Farm Tales

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2010-04-29T09:50:00.001-07:00

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2010-04-12T07:19:00.000-07:00

There Be Calves Here

I love the line from Star Trek IV: The Journey Home, when Scotty beams two humpbacks into the Enterprise's cargo bay and is overcome with joy: "Captain, there be whales here!"

As an experienced writer, I will steal this line and make it my own. "Captain, there be calves here!"

First, some early spring images:

The living footstools under our kitchen counter:

The tray our neighbors gave Melissa:

The neighbor's pasture burn, to the south of our driveway, done to stimulate the native grasses growing there. Amazing how they set two lines of fire which then burned toward each other. Magic.

The Farmer's handknit socks, both of them. (I'd knit one, but that apparently wasn't enough---she wanted another one.)

And then it was time to prepare for the arrive of two calves. First Melissa used our Farmall 706 to scrap up the manure and composted hay around the barn:

Then she borrowed the neighbor's little Farmall 300 and manure spreader (that's the thing groaning under a load of composted manure):

I don't have a photo of the manure being flung all about the pasture from the back of the manure spreader. I'm thinking everyone can live without that image.

I forgot to take a 'before' picture, but here's the scrapped up yard. We'll seed it and hope the chickens don't eat all the seeds:

Then our friend Emily, visiting from Madison, mucked out the inside of the barn (Poor Emily---bad timing to visit the weekend the barn needed mucking!) Another visiting friend--Mary---and I put down down lime and fresh straw and made two pens.

Then Mary and Melissa drove off in the pickup, and came back two hours later with these guys:

Got finger?

Ahh, life is good. A full tummy and warm sunshine. It doesn't get much better than this.

2010-03-30T09:05:00.000-07:00

Story of a Book

This is a writing tale. A few years ago (yikes---four years ago!) I realized that while I chose to move into the country and start a farm (even though I had no idea what lie ahead), what about a kid whose parents pore over the Murray McMurray Poultry catalog and dream of raising sheep? What if she's not an animal person, and suddenly finds herself ripped from the urban life and plopped down onto a farm?

Once again, our small farm inspired my writing. The two are now so interconnected that if we ever stop farming, I'm in big trouble as a writer!

After a few months of thinking about it, in 2006 I wrote a few chapters and called it Barn Boot Blues, imagining it would be for middle-graders, basically 8-12 year olds. I submitted the 20 pages to the annual Loft/McKnight Fellowship for Children's Writers contest that fall. It's an amazing program that chooses one writer to receive, over 12 months, $25,000. The award is designed to make a different in a writer's life, and boy, does it ever.

Very early in 2007, I got the call. After years of submitting, I'd finally won. The judge was an editor from a well-respected children's publisher. Wow! Money! A publishing connection!

My goal was to write the book immediately and submit it to this editor. However, 2007 was full of me promoting Hit By a Farm and writing The Compassionate Carnivore, so no time to work on "Boots."

2008 was full of me promoting Carnivore and writing A Pirate's Heart, so no time to work on "Boots."

In 2008 I met the judge/editor when she appeared at the Loft's Children's Literature Festival, where I also gave a presentation. We hit it off immediately. "You don't have to write the whole novel," said the generous woman. "Just send me an outline and a few chapters."

Finally in 2009 I carved out time to develop an outline and those sample chapters. My agent submitted them, and the editor and I went back and forth for a month or two hammering out changes, and then late summer...the contract came.

A contract is always good because it means an editor, a real person, is waiting for the manuscript. The downside is something called... a deadline. Mine was April 1, 2010. (This sounds reasonable until you know that I'm writing another book at the same time---that's another story!)

Today is March 30. I sent the manuscript in yesterday, two days early.

What a relief. I met the deadline! But now comes the next step. Once the editor reads it, then I'll get pages and pages of notes about what's not working, and a few lines about what is. I'll revise the novel all summer until the editor proclaims it ready to go.

It's scheduled to be published spring of 2011. So a story idea that germinated in 2006 will have taken five years to become a book. It feels like forever, but the delays were all mine, and fell into the category called 'life.'

Speaking of taking forever, I have two novel ideas that have been stewing in my head for three years and I want them out of my head and onto paper. I have three terrible novels that need major overhauls, and want them to be done yesterday.

It takes four years to really get a vineyard going. It takes four or five years to really get a handle on raising sheep (more, actually, if your sheep throw something new at you every year.) It can take a year for a busy fiber mill to process your fleece. It can take years to learn how to spin and knit.

If writing and farming and fiber are trying to teach me anything, it's patience.

Those of you born with this trait, as Melissa was, feel lucky. I must face the lesson everywhere I turn. I've learned a lot about plants and animals and humor and generosity from Melissa, but the patience just hasn't rubbed off.

I'd be happy to develop more patience, but it just takes too long.

2010-03-11T12:05:00.000-08:00

Too Busy

Fill in the blank in your own way: I'm so busy and so tired that _______.

I've got a great one, and it's not even farming related. It's just life.

First, a little background. I found myself having to write two books this winter (long story, will post to other blog eventually,) so I've barely noticed the ice, cold, and snow as I've had my nose pressed to my monitor, my body hunched over the keyboard.

I took two trips in February, both working trips. Melissa has been working like a crazy woman for the US Census (mail your form in or she'll send someone to knock on your door!), working 10-12 hour days.

So for nearly two weeks I've been doing all the chores, the dogs, the cooking, the dishes, everything, while she drives around in the incredible fog we've been having. Seriously, fog day after day. I feel as if I'm living inside my own little dome, and the rest of the world has disappeared.

So yesterday I ran around doing errands, getting the car tires fixed because both rear tires were leaking, then to a meeting, then dropping off the car at Melissa's meeting so she had a way home, then calling a neighbor for a ride home. Karen dropped me off and immediately drove away, thank god, otherwise she would have seen this:

I'm so busy and so tired that...

...last night I walked up to the house and held out my car keys, pressing UNLOCK.

I stood there, unsure why the front door didn't open, so I pressed UNLOCK again.

I might need to get a bit more sleep.

2010-02-20T18:31:00.000-08:00

Llama Spit and Other Images

Before I leave for my annual weeklong writing retreat, I thought I'd take the opportunity to share some images from this last week as I did chores. Also, since the Farmer is very busy with an 8-week short-term job with Uncle Sam and won't have time to read this blog, I'm going to 'out' one of her hobbies, then slip away into the night so she can't yell at me. Now and then she'll say, "You aren't going to blog about this, are you?" When she asks that, then I can't. When she doesn't, well.... We bloggers live dangerous lives, with big fat lines running through them. Sometimes it's kind of fun to cross over those lines....

The Farmer is strong and tough. She drives a Farmall 706 row tractor, a big son-of-a-gun. She has a chain saw, a wood splitter, a four-wheeler. She has a weed whacker that can fell small trees. Yet what does she do when she comes inside? She fusses over pretty little flowers.

I'm not at all into fussing over flowers, and barely remember to water them. I just want them to look nice without any work. But thanks to the Farmer, there's lots of blooming going on here:

She knows what sort of orchids these are, but I don't care about that---I just like looking them as I walk by.

