A Day To Remember

Horse Stalls in the New Barn

Thursday dawned bright, sunny, and most of all - warm. Just what I was waiting for; a day designed for painting. Yes, I was going to try again. And another ceiling yet. This ceiling was in the extension of the new barn where the horse stalls are located. The stalls have 3 walls, with the 4th wall not there but open to the paddock. This is where the sheep go to shelter from the weather. The back of the stalls are stacked with bales of hay to within about 3 feet of the ceiling.

So I put on my painting togs, mix the turpentine and polyurethene in a cut off milk jug, swipe a new brush from Dan's stash and down I go to the stalls. Since I cannot manage the fence lock, I heave the tarp, ladder, and paint supplies over the gate then heave myself over. I have a hunch that my fence climbing days should be behind me but needs must.

There are a few challenges to working with polyurethene. One is that it is awfully sticky, another is that it runs down the brush and then your arm. I am a towering 5'3" and even standing on the 3rd rung of the ladder I cannot easily reach the ceiling. I am afraid to go up the 4th rung; that is when I call in the professionals. So I decide to start at the back of the stalls and lie on the hay bales and paint that section of the roof. The 3rd problem with polyurethene is that hay sticks to it and I look a bit like the straw man from the Wizard of Oz within 5 minutes.

There is also a problem with painting a barn ceiling. The problem is spiders. There are lots of them and they dangle in your face, get caught on your polyurethened arm, enmesh themselves in the hay and scare me a lot. I never used to mind spiders but then a white tail spider bite almost cost me my leg and I have been skittish ever since.

I have crawled down to the corner of the stalls and am lying on my back painting my way up. That is when I discover a truism that should revolutionize art history. Michelangelo did not like to sing. I think that this contributed mightily to the lyricism of the Sistine Chapel. He channeled his thwarted musical aspirations into his painting. The result is a miracle of beauty.  How do I know he didn't like to sing. Because I was singing the Teddy Bears' Picnic while I painted and got a mouthful of polyurethene and spider. I bet the same thing happened to Mike. He was singing away and got a glob of blue right down the tonsils. Probably didn't have any spiders in it; they would not have been so irreligious as to hang around a Chapel (or would they)? Anyway, I am spitting out poly and spiders (careful not to taint the hay) and I wipe my mouth with my shirt. Please don't tell my mother!

With mouth fully shut, I inch my way down toward the center of the stalls. And then the hay shifts. And it falls into some black hole. And so does my milk jug of polyurethene. And so do I. Well, actually I fall to the outside of the bales onto the gravel in front. I have a huge bruise on my hip and a slightly sprained wrist and a massively dented ego.

So much for not tainting the hay; I have now dumped an entire jug of polyurethene and turpentine into the cows' winter feed. I am not precisely proud of my morning's efforts but I face the music and Skype Dan to tell him what happened. He is gratifyingly more concerned for my well being than his ceiling, or his hay. I retire to bed for a nap.

I awake around 4:30 and after puttering around for a while I go to the main house to make myself an early dinner. That is when I realize that my day of disasters is not yet over.There are six gigantic cows in the patio and destroying Dan's perfect patch of lawn. Two cows have stayed in the paddock but the other six have broken through the fence, climbed the berm, and are now chowing down on the good stuff - formerly known as our lawn.

At any moment, they will break the glass topped table and metal chairs, knock against the deck stairs, and wander to the front of the house and from there out to the driveway and up and out to freedom. Thinking clearly and quickly (take note, Dan) I dash for the front gates which are always left open. I stop to spring the possum trap to avoid having a heavy hoof step in it and snap a bone. I shut the gates, go back to the house to make sure I'm not halucinating, shut all other gates and head up to a neighbor's to get some help. It is growing very dark but as I step to the roadway, I see headlights. Sir Merv is driving home and being the gentleman he is, he stops and lends a hand. Really, he is all the hands. I have no idea what to do.

He tries to herd the cows back into the paddock but gives up. Even he, a master cowman, cannot work with these cows. He calls them wild; I call them a gift from Hell. He leaves and comes back with a friend and the two of them patch the broken fence; somehow get the cows back into the paddock and reassure me that everything will be fine until tomorrow when I can open a gate to another paddock and the cows will saunter into that lower paddock where there is fresh grass.

I check that all the gates are shut and go to my quarters with paeans of praise for Merv and the kindness of strangers. New Zealanders have to be the loveliest people on planet. I also start Googling pot roast recipes. I think it's time to cull the herd.

