaller than woolly ones. The little suckers were scooting under the gate.

While I am gathering wood to barricade the gate, some of the sheep reappear. This time I herd them while dragging a fair sized log. Strange to say, I manage this feat. Now my solution might not be elegant, but it worked.

Frustration

 

Today was the first day since I got here that I seriously thought of ditching the farming dream and finding something easier to do, such as ditch digging or Formula One racing.

It all started with my final stock check the evening before. Chickens were safely in the coop (after a spirited half hour around the paddock chasing them). The sheep were all gathered safely in their favourite paddock, #3. And the steers, I thought, were bedded down in the new barn paddock. I was half right. They were bedded down, but in the barn itself, not in the grassy paddock.

My dilemma was what to do. They were lots bigger than I, it was almost dark, and the polytape (portable electrified fencing) was down and dragged through the paddock. So I called Dan. The result was that I found a working flashlight (a success in itself) and went out to repair the tape.

But first I had to get the steers out of that nice, warm, dry, hay-filled barn and into the cold, damp paddock. I did it. I won’t tell you how in case some animal activist reads this and reports me. But they left. Unfortunately for me, they like me and wanted to hang around and be chums. So I was constantly shooing them back so they wouldn’t tramp on the tape as I wove my way around the paddock, rewinding the tape; the flashlight in my mouth. My teeth still hurt.

Finally I get the tape reset, unhook the battery, then clamp the yellow lead, re-hook the battery, listen to hear that the gismo is working. I hear nothing but my sinuses are so stopped up I couldn’t hear Pavarotti if he were still around to belt out an aria.

I wake up the next morning in the blissful belief that I solved a major problem last night and that things can now return to normal. Just shows how wrong one person can be.

The polytape is down again. The cows have decimated the hay in the barn and the entire floor is covered with cow dung. This time I can’t even find the yellow lead that electrifies the tape. I shoo out the steers. I am getting quite good at this. Then I start winding up the polytape to keep it out of the muck and mud. I figure I have 2 options. I can try to move the steers to another paddock by myself or I can let them destroy the barn. I’m not particularly thrilled with either option.

But somehow they have managed to pull apart the fencing gismo and there is no way to prevent them getting back into the barn. So I mull over my options as I rewind the tape yet again. And then my miracle happens. As I am about a third of the way through winding, the yellow lead comes up wrapped around the tape.

So I threaten the boys with bodily harm, or grilled steak, and chase them across the entire paddock so I have time to rethread, re-hook and reattach everything. I must have finally done it right because ever since they just sit and look at the gismo, but they don’t touch.

In my next blog, I’ll tell you what else happened to me on my day of frustration. Right now I am just too whipped to write any more. Til next time!

 

I Flunk Yet Again

In this prolonged apprenticeship to farming, I have been subjected to many tests. I have scored poorly on most of them but on Monday (Yes, yet another misspent Monday) I outright flunked.

It all started on Sunday when John came to shear the sheep. The girls and I walked down to watch and I had a chance to vent about only getting 3 lambs this year. I had unwittingly thrown sand in the faces of the farming gods. Naavah got restless so this next part of the story took place after I had walked her back home; I didn’t witness it myself.

John is shearing away, speedily and with great gentleness when out pops a lamb just as he grabbed the mother. This was something of a surprise but Dan and John bedded the new mother and infant down in hay away from the turmoil and finished shearing.

It was almost dinnertime when Dan raced back up to the house (Alessia had long since returned, dropped off on a coffee run). He was as close to distraught as I had ever seen him. The lamb was in distress. So Dan and Yael went down to try to nurse the lamb. They were gone for hours! And hours. Finally they returned, damp eyed and dejected. The lamb wouldn’t eat. The mother wouldn’t cooperate. And the lamb was lying inert on the hay.

Since the next day was Monday and Dan had early meetings, the family had to head down to Auckland that evening. That left me alone on the farm with a dying lamb. My instructions were to go down to the shed in the morning and bury the lamb.