Other images from this week...

The puppy pretending she has a broken leg.

Pumpkin looking pensive....

Helen, the last duck remaining. (The other two? The puppy got one, and a predatory bird got the other. Damn.)

Chachi eating his treat in a private dining room, with Tucker the jerk standing there trying to intimidate Chachi into leaving the treat for him. All three llamas are in the same pen this winter, and it's just like a junior high school in there.

This hen gives new meaning to the phrase 'beady-eyed.' What she's really saying with those baby blacks is, "Steal my egg one more time and I'll peck your eyes out and stuff them down your throat." Sadly, I stole all the eggs she was sitting on.

A lovely snow morning...

Nearly every single person who meets our llamas wants to know if they spit. "Yes," I say, "but not at us." We would never stand for it. The llamas, however, do spit at each other now and then, and have been known to spit at lambs that might have been bugging them. Melissa had a close call when she accidentally got between two llamas about to attack each other with wet, green glops. Their ears were back, their glares were fierce, but she yelled and waved her hands. "Break it up!" Their ears went back up, and they wisely swallowed their slimy projectiles.

I saw this the other day. Had to stop and stare. What the heck? Oh, llama spit.

I don't know who did the spitting, but his aim was WAY off. I should go out there with a bucket of soapy water and make all three llamas clean off the barn. How else will they learn?

2010-02-14T08:41:00.000-08:00

I Make The List

I just learned that some guy in Gouverneur, NY made a list of 30 outstanding farm blogs for the Gouverneur Times. Hey. That's cool. Here's what he had to say: "She writes, she farms, and writes about farming everything that goes wrong and some things that go right. This blogger is an inkslinger (a gunslinger with a pen instead of a gun). Her articles are vivid and you can absolutely picture everything she is talking about. This is one farm blog that you will want to follow."

Wow. Thanks, Tim.

Unfortunately, now that I've made Tim's list, I may find it hard to stay on it. That's because this winter has been boring.... blissfully boring. Nothing has died. (Ooops. Not true. Our peacock Ben died, but I'll write about that later.) Nothing has gotten out of a pen or into a bin of feed (knock on wood). I haven't fallen on the ice and broken anything (knock on wood.) I only got the car stuck once, and that was in the neighbor's driveway so I had lots of help getting unstuck.

I've been writing like a crazy woman (thanks to two spring deadlines...not the best situation, but a schedule of my own making.) Melissa's been spending lots of time inside because this winter has been cold. She just finished repairing a retractable extension cord that burned out ten years ago and has been hanging in the shed, useless, for all that time. Nothing makes the Farmer happier than to fix something she's been unable to use for ten years. I even helped, holding the dangerous steel spring in place so it wouldn't leap out and slice off one of Melissa's fingers. (When she'd first opened the case, the 30-foot spring had leapt out like a Jack in the Box, startling even our brave Farmer.)

In addition to such fascinating repairs, we've been taking photos. I took some the other day, uploaded them, and found Melissa had taken the exact same shot, only in different light. So here's what winter looks like out our bedroom window:

And again,

And again.

Every winter I worry about our two barn cats. Will they be warm enough? Could we ignore our allergies and let them into the house, hoping they learn to use the litterbox and avoid the three dogs? No, not practical. So every winter I build a few cozy spots up in the haymow, making little cubby holes by stacking bales, then lining them with wool. I still worry, but when I touch them, their fur might be cold, but their skin is warm.

During the day they are even warmer. In fact, this year they have decided that we purchased huge, 700-pound bales of hay just for their use. They are cats, after all, so everything is about them. Here are Maisie and Pumpkin lolling about on their 700-pound beds. Ahh, the life of a barn cat...

2010-01-22T14:42:00.000-08:00

Ahh, Winter

We have a nice layer of ice over everything, and more ice is coming this weekend.

A coating of ice on the snow and trees is lovely. It sparkles in the sun. A coating of ice on the ground where one walks is not so lovely. I did chores this afternoon, so over my boots I pulled on the clever footwear that helps you stand upright on ice. (Can't remember the name...YakTrak? BakTrak? YakBak?) They are made of rubber strips covered with coils of metal, and work okay.

Somewhere in this house I have something better, but I'm not sure where they are: a pair of serious spikes. They're awkward to attach beause you have to sit down and strap them on, but those things have 1/2" spikes. When you step onto the ice, you know you aren't going anywhere. (I'd gotten them for a winter photography class on the North Shore of Lake Superior years ago, where we were walking on icy rocks paying more attention to the camera than to the ice. One fall and you were a quick five foot slide into the icy water.)

These yakky things, though, provide less confidence. So I walked from building to building with my arms out for balance, gaze locked on the ground in search of less shiny spots in which to step. shuffling along like a 95-year-old (no disrespect intended to those who are 95---you should walk carefully.)

It took me twice as long to walk the 700 feet to the mailbox, and I lost all sense of time as I entered this Zen Zone of step, look, shuffle, step. I didn't have my cell phone with me, and Melissa was inside recovering from a neck procedure she had this morning. (More on that later when we know how it worked---we're aiming for headache relief.) So if I landed on my keister and broke something, it was either crawl back to the house, or crawl to the road and flag down a passing motorist, of which there are about 3 per day. Luckily the Yak things worked well enough, or perhaps it was walking like I was 95.

The dogs are always surprised by ice. Open the back door and all three go blasting out to do their thing. Two seconds later they've spread their feet wide in alarm, and the look on their faces says, "Whoa!" They, too, begin walking as if they're 95 (which is 13 in dog years, and 2 of them are 13! What synchronicity...) When I let the dogs back outside two hours later, they do the same thing. "Whoa!" And the third time? "Whoa!"

Gotta love dogs---they are the best optimists in the world. "This time the world won't be slippery."

The sheep do fine in the ice because they walk the same path. It gets worn down, and the droppings of round sheep poop add lots of traction. The only animal I'm worried about is Chachi, our aging llama. He doesn't like going up and down the hill to the hay anyway, and when it's icy, he won't do it. When he does venture out, he walks like he's, well, 95.

So he's locked in a pen in the barn with his own water and own hay. That way I don't have to worry about any broken llama legs.

I'm all ready to do chores all weekend, and make sure the animals don't have to negotiate a skating rink to get to their hay. But I think I'm going to brave the front hall closet and search for those spike attachments.

I may need them.

2010-01-06T13:16:00.000-08:00

Snow, Bad Sheep, and the Loch Ness Llama

This winter we set up a long row of six big round bales, surrounded them with feeder panels, and let the sheep and llamas have at it. It's close enough to the house that I can look out the dining room window and see everything, which I enjoy.

The llamas liked to eat on the far side. Zipper, the dark brown llama, would appear and disappear, looking a great deal like the Loch Ness Monster.

Now you see him...

Now you don't...

And here he is again, coming up for air...

Here's a ewe sitting on the hillside, contemplating life, or snow.

After we got all that heavy snow during the holidays, it took me awhile to notice that the llamas were no longer eating on the far side. They were eating on the closer side. Neither of us paid too much attention until it was TOO LATE.