Lamb Update

I have been touched by the numerous emails asking for an update on the lambs. Thanks to both of you. Starlight was born a week ago today and Lamb2 a day later. At first they stuck really close to their mothers and their mothers stayed a reasonable distance from the other sheep. By the time I left for Auckland on Monday, the two mothers had formed a support group of their own. I believe this to be in response to Starlight's hyperactivity. He jumps at all possible times; he prances, he nudges. In short, he drives his mother crazy.

Lamb2 seemed a tad more restrained but that could be because she is younger and following the more worldly one. So my last view of them was with Starlight's mother stretched out tail to the west and nose to the east and the brown ewe in the mirror position. Both ewes had their noses close together. Starlight was bouncing up and down in the northen position and Lamb2 was standing quietly to the south. A true southern belle.

The mothers appeared to be exchanging war stories. Starlight's mum has obviously been down this motherhood road before. No matter how frenetically Starlight tries to get her to play with him, she continues to absorb the calories. Occasionally he goes too far and she nudges him away with her nose and resumes eating. The brown ewe, however, is new to the game. She stands guard whenever I approach the fence. She doesn't move away like the other sheep, nor does she ignore me like Starlight's mum. She just stands very straight and watches me for however long I'm there. And I can be there for a half hour or more. Watching sheep is hypnotic. Now I know why people count them when they have insomnia.

When I got to the farm today, all was bucolic (I promise never to use that word again). Anyway, all was calm. The sheep were eating and the lambs were playing. They were chasing each other, leaping, gamboling about. Yael was entranced. It's hard not to be.

However, there are no new playmates, also known as lambs, for me not to name. But I'll keep you all updated.

This Is A Test

Dan asked me to move the cows on Friday. Simple sentence, complex execution. I sense that this is a test to see how well I can do on my own.

I need to draw you a verbal map of the shifting site. There are two paddocks, each bladder shaped with the wide ends spreading up and out and over a steep hill. They are next to each other but both necks empty into a small corridor that then empties into the red, red barn paddock. Don't let the red, red barn description fool you. It is actually an old shed in which we store hay that in some distant past had one wall painted red. Alessia calls it the red, red barn and now, so do we.

Aside from the obvious problems of hiking up a steep, wet, poo-infested hill, there is the challenge that you cannot shut off the left hand paddock from the right one as you maneuvre the cows down into the front paddock.  One gate swings the right way for blocking access but the other only goes in the wrong direction, leaving a bolt hole of significant size. I can only assume that previous farmers had better behaved cows than we do.

So I decided to get smart. Sort of like cramming for an exam. I reconnoitred on Thursday. Noted all the ways into the occupied paddock and laid a hay path from the gate through the corridor and into the front paddock. It was fairly late when I finished and I decided not to attempt to round up 8 cows all of whom are clad in basic black in the dark. Three of the cows are a chic all black, and the rest have white faces. Three have pure white faces, one has black circles around the eyes, and then there is Sour Puss. Someone threw a chocolate mud pie right in her face (probably richly deserved) and she has black spatter all through her white face.

So back up the hill I go and wait for Friday. Do I need to tell you that it rained all night? Howling winds, sideways rain, the whole bit. Friday everything was sodden. Walking was a real challenge. Down I went, dodging puddles, into the front paddock, right by the drenched hay (not too appetizing now), swing open the gates and go to greet the cows who are miraculously gathered near the gate and not up over the hill.
Romeo steps out perkily to meet me and is followed by one other white faced cow. They both saunter blithely by me and right into the front paddock, stepping on the hay as if it were their own special red carpet.
I am mightily heartened. This could be easier than I thought. But alas, I had forgotten about Sour Puss. Most of the rest of the cows, hesitantly start to follow Romeo. Sour Puss cuts them off, wheels sharply, and up over the hill go the remaining six cows. Followed by a very dejected me. I know already how this will turn out. Sure enough, it does. Several fruitless forced marches over the hill later, I turn to Plan B.

Leaving the interior gates open, I go back to the road, walk up and around the paddocks, cross through a different paddock to the right of the one the cows are in. Hike through the tall, wet grass, climb another gate, and approach the cows from their rear. Or so the plan went. Unfortunately, Sour Puss was on the alert. She would have made a marvellous sentry in WWI. She throws back her head, calls the troops, and up over the hill they go. All six. Romeo and Mercutio stay in the front paddock. I give up. I try again in the afternoon but it is a repeat of the morning, When I check in the evening, all 8 are in the front paddock but I don't have the heart to try to get in to shut the gates behind them. They'll just run back up that hill, or worse, the hill of the other paddock. I decide to leave them until Dan comes on Sunday.

