Foster Mom

I am in the process of updating my resume to include Foster Mom. Yes, I am now an experienced !! ewe substitute with a living lamb as my credentials.

It all started on, literally, the coldest night of the year. So cold that we actually had a nice, crunchy frost the next morning. Anyway, that night ewe #9 yellow decided to give birth to twins. Since these weren't optimal conditions the 3 of us agonized over the kitchen table about what to do.(I suppose #9 yellow's agony was worse.) Should we bring in the lambs and risk having the mother reject them? Should I feed them in situ and hope for the best? Should we move them into the stalls, push the ewe in and pray? Or should we do nothing and let the Mom be in charge.

I was in favor of ceding authority to the Mom and that is what we did. Unfortunately, the Mom declined the baton and one of the twins was dead when I got to the paddock the next morning. The other (see above photo) was curled in a ball shivering violently. The mother had wandered some way away, obviously completely uninvolved in the proceedings. Another sympathetic ewe tried to approach the lamb but #9 yellow butted her away. The kid could die but no other ewe could have it. (Sorry, not kid, lamb).

I tried to get to the lamb but the ewe was ornery so I woke Dan and he got the lamb out of the paddock and into my shirt covered arms. I was very careful not to let any part of me get directly onto the lamb in case the mother would reject it for my scent. So there I was happily tucked up in my overstuffed chair warming a lamb. It was kind of nice! The girls played quietly nearby, coming frequently to see that the lamb was still alive. My cat, Smudge, sat on the bed nearby and gave it the prolonged cat stare. Hard to tell what she was thinking but I certainly didn't sense any hospitable approval.

Finally the lamb began stirring and bleating. The sun had warmed the paddock and we decided to risk reuniting mother and child. The lamb was eager, the mom standoffish but at long last she let herself be milked. She is still a lousy mother and this poor little lamb has to fight for everything but it is still alive. It runs around stealing a sip from other mothers and getting stronger daily but we still watch her closely and pray every morning that she is still alive. So far, so good. 

Yea! Lambing Season

The rains are here, the cold is here, and the lambs are here. Two, anyway and many, many more are expected in the new few weeks. As you can see from the picture above, the ewes are very nonchalant about the miracle of birth; I am not.

As the world becomes increasingly incomprehensible to me (as in "What are they thinking of?"), I turn from the latest bewildering news byte to the  rhythm of the farm. I firmly believe it is saving my sanity - or what's left of it.

There is something soothing about watching the flock amble its way to the sunny part of the paddock. It took me almost a year to figure out why. For those of you who don't know, it is because the sunny grass is drier and so easier to chew. And the dry grass doesn't irritate their eyes the way wet grass does.

 Anyway, the ewes don't rush; no train to catch for them, no rush hour madness. And then they settle in to the daily routine, of which they never tire. They eat, they rest, they eat, they snooze, they eat, and then they bed down for the night.

I have heard it said that farmers are Nature's philosophers. Well, they'd have to be, wouldn't they? They see the pace of nature up close and personal. Nothing is much more personal than pulling a sideways lamb out of the womb. Farmers take the long view on everything. Rains come when they shouldn't and don't when they should. But so far it has evened out - sort of. Farmers live that reality. 

They also live with the knowledge that nothing lasts and change always happens. They gave up optimism with puberty and know well that sometimes the farm floods, locusts savage the first ample wheat yield in 7 years, the bull they saved up to buy will be sterile, etc. etc. etc. And yet they get up each early, early morning and watch the ewes amble down to the sunny side of the street. And now I do too. I am very lucky.

RIP Raw Milk

For some time now, we have been engaged in the movement to allow more access to raw milk. We have been drinking it for several years and  about 8 months ago, started slacking off since it is incredibly difficult to get out to the small dairy farm to buy it. But we ran back a few month later when we all were back in the cycle of recurring colds, rashes, aches, etc. We were better off with raw milk. Naturally we were anxious to see how the Government responded to the consumer demand for better access to raw milk. Here is the response:

Following the public consultation and an extensive review, the Government has announced its new policy on the sale of raw milk to consumers.  The new policy will allow farmers to sell raw milk directly to consumers, either from their farm or via home deliveries. There will be no limits on the amount farmers can sell to a consumer, or the amount they can sell overall. However, raw milk can only be bought for personal and household consumption, and can not be on-sold.

 The new policy, which will apply from 1 March 2016, recognises the strong demand for raw milk from both rural and urban consumers.  However, given the food safety risks associated with consuming raw milk, farmers who want to sell raw milk to consumers must meet strict conditions, including specific production, transport and labelling requirements, in order to manage these risks.

 Farmers will also be required to register with MPI and must be independently verified on a regular basis to ensure they are meeting their requirements to minimise and manage food safety risks where possible.  All farmers who sell raw milk to consumers will have to meet the same requirements, regardless of the amount they sell.

 Sounds good doesn’t it? The reality is that farmers will have to meet the ‘same requirements’ as dairy farmers. Great except that most dairy farmers who sell their milk are large scale operations and can afford equipment costing upwards of half a million dollars and staff to regulate temperatures, etc. The whole purpose of raw milk is that cooking milk destroys good bacteria.

I don’t need to even touch on labelling, transport, etc. We buy our milk directly from the farmer, bring our own jars and don’t label anything. We can see that it is milk without any words to tell us so.

Since the milk cannot be ‘on-sold’, it obviously is for private consumption only. The small raw milk farmer should not have to comply with the same stringent requirements of major suppliers such as the massive dairy herds that make up Fonterra.