Here's how sheep are supposed to eat their hay:

Here's how they were eating the hay today:

No, your eyes aren't deceiving you. There are bad, bad sheep standing IN the hay, freely peeing and pooping on perfectly good food. And how much of this peed-on or pooped-on hay do sheep and llamas like to eat? None of it. Can't really blame them.

The snow blew up against the back of the feeder and became hard-packed and ice-coated. It basically formed a convenient ramp leading right up to the feeders, leaving only two feet between snow and the top of the panels. Two feet is nothing for a sheep to hop.

This snow build-up is probably why the llamas stopped eating from that side---they were standing too high above the hay to reach down comfortably and eat.

So today Melissa and I suited up. It was 5 above, so we were comfortable. We marched down to the feeder armed with a shovel and some seriously sharp and dangerous gouging and chipping tools. For an hour we hacked and shoveled and hacked and shoveled, occasionally using inappropriate language as the gouging tool bent back or the ice wouldn't yield. Finally we lowered the snow pack to 3 and 1/2 feet below the top of the panel.

One hour later I looked out the window. All was well. Good. All our hard work paid off.

Two hours later I looked out the window to see this:

Heavy, heavy, sigh.

I really don't know what to say that wouldn't require me to censor the entire sentence....

Tomorrow we will suit up again, and hack and shovel until we get the snow level low enough to foil the leaping beasts.

(On the happy side, though, YARN sale is still going on...scroll to earlier post.)

2009-12-18T09:32:00.000-08:00

Treat Yourself to Yarn!

I hope everyone had a great holiday. If you didn't get what you wanted for Christmas, here's your chance. Rising Moon Farm now has yarn for sale.

So here's the yarn's story: The sheep were sheared during a lovely late March party. It's cold here, so if you're going to be outside, you've got to turn it into a party.

Then the fleece hopped a ride with my aunt and uncle back to Broadus, Montana, where a relative who owns the Big Sky Quality woolen mill cleaned, carded, and spun it into white yarn. Then the US post office brought it back to me from Montana.

Then up to St. Paul, where a very talented woman named London hand-dyed and hand-painted the yarn. (www.myfriendlondon.com---please paste this address...I can't seem to make the link work.) London did lots of fun, spring and summer colors, just what we need to get us through the winter!

I've had several knitting experts look at the yarn. When Annie Modesitt, author of Romantic Hand Knits, and Joanne Seiff, author of Knit Green, raved about 'spring' and 'great hand' and how soft the yarn is, it really set our little shepherd-hearts a' poundin'.

It turns out that Merino sheep isn't the only breed to yield a soft yarn---our yarn is wear-against-your-skin soft, and is sturdier than Merino. Our sheep are a Corriedale cross, and Corriedales were developed by crossing Merino with English Leicester sheep.

Our friend Kathy took a skein of undyed yarn and pronounced it wonderful for cables. Here's a little sample she knit: (Thanks, Kath!)

I kept two skeins for myself, and have started a pair of socks. I'm including what I've done so far so you can see that there isn't any irritating striping. London is a master dyer!

Here's the hand-painted sport weight I chose:

And here's the sock, so far...

What follows are your choices:

1) one natural brown yarn (no dye, just Mother Nature and Ewe #704)

2) 10 colors of hand-dyed worsted yarn

3) 6 colors of hand-dyed fingering yarn

4) 7 colors of hand-painted sport yarn

London dyed the yarn in batches of 2-4 skeins, so you may want to buy all of a dye lot so you'll have enough for a project. The approximate length and weight of each DYE LOT is listed after each color, as is the price.

Here we go.... (UPDATE---much has been sold, but there are some lovely skeins left! Here's what's left:

3 Coral, 1 Green Grass, 3 Tangerine, 2 Lavender, 2 Pretty in Pink, 2 Bright Turquoise, 1 Pink Roses, 3 Candy Corn)

1) Non-dyed, non-painted... Just some lovely brown yarn that Ewe #704 made all on her own...

We have 0 skeins of this.
1 skein at 3.1 oz, $ 9 SOLD Laura
8 skeins at 3.6 oz, $ 10 (3 sold 12/28, Amelia...5 SOLD to Laura
1 skein at 4.2 oz, $ 12 SOLD Laura

(This naturally colored yarn is not quite as soft as the other yarn, so you might want to use it for something that won't be worn directly against the skin.)

Hand-dyed Worsted Weight:

I realize that yarns don't usually have subtitles like books do, but this yarn has one: The Color That Freaked Out the Camera. It's a lovely color, bright and lively, but not as flourescent as the camera thinks.

Coral: 3 skeins
3.6 oz (208 yds): $13
3.6 oz (208 yds): $13
3.7 oz (215 yds): $14

Purple Rain: 0 skeins
3.4 oz (195 yds): $13 SOLD--Kathryn
3.5 oz. (200 yds): $13 SOLD--Kathryn
3.8 oz (220 yds): $14 SOLD--Kathryn

Cornflower: 0 skeins
3.5 oz (200 yds) :$13 SOLD: Karen
3.8 oz (220 yds): $14 SOLD: Karen

Tuscan Gold: 0 skeins
3.5 oz (200 yd): $13 SOLD-Ellen
3.7 oz (215 yd): $14 SOLD-Ellen
3.8 (220 yd): $14 SOLD-Ellen

This green is brighter than in the photograph.

Green Grass: 1 skein
3.4 oz (200 yd) $13 SOLD Peg
3.5 oz (200 yd) $13 SOLD Peg
3.6 oz (208 yd) $13

Faded Denim: 0 skeins
3.4 oz (200 yd) $13 SOLD
3.5 oz (200 yd) $13 SOLD
3.7 oz (215) $14 SOLD

Corn Tassel: 0 skeins
3.5 oz (200 yd) $13 SOLD-Ellen
3.6 oz (208 yd) $13 SOLD-Ellen

Celery: 0 skein left
3.5 oz (200 yd) $13 SOLD: Amanda
3.6 oz (208 yd) $13 SOLD: Amanda
3.7 oz (215) $14 SOLD: Sarah Jane

Summer Straw: 0 skein left
3.3 oz (190 yds): $13 (SOLD--Phyllis)
3.6 oz (208 yd) $13 (SOLD--Phyllis)
3.7 oz (215) $14 SOLD---Pam

This is another color that made my camera cover up its lens and cry out in pain, "Too bright! Too bright!" Big baby.