So with a heavy heart and great misgivings, the next morning I finished my morning chores. Then I stalled around a little longer and it almost noon when I finally grab the shovel and head down. As I approached the yard, I see Mama standing near the gate into the paddocks. I decide to get her safely into paddock #2 with the rest of the flock before tackling the funeral. I was a tad leery about how she would view my intrusion.

So I opened the gate and tried to shoo her through #1 and into #2. Fat chance! She bolts off into #1. While I am quietly cursing (I hate trying to round up stock from #1, aka Mt. Everest), I feel a nudging at my pant leg. There is a tiny, tiny lamb butting my knee.

As I bend over to croon to her, Mama lets out a roar of rage and flies down the mountain side and skids to a stop just out of arm’s reach. Lazarus deserts me in a New York minute, races up to Mama and the two sprint for family halfway up #2.

So perhaps I didn’t totally fail. I did get the ewe into paddock #2. But I just couldn’t figure out how to bury a live lamb. Call me an underachiever yet again.

Monday, Monday

Over forty years ago, I was lying on the operating table waiting to have a nerve in my finger reattached. The procedure was going to be to freeze my lower arm, operate while I was awake, and then send me home. Well, they froze my arm all right but forgot to tie off the arm so the freezing stuff didn't go through my body.  I kept saying that something was wrong but they were too busy discussing all the fascinating things they had done over the weekend to pay any attention. They kept reassuring me that it was normal to be apprehensive but everything was all right. I should have known better; kicked up more of a fuss. After all, this is the profession that came up with using the word 'discomfort' for PAIN!

Things weren't all right. They froze my heart and I was clinically dead. I remember hovering above the operating room thinking "this is a really stupid way to die". But then the doctor turned from chatting with his colleagues, saw what was happening, threw himself over my body and ripped out the needle". So I was saved to live to write this blog.

Ever since I have made it a hard and fast rule not to undertake any new venture on a Monday. People are always still half in the mind set of the weekend. Mondays just don't work out well for me. If I make an appointment on a Monday, they call back and reschedule, or cancel or shift me to someone else. If I live dangerously and actually have an appointment on a Monday, it will snow 17 inches (and that includes in August).

So when Dan and Yael came home one Sunday evening with 6 Brown Shaver laying hens and turned care of them over to me the next morning, I knew I was in trouble. This was partially my fault. I had wanted chickens for years. My friend, Marie, had warned me about chickens but I didn't listen. We would have eggs; we would dispose of kitchen scraps; and in the fullness of time, we would have roast chicken. What could go wrong?

After Sunday evening comes Monday and the curse continued. I got the chickens out of the coop and into the hastily wired enclosure. I fed them the correct amount of very, very expensive chicken feed. It seems that kitchen scraps have to be supplemented with proper chicken feed which makes what I spend on my grossly indulged cat seem like, well, chicken feed.

Then I went off to my daily chores. I returned barely an hour later to find that one of these supposedly dumb birds had found a way out of the chicken wire and had invaded the potting shed with the expected chaos. While I was trying to shoo her back to the enclosure, another prisoner made a break for it. This time through the wire and out into the forest beyond. I ran around like a chicken with its head cut off (oops!) trying to round up the escapees. Meanwhile the other 4 were squawking, running, and make their own prison attempts. It took almost an hour but I got them back.

Now, several days later, they have gotten me almost fully trained. I open the coop at 7:30 am, throw out fresh green stuff, clean the coop, rake the shavings, and search vainly for eggs. In the midmorning I again look for eggs. The first 2 days I got 5 each day, I am now down to 2 per day. The chickens roam the forest, the potting shed, just about anywhere they want to. I search everywhere for additional eggs but no luck.

At 6:00 pm, I go back to the coop area, bribe the hens with scraps and yet more chicken feed and literally make little trails of feed back to the entrance to the coop enclosure. Sometimes they humor me and come. Sometimes they don't. If they don't, I get out this long piece of metal and corral them between it and trees, or fence, or whatever and steer them in.

