Farming Is Not For Sissies

I have just gotten back from a few weeks in the States and am ready to resume my life on the farm. At least I was ready. Now I’m not so sure. The family is here on the farm for a few weeks since there is no school and I love it when we are all together. So I thought I was really ready to appreciate the farming experience.

This morning I was eager to take my traditional trudge down the mountain checking out our stock. Alessia (the 4 year old) volunteered to keep me company. Now ever since I had arrived last night, I had felt that there was something going on but I had no idea what it could be. The rains had come, the troughs were functioning, the pond had filled, Dan had fixed the pump so we no longer had to haul water and the grass was growing again so the stock should be plump and happy. What could have gone wrong?

I was soon to find out. The family, remembering how I had cried when RamBO died, had plotted a strategy for breaking the bad news. Hence, Alessia’s companionship on this walk.

I was very excited as we walked toward the red barn. We were going to meet Dan and stake out our new “massive” garden. It would be huge and go a long way to feeding our family organic produce throughout the year. I knew how to can, had the supplies and was raring to get started.

But then Alessia started talking. As we walked she held my hand in a soothing way.

“Gwamma, I have something very sad to tell you. We couldn’t find the brown ram. The little one who was a light brown.”

“I remember, Alessia. We thought he had wandered into a neighbor’s paddock.”

“Gwamma, it is very sad. I feel very sad about it. The ram, the little, brown one, fell in a hole and he is not alive.”

“Alessia, do you mean the ram fell in a sink hole and died?”

“He’s not alive any more.”

And sure enough, he wasn’t. Although Alessia couldn’t bring herself to use the word ‘died’, that is what he had done. About a third of the way up Paddock #1 (Mt. Everest) was a sink hole. Dan, Alessia, and I inspected it and viewed the mortal remains. And Alessia was right; it was very sad seeing the bones. But the horrifying thing was how I could literally be only a foot from the hole and still not see it. Any one of us could have fallen in. It looked like a collapsed cave and was over 5 feet deep. If we weren’t injured when we fell, we probably could get out since the hole wasn’t too wide but it was a scary sight none the less.

I kept a hawk like eye on Alessia as we staked the garden. While an adult might escape a sink hole relatively unscathed, a small child could be seriously injured – or worse. Farming is not for sissies.

 

The Ultimate Conservationists

New Zealand is known for its unbeleivable beauty. I never get tired of seeing the lush greenery, wide, blue waters and sharply undulating horizon. New Zealanders (Kiwis) by and large appreciate their heritage and take excellent care of their land.

What I hadn't known was that Kiwis take excellent care of everything else as well. I don't know if their conservation is the result of their environmental awareness or the result of the unbelievable prices here.  I am going back to the States for a few weeks and on my must-buy list are such homely items as emory boards, toothpaste, and just about everything else I can cram into my overstuffed suitcase. Why? Because everything is horrendously expensive here and generally inferior in quality to what I can get at my local Costco.

I'm not trying to knock New Zealand. I love it here. I love being with my family, I love the Kiwis who are generally incredibly nice, and I love the natural beauty. So, this having been said, it is very expensive to live here. So expensive that the Kiwis' favorite shopping place is an online store called "Trade Me". You only buy retail when you can't find it used and it is absolutely necessary. You never throw anything away. You recycle, reuse, repair, and in the end, put it out to the sidewalk for someone else to use.

One of our neighbors here at the farm keeps that Kiwi philosophy going (see picture). I don't know how old that tractor is but my guess is that it was tracking when I was still sucking my thumb. Dan borrowed it for the day and I can attest that it worked well, ran smoothly, and did all the hauling we needed done.

This habit of taking care of things is one of the many things I love about this country. If they care so much for an old tractor, just think how well they'll treat an old lady. Just planning for the future! And since my granddaughter insists that "You're really old, Gramma", I think that future is just about here.