Tangerine: 3 skeins LEFT
3.7 oz (215) $14
3.8 oz (220 yds): $14 SOLD--Ellen
4.0 oz (230 yds): $14
4.1 oz (240 yds): $15

Hand-dyed Fingering Weight:

Autumn Leaves: 0 skeins
3.6 oz (360 yds): $19 SOLD--Kathryn
3.8 oz (380 yds): $20 SOLD--Kathryn

Lavender: 2 skeins LEFT
3.4 oz (340 yds): $17 SOLD Peg
3.7 oz (370 yds): $19
3.8 oz (380 yds): $20

My Blue Jeans: 0 skeins,
3.1 oz (310 yds): $16 SOLD--Pam
3.3 oz (330 yds): $16 SOLD--Pam
3.5 oz (350 yds): $19 SOLD--Pam
3.7 oz (370 yds): $19 SOLD--Pam

Rhubarb Sauce: 0 skeins
3.4 oz (340 yds) $17 SOLD: Sharon
3.5 oz( 350 yds) $18 SOLD: Sharon
3.7 oz (370 yds) $19 SOLD: Sharon

Pretty in Pink: 2 skein LEFT
3.1 oz (310 yds): $16 SOLD Peg
3.2 oz (320 yds): $16
3.4 oz (340 yds): $17

Bright Turquoise: 2 skeins left
3.3 oz (330 yds): $16
3.4 oz (340 yds) $17
3.5 oz( 350 yds) $18 SOLD---Maggie
3.6 oz (360 yds) $19 SOLD--Maggie

Hand-painted Sport Weight:

Lemon Lime: 0 skeins left
3.3 oz (190) $15 SOLD--Renee
4.0 oz (230) $17 SOLD--Renee
4.1 oz (240) $19 SOLD---Ellen

Wild Blue Yonder: 4 skeins (I like this so much...may selfishly keep..not sure)
3.9 oz (225) $17
3.9 oz (225) $17
3.9 oz (225) $17
4.0 oz (230) $17

Pink Roses: 1 skein
3.8 oz (220) $17 SOLD Peg
3.9 oz (225) $17 SOLD Peg
4.6 oz (265) $19

Lilac Bush: 0 skeins
3.9 oz (225) $17 SOLD-Pam
4.0 oz (230) $17 SOLD-Pam

Mother Earth: 0 skeins
3.8 oz (220) $17 SOLD-Pam
4.0 oz (230) $17 SOLD-Pam

Watermelon: 0 skeins
3.7 oz (215) $17 SOLD: Kath
3.9 oz (225) $17 SOLD: Kath
4.3 oz (250) $19 SOLD: Kath

Candy Corn: 3 skeins
3.8 oz (220) $17
3.9 oz (225) $17
4.0 oz (230) $18

There. That's it. Hopefully there's something here for everyone!

What next?

Claim the skeins you want in this blog post's Comment Section, where I'll also post updates about what's available, or email me directly.

Then please send a check to Rising Moon Farm, Box 21, Zumbrota, MN 55992. Please include $5 for postage if you're ordering 1-3 skeins. Postage for 3-5 skeins is $7.50, and 5-10 skeins is $10. Once I receive your check, I'll ship the yarn.

Sorry we aren't set up to do PayPay yet... something to work on in the future if people like the yarn.

We are SO excited about our yarn...from our sheeps' backs, to yours....

Wishing you a warm and safe New Year's!

Catherine and The Farmer (who will never take up knitting, but who's proud as punch of the yarn from her sheep)

2009-12-05T12:43:00.000-08:00

I'm a Yarn Tease

So we raise sheep. We shear the sheep. Our shearer Drew says, "This wool ain't worth much." We like Drew. We believe Drew. Drew knows a great deal about sheep and wool.

But our dear friend Drew isn't a spinner or a knitter (at least not that we know of), so he must be forgiven for not knowing that our wool is actually very good for spinning and knitting. We sold some yarn and roving made from it a few years ago, then had more spun into yarn this year.

Our friend Kathy knit with it, and raved about its softness, even though there isn't a speck of Merino or alpaca or angora in it. She said it makes great cables, which will mean something to those of you who knit, and not much to non-knitters, or to knitters like myself too cowardly to try cables. She showed it to a friend who designs patterns for Vogue and teaches knitting, and Annie thought it had great 'spring' and immediately took some home with her.

It's been interesting, as shepherds, to begin paying more attention to what happens to the fleeces once our sheep are done with them.

And now we've hooked up with a great hand-dyer, and she's happily dipping our yarn in dyes and painting them with dyes and having all sorts of fun. Here's what she's done so far....

So, this is just a tease, 'cause she's not done yet. When she finishes, we'll give the yarn silly names, perhaps put labels on them, then offer them for sale on this blog, and on our website. So check back mid-January, when you've recovered from the holidays and feel a need to increase your stash (that's knitter talk, by the way. I'm so good at picking up jargon, no?)

2009-11-10T13:57:00.001-08:00

Dental Day on Rising Moon Farm

We have three llamas, hard-working guys that protect our flock from coyotes and any curious humans. We sheared Chachi, Zipper and Tucker last year, so they look better, (Thanks, Annie), but they still had 'issues.'

We didn't realize it, but llamas need to have their teeth trimmed.

Yowza. What to do? Then our friend Ann, a vet working for the University of Minnesota, suggested that a class of vet students could come to our farm and perform the llama dental work as a learning experience. We jumped at the chance.

The llamas, however, were less enthused. But their teeth were really bad, so we had to. I was occupied elsewhere, so Melissa took the photos and shared the experience. Here's Chachi's mouth.

Here's Zipper's mouth.

Because the llamas weigh between 350 and 400 pounds, and they don't like to be touched, the vets gave them a gentle sedative. Even then, our guys didn't want to settle down, so before the dental work, they wrapped a towel around the eyes, and like magic, the llama got all sleepy.

First step---mark where on the teeth you're going to trim. Note the blue marks on the teeth.

Second step---put a black tube toward the back of the mouth so the animal will chew on that instead of on young vet fingers. (Note: llamas don't have upper teeth in front---just a pad)

Third step---use a sort of small whirling grinder to trim the teeth, all the while squirting water on the teeth to keep them cool.

And once those teeth are nice and short, flossing is a good idea.

The vet students at work:

Here's Zipper with his new teeth. Much better! (The ears back, however, mean he's not a happy camper. Good thing he's not a spitter.)

The llamas also had their hooves trimmed:

The more experience, the better, so the vet students checked the udders of all our sheep, and found one with active mastitis. Yikes. Antibiotics for that girl. They examined a lamb with a joint problem. They took a blood sample from a ram to have it checked for the scrapies gene.

We'd never had our ram tested for sperm count, so they did that as well. ***Please note: there are no photos of this procedure!*** They used an ejaculator to collect the sperm. (Gosh, so sorry I missed that.) Then the students used Melissa's microscope to determine that Erik isn't just okay fertile, he's SUPER fertile.

Mid-afternoon the students left. We kept the animals by the barn for a few more hours to give the llamas time to feel better, and shake off their sedative. By evening, they were back out on pasture, munching grass with their fine new teeth.

2009-10-15T15:13:00.000-07:00

A Big Day for Two Professional Shepherds

For weeks all I've been focused on was preparing for the fundraising event that would bring Garrison Keillor to our little town last Sunday, October 11.

Finally the day arrived and boyohboy was I anxious about how this show would work.

Melissa and I had the task of greeting Garrison when he arrived, giving him a quick tour of the movie theater, then getting him backstage for a sound check, then to the green room for practice with some of the musicians, then after the show to the press area, then walking one block to the dinner building, then back to a private dining room, then to mingle with the crowd, then back to his car. Easy, right?

Let me say this. It was nearly an impossible task, even for two professional shepherds. Amateur shepherds would have melted or exploded.

