Minus Ten

Last week I cleaned out the chicken coops preparatory to finally getting chickens. I have prepared rigorously for this latest acquisition to our livestock. I read “Raising Chickens for Dummies” and watched “The Egg and I” on classic movies. I was so ready.

That night I bragged to Yael that 3 weeks had passed since my trip back to the States and I hadn’t gotten sick. A first!  My herbal immune supplements must be working. I was even able to clean the coops without my allergies acting up.  Less than an hour later, I was in agony.

In rapid fire order my sinuses swelled to the bursting point, my throat was a fiery pathway to hell, my chest was carrying a twelve pound weight, and my eyeballs were popping out. I more or less stayed that way for a week. During the week, I did nothing except go to the eye doctor and then back home.

None of this is noteworthy except that on the trip back up to the farm, I did NOT see the sheep. Correction, I did not see 14 of the sheep. There were 3 in paddock 2. That was Tuesday. Wednesday saw me stagger out to check the stock. The steers were fine. There were 7 sheep in paddock 2. There were no sheep in paddock 3. At least none I could see from the road. That left me with minus 10 sheep.

I wasn’t worried. Paddock 3 is the one with the deep swale and you can lose a cow in there. Actually, I once managed to lose all 5 of ours. So I set off again that afternoon and looped paddock 3 including the swale. No sheep. Now this is not an easy search. The grass is chest high, the footing is very uneven, and it is steeply hilly. And I was feeling rotten. Perhaps not the perfect time to play Sherlock the sheep searcher.

I reassured Dan and Yael that the missing wool bearers were doubtless down in the swale playing hide and seek. Since my eye surgeries I have to wear these deep dark glasses and I probably missed them hidden in the grass.

I skipped the sheep hunt on Thursday since it rained all day. But today, Friday, saw me resume the hunt. I am embarrassed to admit it but I even started looking for sheep scat to see if they had spent any significant time in some gulley. No scat; no surprise since it had poured all yesterday. Also, no sheep.

Back to my room for lunch. I gave an update to Dan and Yael who were noticeably more concerned now that it had been 4 days since a sheep sighting. So I turned off the stove and went back out. Boy, I wish I could make a dramatic story out of this. I could gain great street cred with my kids but the truth is, all 10 were peacefully grazing in the upper portion of paddock 2. There they all were: 17 sheep all presenting me with equally innocent faces along the lines of “Who, me?” But I knew better. All I had to do was look over at RAMbo. His face was turned away from me but his shoulders were shaking. Another deep sheep belly laugh from he who always wins.

NOTE to readers. I was just kidding about not telling Dan that I had broken the gate.(See previous posting)  I use that gate at least twice a day. I need it to work. I am not a duplicitous mother scheming against her hard-working son. I was just kidding! Honest! You can stop with the emails now. Please!

The Day of the Trees

You know how you refer to unusual events as “the day Johnny broke his collarbone”, or “the day my car died on the interstate 15 miles from anywhere”? Well, Wednesday was that kind of day. I call it the day of the trees.

I had decided to update you with all our permaculture efforts and wanted to start with how our orchard was doing in front of the red, red barn. I got out my trusty camera and hoofed it down the road to take a picture of the peach tree we planted last year which is doing marvellously well this year. Good visual on the way we are trying to turn this farm into a haven for trees.

The gate into the orchard has always been difficult. Of all our wooden gates, this one is perhaps the worst. I can’t get it open without hauling it upward to slip the hook out of the socket. Since it is a very heavy wooden gate (made more so when it is wet, which is always), I use my foot as a lever. This, along with my shoulder action usually gets the gate up enough to slip off the hook. And it did so this time. Unfortunately, it also broke the gate which dropped, very heavily, down on my foot.

With the gate drooping disconsolately in the road, I decided to haul it back into position and pretend I was never there. Wood doesn’t take fingerprints very well, does it?

I had barely gotten the broken timbers in place when Dan came barrelling down the road in the quad (which, by the way, I have never yet been allowed to drive, but I’m not bitter!). Swinging himself off the quad, he matter-of-factly said, “So the old gate has finally had it, eh?”

Now you know why I never turned to a life of crime. I’m terrible at it. Here I thought I was hiding the results of my incompetence and Dan was watching the whole thing from the top of the hill.