Then I walk all around the house to get into the enclosure and push them into the coop one at a time. I have found a big, fat stick for this so 4 of them go docilely enough but the last 2 fight to the final ditch. It is usually almost 7 pm before I am finished. If you factor in my time, these are pretty darn expensive eggs.

The Last Sunday of the Month

On the last Sunday of the month the tiny hamlet of Puhoi holds its Farmers' Market. Now don't be misled by the 'tiny hamlet' description,  this upper class enclave has a museum, a one-room library, a pub, a hotel and a general store. It also has substantial monies. It is located a good 20 minutes closer to Auckland than my more middle class town of Warkworth and caters to a more upper class resident.

I figured it would be both fun and educational to attend their monthly farmers' market. So Dan and I loaded up the girls and off we went. No, we didn't forget Yael and Jesse. Yael is nursing a whopper of a cold and Jesse always hangs around his food source.

It was a drizzly kind of day and since it is still winter here, there were only a few market stalls open but the variety was there. We had a great olive oil stand with all kinds of olive oil and lime, or nuts or peppers, or whatever. We bought a bottle for Yael which she loved and took back with her to Auckland (probably so I couldn't sneak some).

There was a display of outdoor wood furniture with the carpenter there. He appeared to be doing a roaring business. Dan talked for a long time with a bee keeper who will bring you hives and supply the bees. In return you sign a contract and get part of his proceeds when he harvests the honey. Since bees are always welcome, particularly as we are increasing the plants here on the farm, I think we may sign up.

There were handcrafted quilts and stuffy toys, plants of all sizes, silver jewelry with upscale prices and a soap maker. I couldn't resist this one; I bought a cinnamon soap. It smells great. I'll let you know if it actually cleanses as it seasons me. Perhaps it'll put a little spice in my life. Sorry, I never could resist a pun!

Puhoi wisely places this market next to a playground and various kids of all sizes gravitated there. So did ours. I spent a lot of time pushing swings and watching all the activity. Lots and lots of people brought their dogs. But these were different breeds than those I see up in Warkworth. Here in Warkworth I see lots of working dogs - by which I mean herder dogs. In Puhoi I saw what I can only assume are pure bred animals of breathtaking beauty but bearing little resemblance to working dogs.

Before we left, we visited the library and two lovely ladies oohed and aahed over the girls. One lady showed us a refurbished rocker - child size - and asked Alessia and Naavah to be the first children to sit in it. They were quite honored and I think it was the high point of their visit. No, the high point was definitely their fresh-squeezed orange juice. Squeezed right in front of them. Can't beat that for value.

We had so much fun and learned so much from talking to the stall owners that I hope we can make it a regular part of our monthly schedule. When we got back, we all talked about ways to enlarge our farm operation and we voted unanimously to finally  take the plunge and get some chickens. I'll let you know how that works out in the next blog. Til then!

The Market Garden

 I have spoken before about our massive garden, aka The Market Garden. It has so taken over our lives that we have very little time for anything else. It is a gigantic project and the whole family (except for 6 month old Jesse) is put to work.

 

I have bought a ton of seeds and propagating trays and Dan salvaged a perfect square window which I am using as a cold frame. The first seedlings are in. They are mostly cool weather crops such as spinach, radishes, pumpkins, and peas. While we are awaiting their arrival on the farm, the garden progresses.

 

Dan pictured a large (He sure achieved that!) garden with zones and walkways. He hired someone to put in the poles that will hold up the netting and serve as guides for the planking. The beds will be raised and we already have had 2 deliveries of top soil, mulch, gravel, and compost. All of these are wheel barrowed into place by Dan and now by Yael since Dan’s back went out. Are any of us surprised? Dan works all the time and something had to give.

 

I pretty much smooth out paper and babysit. What paper? Glad you asked. When my household goods were shipped here from the States, everything, and I mean everything including paper clips, was wrapped in white paper. Needless to say, we have a lot of it.