Anyway, as of 1 March 2016, I guess we’ll be going back to the generic, processed, cooked milk that has failed so spectacularly to help keep us healthy. The Government has really stepped up to the plate in response to the ‘strong demand for raw milk from both the rural and urban consumers. I would say that it is a lose-lose situation except even I can see that the large dairy conglomerates win, win, win.

We Start Them Young

The most important fact about a farm is that the work is never done. The first year I was here, I kept trying to 'finish' my work. By the second year I was committed to 'keeping up' with the work. Now, I settle for 'doing something' every day.

In order to keep even close to having this farm run properly, we all have to work: that includes the kids. All 3 of them. Alessia is 6 and 1/2, Naavah is 4 and 1/2, and Jesse is 2 and 1/3. Alessia has been opening gates, feeding chickens, gathering eggs, and in general being another pair of hands for 4 years. Naavah is a reluctant (to say the least) member of our human fence to help guide stock into the proper paddocks. She will also pull an occasional weed (under duress). Her future is destined to be living in a penthouse apartment in Manhattan and only breathing unfiltered air as she sweeps to her limo on the way to the ballet.

Jesse is the newest member to be introduced to farm labor. And easily the most enthusiastic and least fearful. Alessia would do anything required of her and often a lot more but she had to overcome her fear of chickens, of sheep, of cows, etc. It is just the opposite with Jesse. He has to be reined in. He will run headfirst into the flock of chickens, greeting them with rapture while I race behind him worried that he'll be pecked or clawed. So far they just move out of his way.

Yesterday Dan decided to move the sheep from the new barn paddock down to the quarantine paddock. Yael and the girls walked on down closing gates on the way. They then positioned themselves alongside the open gate as the human fence into the quarantine paddock and waited.

Dan started moving the sheep down to the gate leading to our driveway. This is a large paddock and very long. It dips significantly in the center and rises steeply at both ends. Since Dan couldn't both chase sheep and move at Jesse's small legged pace, he sent Jesse to stand in the middle of the paddock. Generally speaking the sheep will move along the fence line so the middle is the safest place to be. Dan called to Jesse.

"Are you all right?"

"Des." Translation - Yes in 2 year old.

Dan then spreads his arms wide and moves on the sheep. Jesse spreads his arms wide and plants his sturdy little legs deep in the wet grass. All 47 sheep race up to him.

"Are you all right", queries a slightly panicked father.

"Des." Lots of giggles and outright laughter as the sheep cluster even closer.

Dan then moves toward the sheep who obediently file out the gate. Guess who is right behind them? Not Dan! Nope, here comes Jesse following his new 47 best friends. The sheep cluster right outside the gate and begin munching. Jesse runs right up to them, waves his arms and yells "RUN!"

And they do. All the way to the curve in the road. Dan is panting his way far behind. Jesse is galloping down ecstatically yelling "RUN!" This happens all the way down to the quarantine paddock where Jesse's terrified mother is not amused when he announces, "I move de sheep all by myself." I bet there was an interesting discussion in the parental bedroom that evening.

Until next time.

Suzukis Are Not Pursuit Cars

Dan and I both own Suzuki cars. They are fine as basic transportation. I refer to mine as "the lawnmower". It is extremely economical, easy to turn, and has almost no power whatsoever. And that brings me to the latest farm saga.

Our rural communities have been infested with thieves and arsonists. This is not a laughing matter. Some crazies have taken chain saws to cows, burned, pillaged and stolen everything that is or is not nailed down.

We have been warned repeatedly by the police to keep a vigilant eye out for the unusual or unexpected guest. So when we were sedately driving the Suzuki down our driveway, it was not hard to spot the intruder. Of course it could have been an innocent sightseer who had managed to leave the road and wander half a mile up our driveway (which is posted prominently as "Private Driveway").

But we gave up any benefit of the doubt idea when the intruder ran back to the car parked on the verge, bolted into the driver's seat and raced away at a speed never before seen on that driveway. I use the term 'intruder' because we genuinely have no idea of this person's sex. The figure had shoulder length dark hair, wore a unisex sweatshirt (I think with a hood), baggy pants and country shoes. Could have been anybody.

Once we grasped that the cloud of dust ahead of us was trying to escape, we raced off in pursuit. We tried; we really tried. Our Suzuki gave its all. We zipped down the mountain, over the railroad tracks and around and around the twisty mountain roads. But we never even got close enough to get the license plate. Sukuzis are not pursuit cars.

So if anybody knows of a black or dark green station wagon owned by a unisex sweatshirt wearer in the Rodney district of New Zealand, let us know. We want to have a chat.

For the Butcher

This is what a steer looks like when cut into usable meat. We couldn't even have fit half of one of the boys in the trunk (aka boot) when he was alive. And we take all possible parts. Still, the boys gave us beyond-prime meat.

The butcher raved on and on and on about how our meat was the best he had ever seen. "You can't buy quality like that!" And he's right. You can't. But we don't have to. All we have to do is buy yearlings, baby them for 2 years, give them lots of room, a calm environment, plenty of grass and fresh water and wait. No hormones, no nothing, But try telling that to people who have spent their lives on supermarket sirloins.

Yael was so thrilled to have our boys appreciated that way that she gave some cuts of meat to the butcher. It sounds funny. Sort of like giving shoes to the cobbler but he was very appreciative.

Once again I am going through my angst. The boys were an important part of my day and I miss them. I find that I am eating less and less beef and I don't know if it's an increasingly delicate digestive system or this nagging sense of guilt. And yet I have to admit that our beef is really, really good!