Personal Space

It finally rained here after more than two weeks of nada. Nothing but sunshine, sunshine, sunshine. It was horrible. I don't know how I survived not having to hike through calf-high mud, pulling wet, stringy hair out of my mouth while clad in my signature look of rain slicker and purple wellies.

But now everything has returned to normal and I stepped out this morning to a sparkling green world where everything smelled fresh. As I rounded the driveway, I did my usual morning head count of the sheep. There they were, all 9 of them, clustered in the horse stalls, warm and dry. Warm? You bet, all 9 were jumbled together like newborn puppies in their mother's basket.

So I started wondering. What about personal space? I know I have an invisible ring around my person and there are very few people I am comfortable with having step inside that ring. That is true with most people although the size of the ring varies depending on personal preference and cultural norms. In a country as crowded as Japan, I understand that personal space is mostly a perception thing. Great if you can do it. I can't. I need physical space. Don't keep touching me while trying to sell me something; I most definitely won't buy whatever you're selling. Even if its on sale.

But sheep seem to be different. There they were; a bunch of woolly bodies all entangled. I couldn't separate them visually into various bodies. They seemed fine with it. It is obviously part of their culture. When in the paddocks, they sprawl some separately, some together. Just a matter of where they land when they decide to snooze.

Is this true of all animals? I know my cats and dog would all sleep together. As low as my husband kept the temperature, it was a matter of body warmth or freezing to death. I used to bribe my pets to sleep with me just to stay warm. I continued my walk with that question on my mind. The steers were still down and gathered near one another but each body was easily distinguishable from the others. So personal space with dignity. Just what I would have expected from them.

I walked further and came to the lambs. Once again, all bunched together. I could separate each body only because they were 3 different colors but the white, the brown and the cafe au lait were decidedly intertwined. What did that propinquity do to the young ram? Did it bring on an unnaturally early sexual awareness? I know that both ewes are his sisters but does incest matter in the sheep kingdom? Yet another question I am too embarrassed to ask. Yes, I have others. The top of the list is how exactly does a rooster fertilize the eggs? When the eggs are still in the hen? When they are in the nest? Now you see why Dan keeps me secluded here at the farm. Either he doesn't know the answers or he's afraid I'll ask them out loud and some sane person will overhear.

Permaculture

I may have heard the word ‘permaculture’ but if so I don’t think it made an impression on my increasingly sieve-like brain. It is so different now! Dan has been reading up on permaculture. A fairly innocuous statement, you’d think. You don’t know Dan. The world lost a great researcher when he turned to finance.

For Dan to ‘read up’ on something includes following every website link to the bitter end; reading every printed word; and talking to anyone with any knowledge on the subject here, there and everywhere. Skype was designed specifically for him.

So when he informed Yael and me that he was thinking of applying the principles of permaculture to our farm, we sat very still. We didn’t dare look at each other because it would expose our total lack of knowledge on the subject. When Dan explained it – very, very generally – it sounded good but what did it mean? Did it mean more work? More money? Getting rid of RAMbo, et al?

So I started reading. Now my reading range is a dictionary definition, a book list from Amazon from which I read the blurbs, and one or two short books with lots of illustrations. I am presently reading “Sepp Holzer’s Permaculture” and a fascinating read it is too.

Basically I have to throw away everything I know about farming. Not too hard since I don’t know much of anything. Then I have to try to visualize an integrated, interconnected system of elements ranging from weather, topography, soil type, plants, preferences, animals, etc. etc. This is a lot to expect from someone who can’t visualize what her menu will be for the next day.

But I am trying. Yael caught me standing on the road gazing forlornly at paddocks #1 and #2 beyond the red, red barn. Being exceptionally well-mannered, she didn’t ask me what I was doing but I explained anyway. “I am trying to visualize what the paddocks need.” I could tell that this was way more information than she wanted. I’m pretty sure she went back up to the house to look up inherited insanity. She does have my granddaughters to think of, after all.

According to Mr. Holzer, “a permaculture landscape is designed so that all of the plants and animals living there will work in harmony with each other.” (I wonder if that includes RAMbo?)