Once in the theater, the guy made a beeline for the popcorn machine, and from that moment on, he went where he wanted, when he wanted. Melissa and I just tagged along, murmuring helpfully that it was really time to go here, and now it was really time to go there. At the dinner we were having trouble getting him through the crowds to the private dining room, so Melissa took his arm and said sweetly, "Follow me or I'll scream."

It almost worked until one of the guest musicians insisted he pose with them for a photo. Arghh.

Anyway, moving Garrison from spot to spot was like herding cats.

The show, by the way, was amazing. He kept 270 people enthralled for nearly three hours, and some people were laughing so hard they were crying. The music was great, and the volunteers were amazing.

Even the radio script actors and the sound effects people stayed relatively calm as Garrison began rewriting the show 30 minutes before it began.

For example, we were doing a Lone Ranger radio script, and we'd asked Garrison to be Tonto. (Ha!) He agreed, but decided that it would work better if Tonto was Norwegian. The audience roared every time he opened his mouth and delivered Tonto's lines in fake Norwegian.

Here he is singing with the Sawtooth Bluegrass Band...

And giving a hysterical Lake Woebegone monologue...

And accepting a painting of Zumbrota's Covered Bridge as a gift...

And the finale sing-along....

And the sing-along at the dinner... (which he started spontaneously)

And finally, here are the two professional shepherds and their charge, a herd of cats disguised as a very tall, very talented storyteller.

2009-09-22T08:17:00.000-07:00

Hardly a Farm in Sight

We had a marvelous trip to the North Shore of Lake Superior, where we met two faithful blog-readers, Chicken Mama and Mama Pea. Not only are they DELIGHTFUL women, but their spouses are great, and we enjoyed meeting all four of them.

As a blogger I should have snapped many photos, but the camera went AWOL half-way through the trip, and I didn't have the energy to track it down. And then some of the photos I did shoot didn't actually get taken. I seem to be a Digital Dummy.

So here are a few. Basically my view of Melissa was the top of her head as she scrounged for agates and other interesting rocks. The first photo doesn't show that she is basically soaked along the lake side of her body---too busy watching the rocks to watch the waves.

We didn't find anything but small pebble-sized agates, but on the way home we stopped at a rock shop in Beaver Bay, where the guy was selling fist-sized agates (for $400!) that locals find. Melissa and I looked at each other, and the thought passed between us: Let's sell the farm and move up here and become 'locals' that find fist-sized agates!

Okay, perhaps not.

Chicken Mama's little cabin was lovely, and the wood stove was toy-sized, but it could sure kick out the heat. Mama Pea kept us in treats---homemade coffee cake, homemade ginger snaps, and bags of fresh popcorn for the ride home. Yes, it's true: we were spoiled.

One evening we drove 90 minutes to reach Chicken Mama's incredible home in the middle of the Superior National Forest. As I remarked to Melissa as we drove and drove and drove on a narrow, winding gravel road, "there'd better be a damned good view at the end of this trip." I couldn't imagine why anyone would want to live this far from civilization.

I figured it out when we arrived. Boy, was there ever a 'good view.' We could see Canada and river valleys and tree-lined bluffs, and the nearest neighbor was not 10 blocks away, but 10 miles. We had a wonderful dinner, lots of dog time, and some wine.

Then on the drive home in the dark, we kept hoping we'd see a moose along this narrow, winding gravel road. Nada.

But when we eventually hit blacktop, a young bull moose showed up in front of us, loping along, his hooves clicking on the blacktop. We didn't pass him because he'd weave now and then, and we didn't want to hit him. So we'd stop, turn off our lights (we were obviously alone in the wilderness), and wait for him to go into the ditch. Then we'd turn on the lights, start up, and he'd come lumbering out of the ditch to mosey along in front of us. He'd look back at us every once and awhile, not all that concerned. After nearly three miles he decided to stop using our car as a flashlight and moved off into the woods.

The one odd thing? Molly the hunting dog loves the woods, has no fear of guns, and will play in ponds and streams. But Lake Superior? It was Talking Water. It was Shouting-Booming-Spraying Water and she wanted nothing to do with it. She was so scared there was no reasoning with her, so at this beach I finally gave up and found her a nice spot in the trees, where she was content to sit in the shade and avoid the scary lake.

We brought home 47,000 pounds of rocks, a tired puppy dog (who got plenty of running-around-in-the-woods time), and sense of renewal.

Shouting-Booming-Spraying Water does that for me, and I highly recommend it.

2009-09-13T18:14:00.000-07:00

Calling all Garrison Keillor Fans....

This isn't a farm tale, but since the Back-Up Farmer (that's me) has been SO preoccupied with this lately, this post is showing up here. (And I'm on the road a lot in September being Author Girl, so I don't have a clue what's going on here at the farm! :-O )

I'm a member of the Board of Directors of the Zumbrota Area Arts Council (ZAAC) , and last year it became clear that the local movie theater, in operation since 1921, was struggling as a for-profit operation and the owners needed to sell it. ZAAC saw that if we bought the theater, we could turn it into an arts center of sorts, a place to hold concerts and recitals and meetings, as well as movies. And thus began our funding drive. Things moved along slowly, especially since we chose to start raising funds last fall, right at the start of the Great Recession.

Great timing.

The movie theater has a radio history because in the 1950s Ray Sands and the Polka Dots (a local polka band) broadcast a live radio show from the theater. And this year the band celebrates its 60th anniversary. So my head started spinning....radio show...small town...arts organization. What if we asked Garrison Keillor to host a really big fundraiser as part of our efforts to buy the theater?

The poor man had emailed me a few years ago with the blurb he provided for my memoir, and I still had his email address. I'm sure he regrets not mailing the blurb to me in a plain brown envelope with no return address. So I emailed him, told him about our idea for a show, and he agreed to host.

Holy Smokes! What now?

'Cause it was my idea, I ended up in charge. (This has taught me a VALUABLE lesson.) So in three weeks, Garrison will show up in our little town and follow our script and not follow our script and introduce musical acts and interview Ray Sands about why they turned down an offer to appear on A Prairie Home Companion years ago and then end the show with a sing-a-long. It's going to be a wildly enthusiastic and unrehearsed show because GK is just going to show up and I'll hand him a script and say "This is what we were thinking," and he'll do what he wants because he knows what he's doing.

So if you're in the area, and want to contribute to a great cause (arts organizations in small towns are SO important because we're too far away from the large cities...kids need arts events, and these events contribute to local economic development...oops. Sorry, I'll get off that soapbox.)....

Visit www.redshoesandpolkadots.org for more information. Event is October 11. It's called Red Shoes and Polka Dots because GK wears red shoes, and to honor 60 years of the Polka Dots.

The animals are all still alive, so the Farmer seems to be managing fine without me as I flit from event to event, and from Red Shoes meeting to Red Shoes meeting.

We are taking a short vacation this weekend to the North Shore of Lake Superior, where I'll do a booksigning, and we'll unwind by the lake and visit with two readers of this blog, Chicken Mama and Mama Pea. I'm so excited to meet them.