Dan then informed me that it was time to move the steers from paddock #1 behind the red, red barn up to the paddock in front of the new barn. Great! I always love it when the stock are in that paddock, I can see them from my window and don’t have to get wet hiking a mile to check them.

So we open the gate – very gingerly but it holds together, sort of. And lead out the steers. These steers are more than ready and bolt eagerly for the new grass on the verge of the roadway. All except one; that one being #104. 104 has been cross-grained since we got him. If the herd goes north, he goes south. If I want him in the next paddock, he flicks his tail and refuses to move, no matter what.

So true to his nature, 104 heads straight for one of the newly planted eucalyptus trees and bites off its head. A screech of pure pain comes out of my son’s mouth and he heads up toward the mangled tree swearing oaths of vengeance on #104 and at the same time, vainly trying to save the mangled splinter that was so recently a tree.

The rest of the trip is spent in a sullen silence by 104 (ha, ha, you thought it’d be Dan, didn’t you). Dan is quite peeved but fairly accepting since it’s all part of being a farmer. As we hike up behind the cows, he tells me that he thinks he’s found the entrance route of the rats that converge in my ceiling every evening.

Now this is good news. I have mentioned before that it sounds like a rats’ convention at happy hour up there and I get a creeped-out feeling as I hear the scrabbling, clawing, and other weird noises as I’m tryng to sleep. I keep thinking that all that activity will eventually come through the ceiling and onto my bed – with me in it.

So I keep my enthusiasm level high as Dan informs me that he will need my help with the ropes. “What ropes?” I ask. The ropes that will pull the extremely large branch of the pine tree down off the roof. Pull off a tree branch, how hard can it be?

I am about to find out. It is late afternoon when Dan fires up the old chain saw and sets to work. I go off to do something. Just about anything else. I am nervous around chain saws and even more nervous when someone I love dearly is around them.

It is coming on to nightfall when I go out to see if Dan is finished. I want to remind him that 8:00 is past dinner time (once a mother, always a mother). The tree branch has been partially sawn through and is resting on the roof. Dan is up an extremely precarious ladder trying to hand saw off the minor branches. With keen insight, I immediately notice that the ladder’s feet are slipping on the wet,  pine needled soil, down into the water gulley that surrounds the garage. Now this gully is no slouch, it comes up to my knees and is treacherous.

I point this out. I won’t use the word ‘snarled’ but the response is less than cordial. I go back to the kitchen and eat my dinner. At about 8:30 I return and stand silently as Dan makes a number of fruitless attempts to better anchor the ladder. I say “at the risk of having my head bitten off, I want to point out that it is getting dark.” Dan responds with a gloomy “I know but I can’t leave the tree limb up there. It might slide down and knock off the water pipes leading to our water tanks.”

Yes, folks, this tree limb is jeopardizing the entire household water supply. And just when we have finally gotten rid of the poison that laid me low twice after we had the roof power washed. Now I’m as invested in this project as my son.

“What can I do?”

“Hold this rope while I try to saw off the rest of the limb. When it’s free, pull on your rope to keep the branch from sliding down this side.”

We tried. We really tried. But the limb gets caught up on a spike of its severed self and won’t budge. It is now really, really dark and we are working by light of my bathroom window which is covered with tree branch. Finally, at 10, I call game over and we decide to try again in the morning. This means early since Dan was supposed to go back to Auckland that night for an early business meeting.

At 6:30 the next morning I am ready. I am wearing my trusty parka. Lands End, I miss you terribly. What will I do when this parka finally goes to garment heaven? At least it’s daylight and we can see.

Dan is a very methodical person. Me, not so much. So I get edgy after Dan spends an hour (it seemed that way) trying to figure out the best way to get the limb off the roof, save the water system, not break my bathroom window and not get hurt in the process.

I mutter. He finally turns to me and asks, “what would you do, Mom?” And I tell him. I pull my ropes this way, and as the base of the tree limb is freed, he hauls on the other ropes the other way so that the top  swings away from the water pipes. But first, he needs to climb that shaky ladder yet again and chain saw off that spike holding the limb.

We follow the plan and so does the massive tree branch.Then we cut off the ancillary branches and haul the whole thing out of the gulley into which it had fallen.  It is 8:30 and Dan dashes for the shower and Auckland. I throw the severed branches over into the forest for permaculturing at a future time and follow him into the house. The day of the trees is over.