I haven’t broken this new concept to the stock yet. Let them enjoy these warm, dry Autumn days while they can. Soon the knacker will come ( the person who ‘home kills’ and dresses our meat for our freezer). Then the 3 lambs and 2 of the steers give their all to keep us fed for the next year or so.

And the shearers will be back soon. I can’t wait. Perhaps then I’ll be close enough to see if any of the ewes are pregnant. With RAMbo strutting his stuff on a daily basis, I have high hopes. Alessia asked me if any of the sheep had ‘babies in their bellies?’ I was a bit startled at this bit of knowledge and stammered out a “what?” So she explained that “sheep have babies in their bellies like grandma had Daddy and Mommy had Naavah and me. And I had my baby” (Doggie, her stuffed constant companion). But she only had Doggie in her stomach at night. Why, I don’t know. But it would sure make things easier if we could all only be pregnant while we slept.

I have been researching (in my slipshod way) chickens. I still want them but have resigned myself to another breed other than Buff Orphingtons. This breed doesn’t seem to be available here. So I’ll settle for my second choice which is Rhode Island Reds. These chickens are both good layers and good eating. They also don’t seem to fly away. Did you know that chickens can escape through flight? Neither did I. I assumed they just walked into the road and committed suicide.

I also want us to try a different breed of sheep. There is a Wiltshire breed that is resistant to flystrike, doesn’t need shearing and often has multiple births. Obviously they are meat sheep only but that’s fine with me. I’m out of the wool cleaning business permanently.

RAMbo

The ram has been looking pretty spiffy these last few weeks. Compliments of his severe flystrike illness, RAMbo had to have a serious shearing. We had to cut away a lot of his wool to get at the maggots. He now is the proud possessor of a poodle cut. Yes, folks, possibly the only poodle cut ram in the North Island, perhaps even all of New Zealand.

And isn’t he proud of himself! He prances around our paddocks with all his old vim and vigor. Part of it is due to having Snowball, the young ram, in another paddock and part is he is no longer sick, but the majority is that he is now seeing himself as the Don Juan of sheep.

This has translated into, how shall I put this?, increased vitality. He is absolutely certain that he is irresistible to ewes. The ewes? Not so much. Yesterday, RAMbo was making an absolute pest of himself to the rest of the flock. He was everywhere, sniffing butts and making advances. I could almost hear him saying, “where’ve you been all my life, cutie.”  

The ewes were pretty forbearing, all things considered. They just continued grazing. Occasionally they moved a few steps out of the path of the damp nose but were fairly tolerant. Up to a point. That point was reached (pun intended) when the ram got down to business.

At first I couldn’t understand why they weren’t more enthusiastic but I soon saw why. First of all motherhood is not an unmixed blessing if you would be giving birth in a wet paddock in the middle of winter. Second, a girl likes a bit more individual attention than just being the fourth butt sniffed in the last four minutes.

But the third reason was the most compelling of all. RAMbo was definitely a ‘wham bam thank you mam’ ram. Three very rapid thrusts and its over and out. The ewe never even stopped eating. I doubt she had time to swallow. I am beginning to have serious doubts about the viability of this ram increasing our flock to any significant degree. He may have the desire, but his follow through is lousy.

Next time, a recap of what’s happening here on the farm now that Fall has arrived.

Back on the Farm

I just got back from Arizona where I had a great time catching up with old friends and reacquainting myself with myself with my home. But it was winter there and I ran into 27" of snow my first weekend back. Fostered idyllic dreams of New Zealand as I slowly (very slowly) shoveled my way out.

So I get back to Auckland and what do I find? That the warm, dry weather they have been having for the entire time I was gone is over. I brought cool, wet weather with me. Do you think I have a calling as a rain maker? Not the advertising type rain maker but the clouds hear me type of rain maker. If so, I can quit buying those lottery tickets and make my fortune that way.

So, how are things on the farm? They seem pretty much the same. The steers are still valiantly eating the pasture grasses down to an acceptable size. The flock (which consists of the ram and 8 ewes) seems fine. I am concerned about two ewes, tho. One seems to be battling flies and the other is lying around a lot. Luckily they are in the new barn paddock so all I have to do is cross the driveway to keep an eye on them. The ram has rejoined his harem now that we have moved the young ram (Snowball) to another field.