Dan arrives and I explain the previous events. I have obviously failed the test. Dan accepts this like the stoic he is and goes down and shuts all 8 cows in the front paddock. Sour Puss and chorus were already there when he went down and didn't even rouse themselves when he walked through them to shut the upper paddock gates. I nervously ask when we will be moving them to the new paddock. "Tomorrow morning" is the terse answer.

Monday morning arrives. Alessia goes, once again, into the car seat. We drive (!!) down the hill, shutting all our neighbors' gates, shut the gate to the road and then park blocking access down the hill. My new job is pretty darn simple. That's what I get for flunking Friday's lightening round. I stand by the car. That's it. All of it. Once the cows have rounded the first leg of the hill and are on the verge, I get in the car and drive it slowly up and past the entrance to the new paddock, and park it to block the cows from continuing on into our garden.

I stand. The cows amble out the gate, Dan moves them gently up the hill and around. I follow in the car. Romeo spots me and stops dead in the road. He is puzzled. Don't I like him anymore? Is there no hope? Why am I abandoning him to this 'man' when I could be giving fists of hay to a deserving swain? This is not a bull of quick intelligence but he is faithful. I don't want to honk the horn; that would be chaos. Nothing for it but to wait for Dan. Up he trudges and Romeo obediently moves to the verge. Dan doesn't even ask why I haven't managed to get the car into position. But I do see his shoulders sag as he goes on by.

The rest of the shifting is uneventful. The cows walk smartly into the paddock and we're finished. We pack up to go back down to Auckland and as we drive by, all 8 cows are lined up on the fence placidly watching ouur departure. I am irresistably reminded of the Gary Larson cartoon where you see all these cows in a pasture standing arounding smoking, chatting, etc. One (an ancestor of Sour Puss) is sentry and calls out 'CAR' and all the cows drop down to all four and begin eating grass. I'm pretty sure that all our cows are standing around chatting right now. Not smoking; after all this is an organic farm.

Painting the Pied a Terre

How many of you know the song "The Teddy Bears' Picnic'? I had never heard of it, or heard it until Yael stuck it in the car's CD player for Alessia. It was played several times over the next few hours and then my brilliant granddaughter decided to return to the classics - Baa baa black sheep, Twinkle, twinkle, etc. I, however, was not so fortunate.

It has been stuck in my brain for four endless days as I paint the ceilings of my rooms. Painting ceilings is horrible enough - even worse when they are attic ceilings and slope almost to the floor - but painting ceilings with Teddy Bears' Picnic on an endless loop in your head must rank as cruel and inhuman punishment. I heard it as I gloweringly faced yet another batch of horrible, inferior paint, as I watched the sheep and ewes from my ladder and as I edged and edged and edged the ceilings.

The reason for all this painting is that I come from the sun drenched Southwest and need light. I mean I really need light and sunshine and the feeling of warmth. This is a recurring theme. The first time I saw my rooms, it was a rainy, dreary October day and the rooms were painted a pallid gray/blue and so were the ceilings. It felt colder inside than out (well, almost).

So on my next visit down under I painted the walls a deep yellow. I spent $278 on paint - it has to be chemical free or whatever. All I know is that I had to mortgage my house to buy the stuff and then it turned out to be the worst paint I ever used. And I have used a lot of paint in my day. I have painted the interiors of new houses, refurbished houses, houses bought on spec, and now this. The paint ran; I can still see trails of paint and globules hanging on the walls. I was livid. And then I realized that I needed two coats. Actually I need three but I was going to die in a ditch before I forked over more money for more of that blankety-blank paint. So I stuck with two coats. Luckily it is usually fairly overcast so the imperfections are not noticeable to anyone but me. And probably everybody else but they are too polite to mention it.

It took me six months and a tour back in the States before I felt ready to tackle my ceilings. I bought a cheaper paint that worked about like the gold standard paint and needed two coats. I have been inwardly seething for the whole four days and the Teddy Bears' Picnic loop didn't help any. Then I decided to devote all my time to it and just get it done.

