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December 2013
Angus McCluskie is the latest
arrival on the farm. Oh, perhaps Cordelia, lamb without a last
name came even later. However, Angus’ presence has been felt more
strongly than Cordelia’s. For he is a puppy. A Border Collie pup, sold
to me over the phone as red and white but in fact is a kind of cocoa
colored pup with a perfect white ruff around his neck, and classic
marking. I’ve been needing him. Interesting how a new dog can be termed
quite easily to be a necessity but a new lamb isn’t. Or usually isn’t.
She, however, is. She gave me a lightened heart about this winters
lambing, the first arrival and, furthermore, the first lamb ever born
in November. She is very pretty. Her mother is the daughter of
Brunhilda’s daughter, Horned Dorset formidable. She may be inclined to
be antisocial. Her mother has kept a very close watch on her and I
haven’t seen them out of the barn. I have finally acquiesced to selling
Brunhilda. She is the dominant sheep on the farm. Impossible to get
into the barn at night. The trainer of younger sheep in the art of
escape. A scaler of stone walls. Frequent visitor at my front porch.
Insistent besieger of my front door. The last straw was reached the day
before yesterday. I discovered large yellow apples on a tree in the
south pasture that has never borne fruit of any consequence before.
They were untouched by frost and gave the impression that they would be
good keepers. I picked what I could reach and then brought out the
apple picker and filled a box with some of the rest. Stacking wood has
suddenly become of interest to me, and so before bringing the box into
the house I stopped and refined the wood pile for awhile. I have
enjoyed the work in the past. A sense of order accompanies the neatly
organized process that pleases me. I became so engrossed with the wood
that I went into the house with an armful rather than with the box of
apples. Welling little Angus first thing in the morning or what seems
to be the crack of dawn brought me around woodpile. And there in front
of me was the empty box that had held the apples. I had been so
delighted with them. Full of anticipation at the thought that they’d be
keepers. Gone. All gone. Perhaps there was a touch of merry in the
picking when I chose to stop for the evening, leaving some on the tree.
And perhaps, just perhaps I will get the remaining ones tomorrow. But
one thing has become apparent. Brunhilda must go. One of her
attractions has been her offspring. Always singles. A reason some
shepherds cull sheep. Usually males. But the argument has been
presented to me that in the five years or so that she has been with me
a number of her off-spring has enhanced my gene pool. Her ram lambs are
the growthiest I have ever seen as lambs, not as adults. Her son
Podkins is my replacement from this year’s flock and Doby Fitzgorman is
now two and a very Dorsety looking young man. Her daughter, of no
permanently affixed name, is the mother of little Cordelia. My shepherd
friend is right. She shall go. As soon as possible. If not sooner. And
Cordelia, amazingly enough is already sold to a man who is starting a
flock. He wanted five lambs this winter. I’d keep them until spring or
until they are at least two months old. But Cordelia, although I’m
reluctant to sell her, shall be included. Hay money. The hay. The hay.
The hay.
The
barn is being readied for winter. With dispatch. Today the miracle
worker skid steered for several hours the part that two men dug out
from the jugs, the hay chute, and the edges of the walls. It looks so
nice in the mow. I’ll take a shovel and scrape it down a little more.
Then the miracle worker and I will winterize the place. I like to stuff
wool to act as insulation in between the two layer walls. Some cracks
in said walls need to be covered over and the hay chutes have to have
some kind of sliding doors placed over them that can be moved. Oh, I’ve
had them before. However, people who have stacked hay or shoveled
manure have moved things around sometimes for the life of me, I didn’t
really know where they are. It feels so good to have things started
here. Two ewes seem to be bagging. A number seem very fat. That doesn’t
promise anything, however, it has put my interest back in the proper
place. I’ll take a branch of pine with the needles still on it and
sweep the rafters free of cobwebs. One of my favorite tasks.
Have to go. Until the next time.
There are more
postings in the Farm Stories Archive
There are several audio journal entries
in the Farm Stories Archive Supplemental section
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