And Snowball is with the other two lambs. Both of these are black ewes. One is Starlight and the other is lamb #3. While I was gone, Starlight got flystrike and Dan had a heroic battle to save her. I think she is all right but she appears to be a bit weak and the poor thing has lost a lot of her coat. Still, its not all bad because we will be calling for the shearers in a month or so anyway

The fig tree has figs which amazes me since possums love figs. I can only figure that our possums are so fat on my raspberries, cherries, tomatoes, etc. that they couldn't climb our admittedly slender fig tree. I, however, simply bend  the branches and have a treat fit for a king. Or, in my case, a Lord.

If, when, it stops raining I need to dismantle my garden for the winter. Dan has thoughtfully filled the wheelbarrow with grass clippings so I first have to empty that. Then pick up the rest of the clippings around the yard and wheel them to the compost heap. I hope I can find it this time. I have a hunch that this is Dan's subtle way of making a statement about my aimless dumping wherever I want instead of actually finding the compost pile. Oh well, I'll worry about it later. Plenty to do. It's good to be back!

Day Before Yesterday

The day before yesterday (I know, I know: Two days ago; why didn’t she write her blog then? Just wait; all will be revealed) I promised my body that I would not force it up that thigh burning, calf crunching Paddock #1. We, my body and I, were going to take the day off and just observe the stock from the road.

To celebrate I put on my formal farm wear – purple wellies, ironed khaki scrub pants and rust-colored T-shirt with “Santa Fe, New Mexico” emblazoned across the back. Project Runway, are you listening? I am available. Then I strolled nonchalantly down to view the ram and ewe. On the way, I noted that one of the lambs was awfully close to the fence between Paddock #1 and Paddock #2. It even seemed as if she were caught in the stile. Couldn’t be. Not even a sheep could be that stupid.

So I did my daily staring contest with the ram. He won as usual. But both he and the ewe seemed to still be flystrike free. Back up the road and sure enough the lamb was still plastered to the fence. I called out repeatedly, hoping that she would bolt away from me. All the other sheep ran like blazes. But she remained stuck in the stile. So I had to go in. It was a struggle to force myself to climb over the first gate but nothing compared to the second one.

While I had to climb the first gate, the second can be opened but only by pulling back the wood planks that hold both sides of the gate in place. Did I remember to tell you that it had rained the night before? Well, it had. Given that this is New Zealand, you could almost bet on it raining at any time. When it rains, wood swells. This makes pulling planks almost impossible. I finally did it but managed to ding up my hands a bit and lost a nail. Still, I had 9 more.

I approach the paddock. I call out again. Still no movement. Miraculously both other paddocks are suddenly devoid of sheep. They have vanished over the hills and far away. I sigh and start slogging up Mt. Everest yet again. I keep calling. The lamb keeps not moving. When I am almost within reach, the lamb suddenly darts away and gambols up the hill. I can hear sheep snickers all around me. Suddenly I am not so conflicted about filling the chest freezer with lamb chops.

Later that afternoon, I figure I have to start the weeding and clipping in the side yard. If you look at the picture at the top of this blog, I am referring to the area on the left. We are having a birthday barbeque for Yael on Sunday and hopefully it won’t rain (ha, ha, ha) and we can all eat outdoors. So I pull myself away from the game I’m playing on my computer and change into my green scrub pants – grass stains show less on them.

Now, I am lazy. In fact, many years ago scientists formulated a theorem around me. It goes something like “A body at rest tends to stay at rest”. That’s me! But I love Yael and don’t want to disappoint her so off I go, clippers in hand. I am inching my way along the fence (you can see the uprights in the picture). Now it doesn’t look far down from the upper lawn to the lower paddock but looks are deceiving. That is tall grass down there. And it is pretty far down as I discover when I drop the clippers over the side and down into the mass of weeds.

I try to retrieve them but can’t reach those clippers. So around the fence I go. And then I try to remember where I dropped them. I think I have the general area since it must be somewhere near where the weeding ended. I am groping around in the weeds and reach one hand out to steady myself on one of the log uprights.

Unfortunately that upright is occupied. I become an intimate acquaintance of the wasps whose home it is. They are not pleased that I dropped in unannounced. And that is why I had to wait two days to write my blog. I was waiting for the swelling in my hand to go down.