I may not post until after the October 11 event. Will be too busy pacing and worrying and harassing my volunteers to make sure everything goes just right for the Garrison event. I should be more relaxed, since working with Garrison has GOT to be easier than working with sheep.... :-)

2009-09-01T18:02:00.000-07:00

Bird Dog

Molly is a Wire-Haired Pointing Griffon. This breed is considered a 'versatile' hunting dog, so can be trained to point, flush, retrieve on land, and retrieve in water. The one thing this sort of dog isn't supposed to do is kill and eat a bird.

Yes, well. Molly missed the memo on this one.

Earlier this summer Melissa's pet duck Ping got on the wrong side of the backyard fence (Dog Territory) and Molly killed her before we knew what had happened.

That was not a good day on Rising Moon Farm.

Then a few weeks ago Melissa was in the barn, I was in the house retrieving something, and two friends were sitting outside on our deck.

Lori came running inside, eyes wide. "The dog...the chicken...We couldn't stop..." She waved toward the backyard and I headed in that direction.

I could see through the long grass that Molly was chewing on a pile of orange feathers. Damn. I called her into the house. The pile of feathers didn't move. Damn again.

I tracked down Melissa and gave her the bad news. Wearily, she let herself through the gate and toward the pile of orange feathers. She bent over, then exclaimed, "She's still alive!"

Since Molly had been chewing on her, I wasn't so sure this was a good thing. Melissa took the hen into the barn and ministered to her. The hen was a little soggy, but otherwise there were no visible signs of damage, yet the hen couldn't walk.

The next day the hen, tucked safely into a nest box, was perky and interested in food and water, but could not walk. She stayed in the box for a few days, but then every morning one of us would take her out and put her in the sun on the barn floor with food and water. After a week, Melissa thought she should probably end the chicken's life since there had been no change. I agreed.

But Melissa kept putting the chicken out every morning and every night bringing her back in.

After two weeks of this, and still no improvement, I was sitting on the deck working, and noticed Melissa had put the hen in the shade under the hay wagon. Ten minutes later I looked up and the hen had moved 5 feet. Ten minutes later she'd moved another 5 feet. She flopped more than walked, but she'd moved.

A few days after that, I did chores in the morning and couldn't even tell which hen had been injured. She was just fine.

Nerve damage? Shock? Muscle problem?

Don't know. But I haven't seen a chicken in the backyard since.

As for having a bird dog and free-range chickens, yeah, we know---not such a good idea. Still, I think the birds will be better at respecting that backyard fence, and we'll be more vigilant when Molly's outside.

Besides, it's hard to be angry with this face....

2009-08-20T08:52:00.000-07:00

Big Sissy Boy

Here's the black steer (half Holstein, half Jersey). He's all alooooone, and is most unhappy.

Here are the three Jersey steers.

Why is the black guy alone? Because he's a big sissy boy.

We were out of grass on the south end of the farm, so needed to move sheep and steers across our little wooden bridge to the north end of the farm, where there's more grass.

Here's the bridge.

Here's the shaded path they take to the new pasture once over the bridge.

One evening Melissa moved the sheep across the bridge. There is much baa-ing and hooves pounding but the sheep know if they can be brave for the ten seconds it takes to cross the bridge, there will be great grass on the other side. (I need to take a photo some day---it's a moving wall of white.)

The steers, however, have never been across the bridge. After she moved the sheep, she herded the steers up to the bridge. With much coaxing and dangling of luscious green leaves, she persuaded two of them to cross the bridge. They stood in their new pasture and mooed sadly for the two left behind (the black steer and a Jersey), who did their share of mooing.

I went down later and tried to get the two across with a bucket of corn. They'd lean in over the bridge, reaching as far as they could with neck and tongue toward the bucket, but they weren't stepping onto the bridge.

Here's the stile we use to take a short cut to the bridge. It's a clever piece of equipment that used to be used more often when people walked across fields and pastures and needed a way to cross over without a gate.

The next day Melissa and I combined forces. We pushed at their rumps, which was a silly thing to do because the steers weigh 1000 pounds. We poked them with sticks. We tried to lure them with wild grape leaves. We scolded and cajoled for an entire hour.

Finally I launched into my "This is ridiculous" speech, an articulate and compelling presentation about why it was time to stop, that the darned steers would never cross the bridge and that we were wasting our time. Melissa and the Jersey exchanged a glance, then he stepped onto the bridge as if he'd done it every day, ambled across the bridge and up into the pasture.

Now it was just the black steer, and he was having none of it. I gave up and went back to the house. Melissa tried for awhile longer, then gave up, then tried the next morning, and finally brought the steer up to the barn so at least he'd have us around so he wouldn't be so lonely.

We're not surprised it was the half Holstein that wouldn't cross. Temple Grandin told me that while she dislikes the use of cattle prods, sometimes you have to use them with Holsteins, as they get balky and will just stop walking.

In all fairness, if we'd taken the steers across the bridge when they were 300 pounds, we would have been able to push them across, and they would have seen it wasn't all that scary.

But we're still calling him Big Sissy Boy.

2009-08-14T09:49:00.001-07:00

Beware Composted Sheep Manure

The Farmer and I planted a garden earlier this spring. Here's what it looked like:

I worried that I'd have to weed a lot, but we used newspapers and cardboard as mulch, and we only had to pull a few weed between plants. I dove into my busy summer, happily picking spinach from the garden until the spinach was done.

After the spinach, nothing else was ready so I sort of forgot about it. But then one day I looked up and the garden had grown into something huge and scary. There was hardly a weed to be seen. The big scary green things were the plants themselves.

We'd spaced things as if our soil was average, sort of forgetting that the soil was composted sheep manure. Oops.

The beans were out of control, climbing on everything. If I'd stood still near those beans for five minutes they would have taken me down without a squeak. The cosmos became a freakin' bush. The squash should have been planted in the next township to have enough room to spread. The potatoes and peas went wild.

We planted a jungle.

I had to pick the basil because our neighbors were going to show us how to make pesto, so I took my cell with me, made sure I had 911 on the speed dial, then ventured into the garden, hacking my way with a machete, stopping for water breaks every ten minutes, and trying to remain calm in the towering sea of green.

I picked the basil, thrashed my way back to the edge, and emerged in one piece, light-headed with relief.

We now have lots of homemade pesto. The tomatoes are ripening. The pole beans are nearly ready. The yellow squash is done. The winter squashes are growing. We still have the potatoes to harvest. And there are even a few hardy eggplants fighting the beans and tomatoes for sun and soil. The neighbor helped us pick the green beans, and that's when I remembered I didn't really like to cook beans, nor eat them. Another oops.

Next year? A garden twice the size, with half the green beans and twice the basil. Squash and pumpkins banished to the edges of the yard. Spinach planting staggered so it lasts longer.

And we'll also go a little easier on the sheep manure. It's powerful stuff.

2009-08-03T10:16:00.000-07:00

Rocky Mountain High

The Writer and the Farmer are back from a 9-day trip to Colorado. We left the farm in the very competent hands of Bonnie, our 'farmaholic' friend.