So Dan decided to use it. We smooth out the sheets of paper, cut up the cardboard boxes and spread the boxes and the sheets over the weeds inside the garden. Then we spread hay, then compost and top soil and finish off with the mulch. By the way, I use the royal “we”. I smooth papers; that is my total contribution. But a vital one, I’m sure.

 

The Jumper

Dan has been very busy working on our massive garden plot. One of our neighbors refers to it as The Market Garden. But he took time out to move the steers from paddock #1 aka Mt. Everest and asked my help. I put away all that vital stuff I was doing - cutting quilting squares, eating toast and honey, listening to Rod Stewart - and put my shoulder to the wheel.

Literally. My job was to park my car above the route to the quarantine paddock, rest my shoulder against the car, and wait. The plan was that when Dan rounded up the steers and sent them my way, they would have to turn down toward the correct paddock. And the plan worked. Well, 3/4th of it worked. Three steers moved out smartly and trotted down the hill. The fourth ran straight at the fence into #2 and clambered over it and sprinted away.

I took out after the 3 steers while Dan chased down the jumper. He gave up pretty quickly and joined me in putting the docile bovines into the correct paddock. Then, leaving me to guard the gate so the 3 wouldn't leave while the gate remained open to embrace Mr. Jumper, Dan headed back to paddock #1.

I waited. And I waited. And then I waited some more. Finally Dan arrived. Alone! It appears that the jumper decided he liked the thrill of the chase and jumped another fence. This one into an adjoining farm. We didn't know these people but they have a huge farm and Mr. Jumper could be anywhere.

Dan drove the quad over to the farm to see if he could find our steer but no luck. We got hold of the estate manager who does not live on site and arranged that we would drive the docile three to the neighboring farm, hopefully linking them up with the jumper and then herd all 4 back to the quarantine paddock.

This involved using the main road and was quite a hairy undertaking. Or so I was told. I remained at the house babysitting. Yael said they never could have done it without the aid of the estate manager and his fabulously trained dog. I've got to get me one of those. All I need is about $4,000! Perhaps later.

The end of this story is that the next day, the jumper was picked up and sent to auction. He had always had a wayward spirit as you can see from the above picture, and now he would be going to a larger farm with more stock where, hopefully, he would settle in. Our remaining 3 steers seem quite relieved to have him gone. And so are we.

You may be wondering why I chose this picture to open my blog. It's pretty simple. This is the biggest (pun intended) thing going on at the farm. Remember all those blogs about our drought? This is Dan's answer. Since it is seriously huge, we may never have to worry about the pond drying up again. The stock will always be watered and our new, massive garden will always have the water it needs to keep on growing.

But the process wasn't simple. First we had to have a road cleared from the shared road through the orchard, through the sheep yard and around to the back of the red, red barn (see above). Then a deep pit had to be dug, levelled, gravelled, levelled again and raked.

Then the water tank itself had to be delivered and left on its side. And finally, 3 men with machinery had to manuever it into position and lower it into the hole. Quite an undertaking. But we're not done yet.

Don't ask me how that last picture got in there. I can't figure it out and my techie guru, Yael, is feeding the baby so you'll just have to admire the gates to the new barn as well as the tank addition to the red barn.

Dan still has to install the gutters, filter system and machinery to make it all work. I'll keep you informed.

Moving Right Along

Things have been moving right along here lately. Our driveway is finished and is fabulous. No more potholes, no more mud slides, nothing but solid gravel. I think the kids could even ride their trikes on it.

The porch has steps again and the first coat of enamel is on and hard. Of course, one of the handrails is not yet attached but one can’t have everything and we rarely use that porch anyway. In the Spring we plan to put a bench out there and survey our domain. If we ever have the time to sit down.

So far our days are spent standing up and running from one job to the next. We have our first lamb of the season but several other ewes appear ready to pop and that calls for added vigilance. I don’t quite know why since there is nothing to do but call the vet in case of trouble but we all feel better checking the flock frequently.

The yearlings have settled in as if they had been born here. Dan and I shifted both flocks and the steers last week and it all went pretty well. The steers were the easiest. They trotted around the paddock, shied at the gate, and played hard to get but then ambled through and started grazing. No problem there.