Just Another Morning

By 8:20 am I had finished all my indoor chores – getting dressed, eating, gazing into space. And now I was ready to tackle the great outdoors. But first I had to deal with a wheelbarrow filled with garden rubbish. Until today I had blithely filled a plastic tub with clippings, dead plants, and various detritus and left it in the driveway for Dan to haul through the first gate, through the second gate, past the new barn, through the third gate and to the recently begun compost pile. You can see why I left it to him.

But today he had left a filled wheelbarrow in the garage for me to deal with. True, he had been a tad busy fighting flystrike, wrestling sheep, killing maggots, building corrals to separate said sheep, moving stock, cutting out thistles, repairing water troughs, and lugging a very heavy salt lick all over creation. All glorious fun. He had left this wheelbarrow for me to deal with and headed back to Auckland. Just because he had to get up at 4am to catch a plane to somewhere is no excuse.

But I love my son so I shouldered the burden and wheeled my way to the compost pile. One problem. I couldn’t find it. We had not had the steers in that paddock for a while because they tended to eat the trees. Result: waist high, WET grass. I wandered around for a while and finally just dumped it in a likely location. Who knows, it could even be the right spot. Anyway, Dan doesn’t have time to read this blog, so if you don’t tell him, he’ll never know.

Back through the 3 gates. I briefly considered just pulling the gates to since there were no steers or sheep in the paddocks but I remembered the 1:30am sheep hunt in Dave’s front garden – the result of just pulling the gate to and not latching it. So I carefully latched them all.

Now I turned my attention to checking the ram and ewe who had flystrike and are sequestered in the quarantine paddock all the way down by the main road. Quite a hike but I am getting used to it. I just avoid it in the heat of the day. The sun is massively intense here in the Southern Hemisphere (and remember I come from Arizona).

I am sauntering down the road and here comes Steve whizzing by in his miniscule diesel car. He slows long enough to ask if I had seen any sheep. Interesting question since this is sheep country and they surround us, but I said no and learned that 7 or 8 of theirs had escaped and were being feverishly sought. Both he and his wife, Michelle, were dressed for work and obviously this was a wrinkle they really didn’t have time for. Hence the frenzied driving up and down the road in both the mini car and their truck (known here as a ute, for utility vehicle, I assume. Took me a while to puzzle that one out.)

I patted myself on the back for having diligently latched our gates. No wandering woollies would end up in our paddocks. So on down to view the flystrike victims. They must be better. Both were huddled in the shade as far from the road (and me) as possible. They were standing, there were no swarms of flies, and they were eating. I could give a good report back to Dan and Yael.

Next I headed back up the road to the red, red barn to check on the 3 lambs that had been separated from the flock. They were all healthy but it was time to fill the freezer and the lambs were the designated Sunday dinners for the next year or so.

The lambs had been herded into paddock #1. Dan will have his revenge! I couldn’t see them and the sun was getting hotter and hotter. And the remaining 7 sheep were in paddock #2. Six of them seemed fine but 1 kept herself burrowed in the (again!) wet grass and I needed to check her. So I made an executive decision and headed up the hill of paddock #2. The fact that this hill is marginally easier to climb than Mt. Everest (also known as paddock #1) had nothing to do with my choice. Or at least not much.

By the time I got there, sheep 1 was on her feet and scampering away from me. I watched her for a  while but there were no signs of flystrike so I headed for paddock #3 and the steers. Usually this is the easiest part of my morning routine. Steers are big and easy to spot. Except that they are black and love to lie in the deepest shade. Try and find them! Well, maybe you could, but I couldn’t. I saw one. I didn’t see the other 6. So up and down the hill I went. In the WET, WET grass. It is very tricky to hike in tall grass. I never know what the footing is like underneath. Still, I must be getting better at this hiking stuff; I didn’t fall once. Tripped a couple of times but no falling. Good on me.

I finally stumbled into the creek bed and looked up to see 7 black shadows munching benignly and eyeing me with quizzical looks. Okay, all the stock account for (I am assuming the lambs are eating on the other side of the hill.) Now to stagger back up the hill to the house. And clean, dry pants. In my room, I consider scurrying to the main house and the clean, dry pants that are hanging in the dining room.