 

I'm Back

 

I have just gotten back to the farm after a month in the US. I had a great time reconnecting with old friends but I was back and it was time to shoulder the burden and tackle the sheep once again.

The past two days I have spent babysitting my totally adorable younger grandchild, Naavah. So I haven’t been able to hike the paddocks for my up close and personal inspection of the stock. I was only able to get furtive glimpses from the roadway (those darn sheep remember me and run over the hill as soon as they hear me coming). So today I was child free and determined to count heads.

While I was gone, another lamb had been born, bringing our total to 16. Focus on that number, it becomes important later on. From the road I was only able to count 15, no matter how often I tried. So up over the hill I went. By scouring my pathetic short term memory bank, I was able to remember that we had 2 black ewes, 1 ram, and 7 white ewes. Add to that the twins, a white lamb and 2 black lambs for a total of 15. The newest addition looks to be about a week old and another white one was born in the past two days (I think) bringing the total to 16. Still at 16 since one of the ewes is missing.

I was afraid she had drowned in the creek, or was caught on wire. But no! After a long search, through water, thickets, wet grass and all the usual sheep and steer poo, I found that she had gone off by herself to give birth to yet another white lamb. The Stone Tree Farm total is now 18. Not bad. We have had a total of 9 live births, 1 death, so 8 of our 9 ewes are fertile. And so is RAMbo. I congratulated him on my way out to the road. He just lifted a weary head and gazed at me. His work was done and he was plumb tuckered out.

Everything else is going well here. The raised veggie beds are thriving with abundant weeds (my next major task). The house is almost completely painted and the equipment to make a true garden, i.e., posts, netting, etc. has arrived. And then there are the seedlings. Dan planted some of them but I have two flats of tomatoes and no clue as to where they can go. Perhaps pots on the patio with netting over them. I’ll run it by command central and see.

Right now I am sitting back revelling in Spring (it’s a chilly Fall back home) and contemplating setting out flats of cherry tomatoes. Oh well, no need to be hasty. Until the garden is finished there is no place for them anyhow. I think I’ll take a leaf out of RAMbo’s book and just keep on doing nothing.

No Snakes

There are a lot of fine things about New Zealand but the finest is that there are NO snakes. I don't like snakes. I would go so far as to say that I hate, loathe, despise, and fear snakes. Get the idea? So when I ended up flat on my back in the creek today, I was thankful there were no snakes.

I spent some time in Mississippi in my youth and one of my most vivid memories is seeing the cottonmouths' heads bobbing the lake. Lots of heads; no swimming for me altho there were those who went in anyway. Today, as I staggered out of the filthy water (runoff from animal effluent), I was reminded of that cherished childhood scene.

This afternoon started out pretty nice. It was overcast but no rain. In fact, it hasn't rained for several days so I decided to do an 'up close and personal' check of the sheep. They were in paddock #2 and I wanted to go up the hill through paddock #3. For some unknown reason, I decided to explore. Perhaps it was the freedom of not having to wear my down parka, perhaps it was because I hit the big 70 recently and wanted to prove something to myself. Oh, I proved it all right - I'm not as young as I was.

So I decided to jump that itty bitty creek instead of circling around the entire paddock. I took a slight running pace, slipped on the grass, missed my footing and ended up staring at the sky. Note to Dan: that creek is deeper than you think. It was above my knees when I was finally able to stagger up. I am 5'3". You do the math.

I would have been humiliated except that no one saw me except me and I'm used to my pathetic antics. Well, there was an observer. RAMbo had ambled over to watch the fun. He didn't look pleased to see me dripping wet. I got the distinct impression that he was considering whether or not this was the time for a pre-emptive strike. Lucky for him there were no hostilities. I would have wiped the paddock with him. In my mood I might even have caused him serious bodily harm.

Oh, who am I kidding? It was a dumb stunt and I should have known better. I was evaluating this whole thing as I squelched my way home smelling of paddock and animals. In my last blog, I called steer #104 stupid and implied that he had an IQ in the single digits.

I now apologize to Mr. Stupid. Your IQ may be in the single digits but mine IS a single digit. So I offer you a picture of #104 - the smarter of the two of us.

Steering Steers

We have inaugurated a new steer system. Since it is early Spring and there is very little new grass as yet, Dan has decided to feed the steers on the verge.