The old flock (with all those pregnant ewes) was pretty placid too. The borrowed ram ignored us completely and the rest had that ‘above it all’ look they get whenever I come anywhere near.

The Suffolk sheep are wild beyond belief but even they eventually made it into #2. They ran up hill and down, outflanking Dan as they went. I had the tougher job of standing beyond the gate to prevent them from bolting down the wrong paddock. I did very well. I could apply for a job at Buckingham Palace as a Guard any time. "We also serve who only stand and wait". Dan gotten pretty winded tho.

I spent a few days down in Auckland with the family and an unanticipated additional day due to a dental emergency. I had not left enough food for that additional day for Smudge (cat pet and mouser extrodinaire). So I fretted that she would leave home and never return.

This led to a number of derogatory comments from my son and my daughter-in-law. Some of the kinder were to the effect that no cat ever had it so good. That I paid more for Smudge’s food then they did for the kids’ food. Not true but this Hill’s Science Diet is ridiculously expensive. But the best was that Smudge in 2 short months has gone from a sleek, slim cat to a ‘rotund’ tubby. Not true; she just has a very thick coat.

So I get back to the farm and race up the steps to my apartment and fill the food bowl. Then I go help Dan unload the car and put away groceries. When I return to my room, the cat bowl is half empty and Smudge is sitting there washing her face. I pick her up for a hello cuddle and she belches right in my face. Perhaps I have been overfeeding her just a tad. Til next time!

Nothing To Do

The other day I was speaking to a friend on Skype. Once again, thanks Skype, I don't think I could exist without you. I am, after all, very far down under here in New Zealand.

Anyway, my friend asked how I could bear it: living on a farm with nothing to do and nothing ever happening. So, here is an open blog to all of you dreamers who think I am spending my time eating bon bons and watching the rain fall.

My days for the past two weeks since my stuff arrived from Arizona has been spent unpacking. That is when I am not checking the stock, checking the water troughs, hiking down to get the mail, doing the activities of daily living - cleaning, laundry, etc. I do still eat, wear clean clothes occasionally, etc. etc.

Unpacking is a real challenge. You try getting the contents of a 4300 sq. ft. house into 2 rooms. I am not being too successful at it. I have managed to scatter some of my furniture into the apartment in Auckland and the living room in the big house here. But what do I do with my books and dvds? I stack them so that I look as though I'm living in the midst of some weird second hand book store.

While that has been going on, I have also been preparing the 2 freezers for the home kill which we should collect next Monday. This has involved getting a tow hitch for the station wagon, borrowing Dave's flat trailer, moving all the meat to the house freezer and cleaning and defrosting the coffin freezer in the garage. Note: there is a lot of water when you defrost a freezer and this is one big freezer. It is also a deep freezer and I can't reach the bottom of it without falling in. My solution has been to throw towels into the bottom, wait until they are saturated, pull them out with a broom handle and leave them to dry on the fence outside.

The tow hitch was Yael's contribution and Dan borrowed the trailer. So I have not been alone in all this. I never am. I am mostly an observer of the continuing construction of the garden. Dan has now gotten to the point where he and a neighbour are putting in the planks around the perimeter to keep out the loathsome possums.

The porch is still not finished. We can't paint in the rain and there is plenty of rain. The big house is heated by a wood burning stove which means we need wood. Dan takes care of that. Helping fell a neighbor's trees and getting the trees to chop up. Which he does and then splits them and stacks them ready to heat the house. I, on the other hand, have a nice little electric heater and my efforts at keeping warm consist of pushing two buttons.

Oh, and did I mention that while all that is going on, we are having the a new load of gravel put on the driveway? It seems that our poor, misused driveway couldn't handle all the moving vans and turned itself into a pitted pond of mud. Yael had to gun the wagon and surge up out of the driveway while making a sharp left turn in order not to get stuck. Scared me to death! Alessia thought it was funny.