Perhaps a short explanation is in order. Before I got sick, I had planned to go back home to Prescott so I don’t have many summer clothes here. As in almost none. I rotate 3 pairs of farm worthy pants and one was now wet, one was drying in the main house and one hadn’t been ironed. What could it hurt? No one could see me. My rooms descend into the garage and the bay doors were closed. From the garage it is straight into the house. And the dining room and my pants.

But that old Puritan training was too much for me. Into the unironed pants I went. And then into the main house. And there was Steve standing by the dining room window about to knock on the back door of the kitchen. Imagine if I hadn’t pulled on those pants. He would have gotten an eyeful of these legs of mine. Could have put him off his food for a couple of days. Another disaster averted. But don’t worry, I’m sure the next one is just around the corner

My Favorite Place

Once upon a time, in a faraway galaxy (Washington, DC) I was ‘management’. Perhaps the most ghastly part of being ‘management’ was the horrendous “team building” seminars to which we were all subjected. I eventually became so disenchanted that I ran away all the way to Arizona. But that’s a different story.

Back to this story. I remember that at the start of one of these encounter weekends, we had to interview one of our fellow sufferers to get to know him/her better. My poor interviewer didn’t know what he was getting into. I was in a rebellious mood. I hated giving up my weekends so that I could learn to trust my team. I never trusted anyone enough to fall backwards and ‘trust’ that they would catch me.

So this guy innocently asked me, “What’s your favourite place in the whole world?” “A library”, I replied without having to stop to think. It wasn’t Rome, or London, or Shanghai, or even San Francisco. I had only been to one of them but to me nothing is quite as fascinating and soul reviving as a library.

“Unh, which library?” he gamely asked. “Any of them, in English of course since I am so poorly educated that I have never properly learnt any other language. Guess that eliminates the library in Alexandria,” I laughed.

“Why?” he asked, puzzled. “Because you don’t live in Virginia?” Yes, guys, there is an Alexandria, VA and I assume they have a library – perhaps more than one – but I had been referring to the one no longer in existence in ancient Egypt. I had been joking. You get the idea of why I didn’t fit in as ‘management’.

But I do fit in to the one here about 4 miles from the farm. In fact, I have never fit into any library better. The Kaipura Flats library is a national treasure which only 56 families seem to have ever heard of! This antique building is a private library for 56 families who cough up $10.00 a year to buy a key and unlimited access to a room filled with books, jigsaw puzzles, DVDs, toys for the kids, a window seat, a rocking chair, a small desk holding your checkout card and an immense amount of charm, nostalgia, and peace.

Anybody can join. You can leave puzzles, toys, and books as donations or you can check any of these out and return them when you are done. There is no return date, tho it is hoped that you don’t keep a book longer than 6 months.

You climb the 3 steps to the door and into another world. It is quiet. I mean really quiet. There is no air conditioning. I have never seen any other people there. My whole family is enchanted with the library. My granddaughters play quietly and contentedly in the toy corner while I browse the checkout section or meander through the reference section on local history. Dan never minds driving me there. He loves to just browse or sit and decompress. It’s that kind of place.

I like to check out books based on the title or the illustrations or just a ‘feeling’. Leads to some horrible reads but also to some fascinating finds. For example, I checked out a 1930’s English mystery from an author who had written over 40 books. It was pretty corny but I was interested enough to try the ‘real’ library in Auckland to see if I could get more of his work.

Hugh Cross wasn’t in the catalog. Amazon had never heard of him. Neither had Google. So I am left wondering, how did such an esoteric book end up in the Kaipura Flats library. It is such unexpected adventures that makes a library my favourite place in the whole world. And this library may well be my favourite of all. (I do not spell favourite this way but my spellcheck keeps changing it. One of the downsides of buying a computer outside the US.)

I am currently reading a book I stumbled across in my new favourite place on a family sheep ranch in Australia. I am also putting together a jigsaw puzzle minus one edge piece. Alessia is ‘reading’ a Frances book that was a classic when Dan was a child. I wish all of you could experience the Kaipura Flats library. Just don’t go at night. There is no electricity.