As you know, our farm stretches finger-like from the house at the top of the mountain down to the main road. I say it is a mile in length, Dan claims it is much less. When I am hiking it back up as I do twice a day, I’d swear it’s 5 miles. Whatever, it’s a hike.  But on either side of the one-lane road that services the 4 farms, is a verge. Since the road was cut through our property, the verge belongs to us. And there is grass on it.

So Dan decided to fence off a part of the verge with the portable electrified fencing and let the steers munch away. This was fine with me since they had been in the quarantine paddock all the way at the base of our finger and I was getting tired of the hike.

The first time Dan moved them by himself since all the steers had to do was amble through the gate and presto! they were in the verge. They stayed placidly there all day. Dan hauled water to them; all our neighbors drove by to congratulate us on finally ‘mowing’ the verge down; and each of us wandered down to admire the grazing.

Then Dan chatted with our resident expert on all farming matters and learned that it was perfectly safe to leave the steers out overnight. I wasn’t so sure. “At least, shut the gate to the main road”, I begged. New Zealand has this imminently sane law that any damage done by your stock is your responsibility. So I envisioned car hitting steer; big bucks going to repair car.

The gate remained open. All of us were very hesitant about not having the steers safely behind our stout wooden fences. And have I mentioned that we have had a crime wave of rustling out here in our wild, wild North? Yep, folks – rustlers! I left Arizona to come to Warkworth, New Zealand and battle rustlers. Go figure!

So I went to bed. I was reading this great mystery set in Greece and didn’t reach over to turn out the light until almost 11. Just as my fingers touched the switch, I heard the baritone tones of my only child waft up the staircase. “Mom, can you come help me move the steers?”

Well, I could of course. Turns out he and Yael had fretted away the evening and Dan finally decided discretion was the better part of valor. Naturally Dan had the quad bike loaded with equipment so I was elected to walk down to the verge to help. Try it some time at 11 at night, no street lights, and cataracts clouding your vision. All I can say is that a benevolent God gave me a full moon or I’d still be out there stumbling away.

The steers were somewhat puzzled to be awakened in the middle of the night. They are early risers and need their beauty sleep. But they eventually got the idea. As usual Sir Single Digit (as in IQ) refused to move. He may be stupid but he wasn’t stupid enough to go anywhere until the path was forged by someone else. Preferably everyone else. I shouted, I urged, I threatened. Finally I took my cow wand and very gently prodded his backside. I don’t think he even felt it. I admit it, he is a very big cow and I am a tad intimidated by him.

So Dan stomped back through the mud and the steer decided he’d rather move than tangle with a wet, irritated Dan in the middle of the night. Also, the moon was covered with clouds and even a dumb animal can’t see in the dark. The moment was now.

Finally they were bedded down and so were we. And the dawn came. And the rains came. And Dan came to tell me we needed to shift the steers onto another tasty bit of verge.

So once again I hiked down while he rode the quad. My task was to go up paddock #1 (see picture of view from halfway up paddock  #1 to get an idea of the heighth). Then I was to steer the steers down the paddock, through the first 2 gates, through the orchard without allowing them to stop and nibble a few fruit trees, through the final gate and onto a pristine verge.

This worked well for the first 4 steers who pretty much knew the drill by now. Not so well for #104 aka Sir Single Digit. So I’m stuck on the top of paddock #1 with dumbo who refuses to move a step. I repeat my antics of the night before. Nothing. Finally I give up and start down to swap places with Dan. Guess who decides to follow? So I have learned another farm fact: the best way to steer steers is from the front.

Busy, Busy, Busy

Well, it’s Spring! And the living is busy, busy, busy. We now have 5 lambs; twin brownies, a tan one, a white one, and a very new black lamb (to replace the deceased Livingston).  So 6 of our 9 ewes gave birth. I can’t help but feel that RAMbo’s indifferent performance could be due to his fly strike earlier this year. He was very sick for a long time.

So watching the lambs, which I do frequently and for long periods of time, has reminded me that it is spring. It is now time to start my garden. But not just our run-of-the-mill raised bed garden. Oh no! Dan and I have decided to convert the front paddock (the one you see in front of the house) into an orchard and veggie garden. Yael, concerned about the character of the property, urges restraint. We have compromised. We will put the garden on the right and the orchard on the left. This will not compromise the fabulous views from the kitchen or dining room. From these rooms we see all the way down to our neighbor’s lake which is complete with ducks, rimmed with stately pine trees, and crystal clear.