All went well until the sheep, tired of eating hay (no rain---no grass), decided on the second-to-last day to find a spot where the ground dropped lower under the fence, and they could wiggle under it to grass growing along the creek. Bonnie, attuned to the sounds of the farm by now, heard lots of yelling (moms and lambs separated, some ewes yelling 'cause they couldn't figure out how to get to the grass) and went to investigate.

She was able to get everyone back in the right place (not an easy task!) then set up a few portable fences to keep them away from the fence they'd scooted under. She wasn't sure the fence was hot, but then got such a nasty shock, she decided it was. Poor Bonnie. Been there, done that.

All was well when we returned---the outdoor flowers were still beautiful, and little vases around the house had been filled with flowers. Bonnie always leaves the house cleaner and nicer than when she arrived.

So, why were we in Colorado? I'd been asked/invited to record an audio book of my novel, A Pirate's Heart, and I thought it'd be a great way to get Melissa off the farm, in a different area, where she could explore and fish and get a much-needed break.

I didn't really think about this until the last minute, but while she'd be out exploring, I'd be spending seven days in a sound booth reading out loud.

What was I thinking? Too late to back out... so we flew to Colorado.

Melissa had a blast---fishing, hiking in search of cool rocks and arrowheads, and hanging out with Hailey the dog.

And here's proof that the owners of Dog Ear Audio did let me out of the studio, at least for a few hours, when we visited the Florissant Fossil Beds, filled with fossilized redwoods like the one behind us.

Because this is a farming blog, I'm not going to bog it down with non-farm stuff. But if you're interested in what it's like to record an audio book while living in a straw bale house in the mountains of Colorado, check out my Inkslinger blog:

http://www.theinkslingerwrites.blogspot.com

We had a great time, but it is nice to be back home.

2009-07-21T17:47:00.000-07:00

Parking the Sheep

Once again, it's mid-July and we've had no rain for weeks. Some finally fell this morning, and a major storm is brewing as I type, but it's too late for us. We're leaving in 3 days for an actual trip, and there's not enough grass for the sheep/cattle/llamas to eat while we're gone. There might be grass in 6 days, but we'll be gone by then.

So, what to do? Wave to the farmsitter as we drive away and wish her luck?

Nah, we wouldn't do that. We like Bonnie and want her to keep coming to the farm.

So we have no choice but to set up big round bales for them to eat. Luckily the neighbor cut and baled our north pasture, so we actually have bales.

Each group of animals will have its own spot with shade, water, and hay. I call this 'parking the sheep.' Instead of the animals moving to a new spot every day, which they can no longer do because they've eaten all the grass and the grass needs time to regrow, they'll just hang out in one place and munch on hay. Well, actually they'll complain bitterly to Bonnie every day about the lack of fresh grass and make her feel bad, but when they get hungry enough they'll eat the hay.

The rams will be safely behind the 8-wire fence. The cattle will be in the upper east pasture which has been inundated with Virginia creeper, which we hope they'll eat. The sheep hate it, so it's taken over a big chunk of the pasture.

This is why it's a good idea to have a diverse farm---sheep will eat some weeds that cattle won't, and cattle are supposed to eat some weeds that sheep won't. When we return from our trip, I'm hoping to see all the Virginia creeper gone.

The sheep will be next door in the lower east pasture, on what is usually the lushest grass. If any grass is going to grow while we're gone, it's this grass.

So tomorrow Melissa will put the hay spear on the back of the tractor, and move the bales.

I'd show you a photo of the tractor, but... ahh, no camera.

I'd show you a photo of the hay bales, but...once again, no camera.

So here's another piece of artwork which I did when we hosted an outdoor painting class on our farm. It photographed poorly, but doesn't look half bad in person.

We've got to get a camera soon. I'm running out of artwork.

2009-07-11T18:53:00.001-07:00

Airing My Creative Laundry

Okay, here it is. Time to air my dirty laundry, as Mama Pea suggested in an earlier comment. Time to disclose the deep secrets, my quirks, my irritations,.... Here I go:

WE STILL DON'T HAVE A NEW CAMERA.

There. Now you know. A farm without a camera is, well, sort of naked.

So I've been cruising through my photo file and have no choice but to go off-topic, sort of. I figure if I do this enough, a fund will be started to collect money for a new camera.

Since farmers and writers need to blow off a little creative steam now and then, I often participate in an Artist-Poet Collaboration held at Crossings here in Zumbrota. Talented poets submit poems, the best 20 are chosen, then artists create art to accompany the poems---paintings, drawings, pottery, fabric/fiber, anything goes.

The poem I chose to illustrate was light and lively, with many images, but I fixated on the line about laundry blowing in the breeze. However, my deadline approached and I still hadn't painted anything because I didn't know what laundry blowing on the line really looked like. Where were the shadows? How did the fabric move?

So I hung out a shirt and pair of jeans and waited. No wind. No movement. Finally a tiny puff came up and I snapped a shot, seconds after the wind died.

I'm not going to confess how long I stood out there in the chilly March air waiting for my laundry to blow in the wind. I have many photos of laundry just as it stopped blowing. Breathtaking.

Finally the wind picked up and I got some movement.

Still not great. I waited for more, then gave up. At this rate, my deadline would blow by faster than the laundry.

Here's the result, called "Line Dancing," done in pastels.

The piece sold, which was flattering. Of course, it was purchased by the poet's mother, who buys all the pieces connected to her daughter's work, which is very sweet. That might be why I tend to pick this woman's poetry. I know her mom will buy anything I make!

2009-07-07T05:38:00.000-07:00

From Our Files

Yesterday the Farmer took our digital camera outside, snapped some photos, put the camera in her shirt pocket, then bent over for some reason, thus dumping the camera from her pocket into a puddle of muddy water.

The camera's been banged around for five years, but it decided the muddy water was just the last straw so it broke.

This means I'm currently without a camera for taking blog photos. I'm not upset, really I'm not. These things happen. I'm totally cool. We'll buy another camera eventually, and will probably get more camera for our money than we did five years ago. But meanwhile, what's a blogger to do? My only choice is to cruise through my photo file, looking for ones I haven't yet posted.

A passive-aggressive sort of person would consider posting lots of photos of the Farmer, since she broke the camera, but luckily I'm far too mature for this.

This next one is a goofy photo. I needed some shots of me in the pasture for a newspaper article (photos requested by the paper) so a friend was shooting while the Farmer and I walked through the flock. I snagged a sleeping lamb for a photo op, but then realized it had some manure on its backside, which ended up on my jeans. The Farmer stands by, unsure what the fuss was all about.

And here's our version of the American Gothic painting....

Buying a new camera means a 30-mile trip into Rochester, which isn't on this week's schedule. But not to worry.... next week I could post the photos of my laundry flapping in the breeze. It'll be great... really...

2009-06-27T16:11:00.000-07:00

Muy, Muy, Caliente*

*very, very hot

It's a long story, but we currently have 6 sheep on the farm who missed their March shearing. And since it's so &^% hot outside, we gotta get that fleece off. They've been living in and around the barn so they can get out of the sun, but it's still too 'caliente' for them.

