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.

Crisis After Crisis

One thing about living on a farm: there is never enough time to contemplate your successes or failures. It is on to the next problem. Don’t look back; absorb the sink hole death of the ram, and move on to the next problem. In my urban life I had time to make plans to avoid any such mishaps in the future and then ease into the next crisis.

Not so here. While Dan was having the sink hole fenced off, he was simultaneously building a stockade around a rampant creek on the roadway and moving ahead with the massive garden project. You can see the size of the garden in the picture below. He seems to take it all in stride. Perhaps that’s youth (a new definition) or it could just be his temperament.

 

However, an old problem has come back to bite us and it’s a doozy. The water lines to feed all the paddocks across the road are being drained due to some kind of leak. Dan has spent literally days trying to find the leak. Finally he called up the reserves: the man who used to own this property several owners ago. Can you believe this guy? He actually took time off his job and his life to drive several hours down to help Dan find the leak.

I wish I could tell you that they found it. But they didn’t. Dan will have to continue his search while rebuilding the front porch and moving ahead with the garden. See what I mean? There is always something old, something new, and the weather. Never forget the weather. It is now the rainy season and good luck at finding a leak in muddy paddocks with torrential rains pouring down.

I never cease to wonder at people who choose farming as a life style. Don’t get me wrong, I’m deeply grateful but puzzled. As the winds whip around at 100 kilometers and the rains smash against my windows, I am very, very puzzled. But grateful. Never forget the grateful part!

Dan and a neighbour building the creek blockade. There never seem to be any small projects on this farm. Just big, bigger and beats us.