So the next time you think of me, whiling away my time reading or snoozing in my cozy little nook, DON'T. The chances are that I am busier that I ever was back in the States. And loving every minute. Well, most of them anyway.

Strange Sentences

The other evening Dan called me. "Mom, I've been worried about you. I called a couple of times and there was no answer."

"I was out setting the possum traps."

This set me thinking. Of all the sentences I have spoken in these 68 years (I didn't speak at all until I was 2), the above sentence may be one of the weirdest. I grew up in Washington, D.C. As far as I know I had never seen a cow, definitely not seen one up close. And even more definitely, had no knowledge of possums, no desire to catch one, no blood lust to kill one. How things have changed! So here are some of my favorite strange sentences.

Yael and I are traversing Mt. Everest, AKA paddock #1, to bring the steers down for the home kill guys to dispatch them to the happy grazing grounds so we can have our next year's meat. Now that is a strange sentence. I had never linked live cows with my hamburger. Now I do and I have to say that our hamburger is delicious. Still, there is more than a twinge as my buddies for the past 2 years amble off for the last time.

Yael has graciously offered to sprint up the paddock and move the steers down in my direction where I will herd them to the next outpost.

"If I fall in a tomo, tell the kids I love them," she shouted as she skirted the tomo barricade. Now that's a strange sentence!

I have had my household stuff shipped from the states and the moving van has pulled up to our gates. Our driveway won't take the large van so they have driven a smaller van to transport my books,  bed, etc. from the gate to the house. It is a horrible day weather wise. It is cold, gray, and wet.

"The rain is coming sideways, so we'll have to pull the feeder truck in at an angle to try and keep your stuff dry." It took me a while to understand what he said and then I puzzled some more. What difference did the angle make when you have to carry the stuff across the driveway and and down into the barn or across another driveway and into the house? I still don't know but I occupy my many idle moments trying to figure it out.

When Dan and Yael went to a restaurant for dinner, placed their orders, and waited 45 minutes for the non-appearance of their food, they questioned the owner.

"Where is are our food?" they asked politely.

"Surf's up," came the reply. It seems the wait staff all booked to the nearby beach for play time and the diners were left to wait until the surf surge was over. The strangest part of this was that the owner didn't seem to feel there was anything strange about that at all!

I could go on and on. The stock boy, who in response to my query as to the whereabouts of light bulbs, stared at me fixedly and said "You're American!!" Now I wasn't in the wilds of Borneo, there are lots of us Americans here and we are all over the television (last season's shows, but still American). He had to have heard an American accent before, hadn't he? And besides, what was the deal with me being an American?

I have had a lot of strange reactions to America and my being an American. Perhaps that will be the next blog. See you later.

Meet Smudge

Meet Smudge! No I didn't name her but when I adopted her from the SPCA the name came with her. I might have chosen something else but I didn't have the heart to make her learn a new name along with a new home, new people to order about, new food, etc. So Smudge it is.

I probably could have taken over a small South American country for less trouble than the adoption process entailed. But I chose to adopt a cat. I have always had pets and these last few years flying solo have been lonely ones. Now that I have permanent residency, it seemed that I could settle in with a pet. A dog would have meant a lot of training and it rains all the time now so I couldn't picture myself outside doing the "Sit! Good dog." routine.

Off I went to the SPCA which is on the south side of Auckland near the airport. I live an hour north of Auckland near nothing. This meant that Yael had to bundle 3 kids in the car, give them morning tea in the car, and drive forever. She did it! I am so lucky. She kept those kids entertained while I wandered the cat aisles. Gorgeous kittens but we had decided that an adult cat was our best bet.

There were some fine ones but only one managed to uncoil herself from the back of the cage and come greet me, purring all the while. An hour later, a mound of paperwork, and significant inroads on my bank account later, she cuddled into her cat carrier, sat on my lap and took the long, long ride to the farm with nary a sound! I was congratulating myself on a wise choice.