I got it done. But I also had to try to move the cows; shift the sheep, pull the weeds, trap the possums, catch the mice etc. This farm work is unbelievable. I once worked two full time jobs and had a life and still had more free time than any farmer does. There is never a day off; there are a wide variety of things that go wrong every day, starting with the weather and working outward. And yet these farmers get up the next day and try all over again to make it work. I understand it. I think I do anyway. When I get up in the morning and see the mist and the rainbow and the green, green valley across I feel sublime. But I don't have to get up at 4:30 am and I don't have much livestock, and I don't have barns and fences to repair, machinery to cajole into working for just one more day. I am a gentleman (woman) farmer and grateful for it. But I am much more grateful to all those farmers who accept this life and enable me to eat healthy, life-giving food. And to be able to give it to my granddaughters. I knew all this intellectually before but now I am learning it in a whole new way. And if there are any farmers out there who have a spare moment and are reading this, I just want to say 'Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I will never, never take you for granted again.'

Lamb2

It was very misty and overcast this morning so I didn't get to the sheep paddock until almost 9am. Why go when I couldn't see a thing. I discovered that the brown ewe adhered strictly to her doctrine that a little learning is a dangerous thing. She decided to forego my help with her birthing process and do it on her own. I'm not hurt; really, I'm not. I agree that a little learning can be dangerous but I read those chapters several times and would have liked to be given a chance to show off in front of the ram. I believe he would have been impressed. So I'm not hurt, just a tad disappointed.

Still, she has given us a charming little white lamb. And it must have happened fairly soon before I arrived because it lay around most of the morning. So, the white ewe has a black lamb and the brown ewe has a white lamb. But the ram is ecru colored. I really must refresh myself on Gregor Mendel's theory. I think it was sweet peas. Perhaps the theory doesn't extend to the animal kingdom. There I go again, running to the books for answers. It could be as simple as the ram has been cuckkolded. By both a black ram and a white ram? Probably not. I guess I'll google Mendel after all.

The Lambs Are Coming, Tra La, Tra La

Okay, it's settled. I am staying up here on the farm this week to assist the ewes in what promises to be a fertile lambing session. I once watched my cat give birth; total extent of my knowledge. I was pretty much knocked out when Dan came and have no recollection of the event. Besides that was almost 42 years ago.

So we decide to help me prepare. How does any overeducated townie approach a challenge? We read. Thanks to Amazon, I came from the States laden with farm books. So we begin our research. It all sounds overwhelming to me but Dan flies around gathering rubber gloves, jelly, something to give the ewe to restore her to vigor; Yael contributes an old towel, and I read. After all, I'm the one who is supposed to actually wear the gloves, pull the lamb out, and rub it down. I ask a simple question. "How will I even get close to the ewe given that the whole herd (Including a disgruntled large Ram) hates the very sight of me after our shifting of them yesterday?" Somehow my attentive children manage not to hear that question. The question trails after them as they hop in the station wagon and drive off down to Auckland.

I nervously watch the herd all day as I weed. And as I paint my rooms since one of my windows looks over and down at the appropriate paddock. We moved them to this nearest paddock because it provides shelter. Which the books say ewes need. Unfortunately a lot of hay is stored there too. This space was originally two horse stalls attached to the back of the new barn. So Dan is worried about the sheep coming into the stalls; not to give birth but to eat. And there goes the winter feed. While Dan and Yael were assembling emergency obstetrical supplies, I was sent down to muck out the stables. Which I did. The dung had been left to dry out in the expectation that it would be easier to shovel. Great idea; wrong premise. Dung does not dry out in a wet climate. Still, I did my bit and mucked out.

I fret all night. These are downright costly livestock. Any time you hear the word 'organic' add two zeroes. And these were premium organic sheep. Premium organic wool; premium organic lamb chops. So Dan and Yael have repeatedly warned me not to name the stock; not to get emotionally attached. Who? Me! Now remember this is from my lovely daughter-in-law who croons to sheep as if they were her own children. So I don't get involved. Not hard to do since the cows are too big to cuddle and the sheep bolt at the sound of my bright purple wellies crunching down the driveway.

That all ended yesterday morning when I tramped down through the mist to count the sheep. All were accounted for. The brown one was huddled by the fence batting the post with her head. Even I (with the help of the books) could tell she would move into the world of motherhood pretty darn soon. And then one of the ewes moved away from me but slowly. And 4 other ewes surrounded her and all stared at me with grave suspicion. All were white ewes but I kept seeing little flashes of black around their legs. One very clever ewe, not having read the right books, had decided to give birth without me. And to the most adorable little black lamb with a white blaze on its forehead. I call it Starlight but only here on my blog. Back at the farmhouse I will call it Lamb1.