We have the parameters, Dan has staked off the garden and we are ready to go?  Not yet. Dan is rethinking the garden placement. I am arguing that 9 hours of sun a day is enough and think that shade in the late afternoon is a good thing. After all, the Kiwi sun is hectically hot. Dan is thinking of the shorter days of spring and fall. Who’s vision will prevail? Stay tuned.

In the meantime, Dan has ordered the lumber for the base of the garden and we have picked up the chicken wire for the sides. That was fun; the tiny Alto was filled with my stuff from a 4 day visit to Auckland but we jammed in the chicken wire and I ended up holding miscellaneous items including some seedlings which “I just had to have” right then. The bird netting is in the garage and now we wait for the land to dry out enough to be able to build the sides, cover the ground with cardboard (to kill the grass), layer in the hay, and order the 2+ truckloads of top soil.

I am filling my time with setting out flats of seeds. Dan has bought several heritage packets of tomatoes, beans, and squash. I have some flowers. And the girls and I planted our green beans several weeks ago. They have shot up unbelievably and yesterday I transplanted them into the raised bed and tied them to the chicken wire sides.

While all this is going on, the water is still not back to its pre-poison state. I tried it about a week ago and got sick again. So Dan spends a major part of his time here draining the tanks, cleaning the tanks, refilling the tanks, etc. Now we are going to actually climb down into the tank (well, Dan is anyway) and clean it from the inside. In the meantime, he lugs bottled water up to me each week.

And of course, the house painting goes on. In between rains that it is. Poor Colin and his guys will probably make this their retirement project. They figure it will take a month! So I am busy at the farm but far from lonely. I have the sheep, the steers, and the painting crew. What more could anyone ask for?

Life and Death

Life and death are very real, very close here on the farm. I am still getting used to that. Two weeks ago we had two lambs and were faltering badly in the local lamb marathon. Then we had twins. Our very first twins here on the farm. Adorable doesn’t even begin to describe them. You can see their picture below. And they aren’t afraid of me – yet. I am sure that Dad will teach them caution soon enough but for now they caper gladly toward me while their mum stands stoically and watch.

I am entranced with them. I watch them for hours every day. I love to see them each nursing from a different side of the ewe, tails wagging fiercely and mum continuing to graze. And the older two black lambs grow bigger and more independent every day. They jump, they cavort, they occasionally nurse but more and more their appetites are stimulated by grass.

One afternoon as I was coming back from checking the steers (all present and accounted for) I heard this bleating from our pasture. I watched the white ewe call for her black lamb. She wandered all over the paddock. She repeatedly entered the horse stalls, her plaintive bleats echoing through the rafters.

I thought perhaps the lamb had wandered into the next paddock. The other sheep were slow to move into the forest paddock but I had left the gate open and knew that sooner or later they would become more adventurous and enter. Perhaps the black lamb had led the way and mum didn’t realize it. So I donned my boots (long, long grass in that paddock) and set off to find Livingston. I walked every inch of the forest paddock. No lamb. I then widened my search to the barn paddock where the flock were grazing. No lamb. Finally I entered the horse stalls and found Livingston.

He was lying between two bales of hay and looked asleep but had died. There was a white bubble around his nostrils. From this I surmised that he had been inadvertently smothered, probably by his mother when she rolled over on him during the night.

He had grown so big that I had to drag him out. I couldn’t carry him, or perhaps I didn’t want to. He had been so cute and cuddly and everything a lamb should be. It made me very sad to see him dead. I understand livestock death in the abstract but for some reason it really hurts my heart when I see the reality.

Anyway, I reported to command central for instructions. Dan said that he couldn’t get up to the farm for several days so I would have to bury Livingston. All right but where? It has rained for a month solid and I walk through swamp land with every step. Not ideal for digging. We settle on a spot and I get the wheelbarrow and wrestle the lamb in for his final ride.

The hole digging was as hard as I had imagined but it got done and I did my best for the lamb. But his mother’s cries continued all day and into the night and I couldn’t sleep. I feel as if I am growing more aware of the natural world around me as I grow older rather than cocooning as so many pundits say we do as we approach our “declining” years. The big 70 is approaching and I feel as if I know less rather than more now.