One of the many papers I signed covered cat care for the first month. In it I promised not to let Smudge out of my room for the first week and not out of the house for the first 3 weeks. In this case, it meant a month in my room which was also my house. Two hours after leaving the SPCA Smudge went missing. Dan, Yael and I each separately searched my room. No cat. We searched the farm. No cat. We alerted the neighbors. No cat. Finally I sobbed my way back to my room and went to the hot plate to make myself a cup of tea.

There, behind the tea pot, sat Smudge gazing calmly at me. This was a Tuesday. By Saturday she had a roaring case of cat flu. On Monday the vet was so astonished at her temperature he took it twice. A procedure that Smudge made clear she did not appreciate. She was one sick cat. She didn't eat for 6 days. Or do much of anything for that matter.

Then she made a miraculous recovery and within 24 hours was catching mice. This has made her Yael's favorite non-person. Since she had been a farm cat in her former life, I expected her to adjust fairly well to this new life. She has exceeded my expectations. The remainder of her 3 week incarceration passed swiftly enough and the time came to "Let Her Out". (She talks in capital letters.)

So I let her out. I dreamed of doing some re-potting work on the deck on the left of the house in the picture while Smudge lay quietly in the sun adjusting to her new surroundings, smells, etc. I got the re-potting part right. However Smudge decided she didn't need any adjustments, leaped the railing and was off.

I called and called. I wandered around the house and yard over and over. It rained and rained. No Smudge. A day and a half later, I heard her meowing when I called but still no visibility. Finally I saw her up the hill lying on a woodpile watching me. She said hello but when I moved toward her, she ran off. Now I was cold, worried, and wet. And in a snit. I gave up and went to bed.

At about 9 pm I felt a cold draft on my neck as Smudge pushed open the door. Then she joined me for her evening snooze. She left in the small hours of the morning, returning periodically for food and friendship before disappearing again for most of the day. And that is how every day has been since her return. I have the companionship I dreamt of but on Smudge's terms. I can live with that. I've had cats before and you always end up in a relationship on the cat's terms. Reminds me of my marriage.

Photo Op

I have received a lot of feedback about my 'picture' of the sink hole: none of it good So I checked myself and sure enough, even I couldn't find it in that sea of green and I knew where it was. So, here is another shot. If you look directly below the fence on the right side, you can see a bit of the drop off.

Then I decided I might as well give you all a pictorial tour of the new stock here on the farm.

These are our 4 brand new yearlings (and the shadow of my Aussie-inspired hat). The little boys are yearlings, Angus of course and as  gentle as my grandson which is saying a lot. Right now they are in the quarantine paddock, which as you can see, is the only level paddock on the whole farm. We should move them up to another inaccessible mountain this weekend.

And these are our new, Suffolk sheep. We just bought them from a neighboring farmer and are very excited about them. They have a tendency to have twins, give a leaner meat, and have narrow shoulders which help them lamb more easily. All in all, they should be winners. We will wait until next year to breed them (they're still teenagers).

I have purposely not included the 2 steers and 2 rams ready for the home kill guy out of respect for their privacy in their last days of life. And our Romney sheep (Rambo's old flock) wouldn't let me get close enough to take a picture. Some things never change!

Death Spiral

Tuesday has now morphed into Wednesday and there is no improvement. Since I am to check the water tank every day, I did so today. It was losing water. I was instructed how to look for the leak and I did so and found one. Then it was up to the tank, climb over the fence and turn the valve.

Have you ever tried climbing a fence situated in a hillside where the ground beneath you is significantly lower than the fence rails? I have and I can’t do it. I pondered this a while and finally walked around the tank to the upper side, climbed on the fence and inched my way around and then dropped down inside next to the valve. All in the know how, folks, all in the know how.

I haven’t been feeling to knowledgeable lately. I still can’t find my gardening gloves and have to do things like climb fences bare handed. Not good for the manicure. Just joking; even I’m not crazy enough to pay money for a manicure given what these hands go through each day. I am still priming wood and my hands, and fingernails, are a bright, shiny white. And I didn’t have to pay a dime!