Shifting Sheep

We had a long, holiday weekend here (Queen's birthday) so up came the family from Auckland. Everybody had a list of things to get done with the blessed extra day. We even have a white board to keep up on task. Can anybody guess whose idea that was? Nope, not guilty. I didn't even  know what one was until I got here. I come from the day of the appointment book written in pencil.
So Friday was get here, finish up work that Dan and Yael get paid for - he's finance and specializes in helping corporations turn around. Yael is a computer person. So long distance wireless is fine for an afternoon. My job was keeping my two-year-old granddaughter Alessia occupied. I had the hardest and most rewarding job.
Friday night started the Sabbath and since my son and his family are modern Orthodox Jews (I am Conservative myself but follow the house rules as best I can) there is no work on Saturday. Sunday was devoted to moving a neighbor's fallen tree (free firewood which Dan gets to chop up). Did I mention that the main house is heated by two wood burning stoves? Yup. My pied a terre (can you have one of those in the country? I guess so since I do). Anyway my digs (local jargon) are over the 3 car garage. And I am campaigning for an electric heater. Odds are good that I'll get it. Old bones and all that. We have electric heaters for the bedrooms. Burying yet another stupid possum; setting traps, etc. etc.
So Monday is moving the cows and sheep day. Must be; its on the white board. Dan and Yael go down to move the cows. I stay with the kids. See a pattern here? Just wait. Dan and Yael come back. The cows moved fairly easily. Probably because I wasn't there for the love fest. But! And there is always a but on a farm. The cows had broken off the ballcock in their water trough and so it had run and run and run. Pretty much drained the water tank that services all the paddocks. The rest of the day was spent borrowing parts (there is nothing open on the Queen's birthday, except Buckingham Palace I assume). With the aid of one of NZ's greatest neighbors, Merv, the thing is jerryrigged but not permanently fixed. and the pump is not working properly.
The sheep still need to be moved. If they aren't moved, they get parasites in the paddocks. Parasites are bad; in our tummies or in theirs. So off go Dan and Yael to shift the sheep.I stay with the kids. Time passes; way too much time. Alessia is fretful; she is a child of charming directness. Where is dinner? Her younger sister, Naavah, at 5 months is asking the same question with ever increasing intensity. I can feed Alessia; no such luck with Naavah. She is being breast fed and has not taken to the very occasional bottle and anyway there is not expressed milk available. We wait and scream. All three of us.
Dan and Yael return. They have chased those sheep up hill and down dale. But it is dark and the sheep aren't going anywhere. We'll all try tomorrow morning before they race back to Auckland and their busy lives. It is decided that I'll stay on the farm and watch out for birth-giving ewes. That time is on us. I'll write about that another time. If I survive.
Tuesday morning bright and early we go to shift the sheep. The kids are once again in the car seats and the car is parked across the road to prevent any strays racing for the highway and freedom or death. Dan gives me two green cloth grocery bags to put over my hands. My job is to stand wherever he places me and wave like a semiphore if the sheep turn in my direction. So up the hill I hike. Through dung, pot holes, thigh high grass (wet of course). And stand at my appointed post. Dan tries to block off another part of the very high hill. Yael is to move the sheep along the fence line toward the open gate which is luckily almost oppposite the gate of the paddock into which they should go. She croons to the sheep; sounds just the way she croons to Naavah as she gives her child a bath. "This way sheep. You'll like it in the new paddock. That's the way. It's all right sheep. We're doing fine." Except we aren't. They race toward me. I semiphore for all I'm worth. I guess it was too much. They wheel around Yael in a flanking operation that Patton could have orchestrated. And back over the hill they go. Toward Dan. Who now runs back up the hill to head them off. He doesn't make it.
Eventually they huddle down in a crevasse near the fence. I go and semiphore (more softly this time) and they move toward the gate. Dan comes down the hill; Yael croons them through the first gate. And across the road they go toward the awaiting gate. And then Alessia, bored with the whole thing, starts to sing. Appropriately enough it is Baa Baa Black Sheep but sung with fervor. Which in the case means loudly. The sheep stop, begin to wheel but Yael is close behind and I am in front with the green bags. They reverse back toward the hill. Nope; Dan's coming. In order for Dan to get in position in time, he has to jump the fence. Which he does and lands in a briar patch. That is why I always wear long pants. Guess who was wearing shorts! So the sheep are trapped. They can only go through the gate. Except that they don't; they just stand in the grass and eat. We are pretty darn tired by this time and it isn't even 9am yet. We stand for a while trying to figure it out. I finally get Alessia to quit singing. Yael encourages them yet again. "You are doing so well. We're all so proud of you. You can do it. See the gate is right there." It works. And the sheep are shifted at least for now.