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.

More Drought Gifts

It’s just one damn thing after another with this drought. As if lugging water for unimpressed ewes and hosting ever-thirsty steers with our very own water supply isn’t enough, now I discover ‘toma’. I hope I am spelling it correctly but it is no simple matter.

It all started last Friday as I sat in the kitchen playing tickle bunny with Naavah.  Yael was busy making bread (yes, super woman actually makes bread every Friday. I need a nap just watching her.). Anyway, Yael casually asked me, “Did Dan warn you about tomas when you are walking in the paddocks?”

My head snapped up. “What’s a toma?”

“I think you call it a sink hole.”

Yes, folks I definitely call it a sink hole. And now I have to walk prodding the paddocks with my cane before stepping forth.  This drought – the worst in over 50 years – has so depleted the water table that our limestone based land is now filled with air holes rather than water holes.

Farmers are losing stock into these sink holes. I assume Dan is afraid he’ll lose stock and perhaps a mother at the same time. But the fact remains that he didn’t warn me. Yael did. Perhaps I need to remind him that I carry no life insurance.

The possums have become so daring that they actually climb onto the deck and eat my cherry tomatoes from my pot plants. They are hefty little devils too. The drought doesn’t seem to be bothering them! Perhaps they see this as an opportunity to expand their horizons; brave new world, aka the Lords' deck.

The birds, specifically my beloved doves, have left. I hear the larger birds like ravens and hawks but the gentle wrens, etc. are gone. I don’t know if they are victims of the drought or if they have gone in search of water farther south but gone they are. The rabbits are also gone. No great loss there!

The omnipresent rats are still around and more visible than ever. I was looking out the window and a rat sauntered by on the roof abutting my window. The next morning I opened the garage door and there was a rat; perhaps the same rat. I don’t know. We didn’t exchange visiting cards. I just screamed at it. It turned its head and surveyed me for a moment before deliberately turning its back to me and walking slowly off. Have I ever told you how much I hate rats? Well I do and now I have sink holes to hate as well. My cup runneth over. Thanks drought for the endless parade of gifts.

 

Bad News And Good

I have always wondered what types of people pick the bad news first as opposed to those who want the good news first. I think there’s a thesis in there for somebody.  I am in the bad news first category.” Get it over with”, I say.

 So in that spirit, my bad news (and it is very bad indeed) is that RAMbo is dead. We had been watching him decline, rally, decline, and rally for a while now but I think a combination of several fly strike attacks and the drought were too much for my old nemesis. I actually cried when Yael brought me the news. The place doesn’t seem the same without him. The ewes certainly aren’t the same. Well, part of it may be that we separated all 3 rams from the ewes. Anyway, whenever I traverse the ewes’ paddock, they stand their ground and just watch me. No more running away. Either they are wrapped up in their grief or they have finally realized that the Grim Reaper is a more serious adversary than I could ever be.

The rest of the bad news is that the drought continues to take a toll on everything including my garden. Dan had me put in 2 varieties

 of heritage tomatoes, Bloody Butcher (who thinks up these names?) and Black Krim.

Bloody Butcher has been producing well but the fruit is only slightly larger than the average cherry tomato. Our cherry tomatoes are only popping at about half their rate of last year. And then we have the laggardly Black Krim. I just got our first fruit yesterday. Four plants and we have gotten 4 tomatoes. They are normal sized but nothing to write home about (or blog about for that matter). What they are is gorgeous. I have included a picture of one next to 4 cherry tomatoes so you can see the difference in both size and color. I wish I could paint. They are striking in color and have a slightly bland, sweetish taste. I’ll try them again next year; hopefully without a drought.

 

Fashion Forward Farm Wear

Things have been super hectic here for the past few weeks. On the 10^th, Yael gave me my first grandson, Jesse. I was called down to Auckland at 2 am to take over with the girls and just sort of hung around for the next few weeks while baby and parents wrestled with feedings and sleepless nights.

I am back on the farm now and while I enjoyed the quiet, I missed the family. So after one whole day of aloneless up came all 5 Lords. And back into the chaos I jumped. I love every minute – well most of the minutes anyway.

Yael had brought me a present. It was a ‘thank you for all your hard work’ present and deeply appreciated. Throughout this blog I have complained about my wellies. The first pair – the purple ones – didn’t stand up to the rugged terrain. Into the trash went shredded purple rubber. The next pair, sturdy, heavy black boots didn’t fit right. Dan and I had scoured New Zealand but I couldn’t find a comfortable pair of wellies.

I had sounded off about this to Yael after I broke my toe. Wearing boots that are too big is an annoyance unless you’ve broken a toe, in which case it is painful. You see, my foot kept slipping around in the boot with the result that I was in constant agony.

So here I am with the only fashion forward farm footwear around. You can see the picture below. I look pretty darn snazzy in them. As long as you don’t lift your eyes beyond my knees. Above the knees, the view  reverts to grass stained khakis, crumpled T-shirts and floppy hats.

In case you were wondering, ‘yes’, we still have a drought and a scary thing it is too. But there are other liquids besides water that my wellies protect me from. Most of them abound in the paddocks and my dainty, well fitting wellies  are holding up well.

The Prime Minister has made it official. New Zealand is having a drought. Thanks to Dan’s obsessive water saving measures, we are doing well. The same cannot be said of our neighbors. One family will be buying water starting this coming week. We are now having forest fires (ring a bell, Prescott?). There is a ban on all outdoor fires. One massive fire was started by people target shooting. I’m not kidding, it is getting serious.

 In a country this small, the impact is huge. Food prices will first drop as farmers rush their stock to market since there isn’t enough water for them. Then, there won’t be the stock to sell later in the year. Prices on fresh produce are already zooming and I can see why. My tomatoes are small. Often I get only cherry sized ones from the vines that are supposed to be producing full sized tomatoes. The birds have left and ever more possums are coming down from the forests in search of food and water. Living on a farm has made nature’s impact very real and very immediate.

A Scientific Experiment

When I was in grade school/junior high, we had to do science projects for the school science fair. I was massively uninterested. Each year I dutifully drew the solar system or papier mached a volcano; accepted my “also showed” ribbon and moved on.

Now it is different and I wish I had paid more (well, any) attention to the basics of the scientific experiment. You see, I now have my very own science project and it has serious ramifications for my family’s future. I am engaged in learning what works best for growing things down under, aka, New Zealand. The sun is hotter, the droughts a scourge, the rains (in the rainy season) unending, and the soil pure clay.

Purely by accident, I have 3 raised garden beds – one in almost full shade, one in partial shade, and one in full sun. The soil is similar in each. Each is a possum cemetery holding two deceased predators and no I am not wrung with pity as I throw the dirt over the bodies. These suckers eat whole trees! I am not kidding and it is frightening to go out in the morning and see an entire orange tree denuded.

So similar conditions with only one variable (I am pretty sure that’s the correct term) and that is the amount of sun. All three hold tomato plants. The full sun one has been producing like billy-oh for three weeks now. The partial sun has two or three smallish tomatoes but a brilliant display of runner beans (delicious too!). The third drinks an enormous amount of water but has given us nothing so far.

My scientific conclusion is that the searing NZ sun is good for plants. I had been considering shading the big garden when it is built to block some of the sun but now I am rethinking the design. I may have screening over some of the garden for plants that need less sun, i.e., the runner beans but there is definitely going to be a full sun quadrant.

There may be something to this scientific experiment thing after all. Too bad I had to wait until I was 60 years past grade school to learn it.