Dan asked me to move the 2 steers from #4 to #2. Sounds simple; only 2 steers and they’re both pussycats. Of course it’s not simple. Nothing is simple for me on the farm. First, I am obsessed with the idea of sink holes and stomp my cane through the paddocks as I gingerly pick my way toward the steers. Don’t laugh, there was an ancient city called Ubar in Southern Oman that fell into a gigantic sink hole when its underground caverns collapsed. It could happen here! Hence, my shuffle like walk.

This weird walk disconcerts the steers and they refuse to move gently into #2. Actually, they refuse to do anything I want. Instead they race merrily up and down the hill, sprinting, leaping, and in general acting as if it were Spring not Fall. So, after 6 gallant attempts up and down the paddock, I concede and go call Dan.

Up comes Dan with the much appreciated orange juice (yes, I have ANOTHER cold) and I plod around opening gates while Dan cajoles the steers meekly into the proper paddock.

It is while on gate duty that I see another dead sheep. We are fast mounting the death board around here. I know she was fine on Saturday but I didn’t check them Sunday since I was playing grandma all day with the girls. Monday morning I just looked up the hill but didn’t go into the paddock. I defy anyone to tell a dead sheep from all the surrounding sheep who are also lying down.

Anyway, Dan and I inspect the sheep. Now that was fun! We can’t see any obvious cause of death. She had been put with the ram so she might have been pregnant and aborted but there is no evidence of that. I don’t say this to Dan, but I think she could have died of a broken heart. It was one of her twin lambs who died in the sink hole. That nasty ole sink hole once again.

We ended up putting the steers in paddock #1 and they spent a significant amount of time inspecting the fence around the sink hole. It is said that cows rarely fall into sink holes but our guys looked as if they were challenging the local lore. Anyway, thanks to Dan’s prompt action, the sink hole is fenced off (see below) and we, hopefully, won’t have any more broken hearted mothers lying down and dying. In fact, I would just love it if this death spiral were to end. Right now!

 

Tuesdays

I always liked Tuesdays. Mainly because Tuesday meant that the dreaded Monday was a full week away. Wednesdays were always called ‘hump’ day. Big deal! That only meant that I had as many days of servitude to spend as I had already put in. Thursdays suffered because I always wished they were Fridays. And then the long-anticipated Fridays arrived. But it was too much pressure for me. What if all my weekend plans didn’t meet my expectations? What if (Horrors!) I had to work? Fridays were too anxiety provoking for me. Give me quiet, little Tuesdays.

No more. This Tuesday has made Job’s tribulations fade by comparison. Dan and I are sharing the painting duties for the new porch floor (see picture). So far I have not covered myself with glory in the painting department. It seems I have not covered the boards with a thick enough coat of primer. So today I have been concentrating on doing it right. If my hands are any indication, those boards have a very, very thick coat.

 

While waiting for paint to dry (my new favorite occupation), I unloaded the possum traps and put 2 more in the possum cemetery. Then I took a turn around paddock #4 to see if the water tank was leaking. This was the high point of my day. It was a beautiful, soft Autumn day and I was away from the paint fumes. I could feel my sinuses opening up with delight.

But then, back to reality. The paint still wasn’t dry so I tackled cleaning the oven. Now my father, Col. Lord of Patton’s cavalry, always said “Never volunteer”. Words to live by and I have. Up until now, I guess. I really don’t remember volunteering but here I was up to my elbows in oven grease. This whole task was a distinct shock to me. In the States, I push a button and my oven self-cleans overnight. No fuss, no fumes, no mess.

The house here is over 100 years old and I’m pretty sure the oven isn’t that old but it’s definitely pushing 50 and never been cleaned. I won’t claim it was a perfect job but given my arthritis (I always have another excuse or two up my sleeve), the fumes, the mess, the endless scraping, etc. I think I did pretty well.

While writing this blog, it occurred to me that I should give Mondays a break. They were only horrible when I had weekends off but now that I am ‘retired’, I work every day so Mondays are just like every other day. Okay, Mondays, you’re off the hook.