So imagine this. It's shearing day in late June, three months after the usual shearing day. It's nearly 90 degrees outside, and the sun is beating down on the roof of the barn. You're in the back of the barn where there's no air flow. Every movement you makes sends the sweat pouring down your face, trickling down your back. You feel soggy, sticky, and close to fainting.

If you can imagine all this, then you can imagine what I felt like in that barn....

....taking photos of Melissa and Robin shearing the sheep.

Oh, I was hot. After I'd taken my seven photos, I staggered back to the house and drank a gallon of water to replace the lost fluids. I rested under the ceiling fan for an hour until I felt slightly restored. Melissa and Robin sheared for a few hours, plagued by dull shearer blades and an overheating machine that tended to smoke if it wasn't given a regular rest.

I'm sure they were cool since they seemed to be in high spirits. And besides, their clothing was totally soaked through with sweat, as were their headbands, so I'm sure the breeze blowing across the wet fabric cooled them... oh, except there wasn't any breeze.

Anywho... most of the sheep got sheared, but that overheating shearer (the mechanical clippers, not the human) need some work before Melissa can finish.

Speaking of clipping, our cat Pumpkin had his annual spring shearing, which leaves him a bit naked but free of the horrible matts that form during the winter. I actually was part of that shearing, getting to hold him, wrapped in a towel, as he squirmed and cussed us out the thirty minutes it took to shear him. Pumpkin has claimed the new deck table as his, as well as my knee.

The garden is growing as if on steriods, the lambs are getting huge (photos soon), and we're staying cool. Today for noon dinner we had steamed asparagus (ours), spinach salad (ours), and lamb kabobs (also ours.) Felt really, really good.

2009-06-14T06:44:00.000-07:00

An Actual Garden

We, being country dwellers, are constantly asked about our 'garden,' as if it's a given: live in the country, grow vegetables. For fifteen years I have rolled my eyes at this question and tartly replied, "We don't have time to garden." Not only that, but I hate to weed, and lack the necessary green thumbs. Melissa's a plant freak, but lacks the time.

I don't know what happened this year, but we have a garden, an actual garden. Our neighbor Jaycee is mostly responsible. All we did was casually mention we were thinking of planting one this year, and she was over like a flash, helping Melissa set up the lumber, tilling the soil, and planting....all in one afternoon. It was a good thing I was gone, or I'd have fainted from the idea alone. I suspect Jaycee has been waiting 15 years to help us plant a garden.

Here it is!

Plants are actually growing. I have actually weeded a bit. The snow peas and regular peas and beans and potatoes and spinach and squash are all doing well. We thought the line of basil looked nice until our neighbor Karen took Melissa in hand and pointed out there was only one basil plant in that row...the rest were lovely, basil-like weeds. Basically if you get down on your knees and put your face into the soil, you can see this basil plant. My plans for mass-producing our own pesto might be in jeopardy.

Another spring project---I realized early May that our retired friend Joe faced a long, boring summer of doing nothing but golfing. Can you imagine the strain of that? Concerned, I offered to let him build us a small deck to avoid the tedium of hitting a little ball around all day. He gratefully accepted my offer, and by the end of May we had this lovely deck.

Now I must stain it, then plant stuff around it, and track down some real patio furniture. I'm just so grateful to finally have a flat place on which to sit. I intend to spend the summer sitting here, drinking wine and watching my vegetable garden grow.

And finally, there's our rock garden, which over the last few years had been taken over by weeds. Our friend Mary stayed with us for a few days to help with lambing, and ended up redoing most of the rock garden. Isn't it lovely?

We have a growing garden, a great deck, and a lovely rock garden...not because we're skilled at these things.... but because we're brilliant when it comes to choosing friends....

2009-06-01T06:49:00.000-07:00

My Dad Called....

No, I'm not in trouble, at least not that much. My dad is so busy that sometimes, early in the morning when he's practicing his insomnia, he reads my blog to find out what's new with me. When he checks a few times and there's nothing new, it's time for a phone call to remind me to keep posting.

Some dads nag their kids to pay their bills and file their taxes on time. Mine bugs me to post.

So here it is: Lambing is done for the year. Of course with 1/3 of our usual number of pregnant ewes, we have fewer lambs. Twenty-five live lambs, which is great. (We had a few tragedies, as is typical, and lost a few.) We had lots of birthing problems, so I spent some time lying on the wet, cold ground holding ewes down at their shoulders while Melissa did her thing at the other end. The steers, immensely curious, would gather at the fence and watch, wide-eyed, at the activity, treating us like their own personal reality TV.

Here are a few bottle lambs we 'arrested' for Excessive Cuteness: Mint 129 and Green 6087. If seen, do not approach. Instead, call a professional shepherd, as we are immune to those big eyes and floppy ears and the happy little hops lambs make as they follow you around the yard.

As you can see, my mother didn't take my advice and has succumbed to Mint 129's charms. These animals are dangerous, people. Approach with caution.

All the bottle lambs went to wonderful homes, so now we're in our two-week Post-Lambing Recovery Period, meaning we're too tired to think straight. Melissa might have been too tired to operate the tractor yesterday: Sitting in the loader bucket was a container of old, rotten eggs she was going to bury in a compost pile. (Sometimes chickens and ducks hide their eggs and we don't find them until the eggs are too old.) Inside the tractor cab she dropped a heavy tool chest, which fell against the controls for the bucket, which lowered the bucket and tipped the container of icky eggs out onto the driveway.

I wasn't there, but I'm sure very bad words were said.

Last night I cleaned up to go in town to the movie (we'd been trying for 2 weeks, failing every night.) Then I remembered I hadn't fed the lamb in the barn. Her mom doesn't have enough milk for both twins, so I'm feeding one, who's going to a good home tomorrow.

I'm in the barn in my clean clothes, trying not to touch anything as the lamb drinks enthusiastically from the bottle. Suddenly the heavens open up and rain pounds the roof. Oh, great.

But the rain lets up a bit, I turn to look out the barn door, and see the most incredible double-rainbow arching across the sky. It's a perfect rainbow, and I wish I could tell Melissa about it but she's in the house. By the time the lamb finished the bottle, the rainbow had faded away and the rain stopped. I walked back to the house, miraculously still clean and dry.

Inside Melissa paced. "Where were you? I was trying to find you to show you the rainbows."

I like that after 25 years, we still want to show each other the beautiful things we see.

2009-05-17T09:23:00.000-07:00

Triple Treat

The first spring lambs have arrived---triplets!

(Since most of our ovine hussies got pregant three months early and had their lambs in February, we only have 13 pregnant sheep this spring. We've never had such a light lambing load.)

Some ewes are calm and let the camera approach. But #2 is not quite so cooperative.

Here she is leading her babies away from the camera:

Hiding behind a tree:

Glowering at the camera, head lowered threateningly as her babies take a nap:

(Note the pregnant ewe in the above photo, wistfully wishing she, too, had lambs able to walk on their own instead of having to lug them around inside her.)

Finally, everyone is up and standing still.

Yesterday's winds have died down, and the sun is shining. #11's been in labor too long, so I'm off to help Melissa and Mary corral the old girl and give her a hand.

This past winter is just a really bad memory. Today's a lovely day on Rising Moon Farm.