Except I found the raspberries stripped. Chipmunks, no doubt. Bezel, the cat, had given up on policing the outside terrain. So many variations of outside rodents, some quite belligerent. He confined himself to interior rodents, and mostly only those that could be surveyed from the sofa.
Brick arrived with his wife, Lucille, and their two children. They contributed a platter of elk steaks, a large salad, and apple pie. His children brought a bag toss game and began setting it up. Luther arrived accompanied by his dog and a watermelon carved into a bowl with three kinds (orange, green, and red) of melon balls inside. Sort of Martha Stewart, if she were in drag and dressed in overalls. Jack’s daughter, daughter’s husband, and granddaughter appeared next. The granddaughter dressed as a fairy princess complete with wand. Then Will and his family and Nate and his family and Sarah and her family and … people just kept arriving with kids and dogs and handshakes and hugs … and the banquet table was full to bursting and the grill was filled with every kind of sizzling meat … and the aroma. Oh lordy, we had a party going on.
The men set up horseshoes, and the children built forts out of hay bales in the barn loft while the women circled chairs around the campfire. And between the various camps ran a bevy of dogs on the prowl for unclaimed plates.
As the moon climbed in the sky and the plates of food dwindled and Luther’s 100 proof melon balls took effect, Jack slid his fiddle from its case. He drew the bow sharply across the strings and announced, “Let’s see about this,” and launched into a jaunty bluegrass reel. Several guitars and a mandolin stepped up and the music surged forward in a rolling stomp. People were on their feet, clapping and dancing. From their stalls, the horses appeared to be bobbing their heads to the music. I noticed Will sharing his beer with Cisco, the bad dog, in a moment of deep, fraternal understanding. I saw Lucille curl up in Brick’s lap while they shared a bite of lemon meringue pie. And I watched teens slipping out from beneath the bright lights and adult gazes to explore the elusive mysteries residing in the shadows down by the creek.
At about this time, my husband encircled me from behind in his arms, and nuzzling against my face, asked with melon-ball breath, “Are you happy tonight?”
I allowed that I was and we swayed a bit to the music. And I thought about my life in Phoenix and how we would never have had a party like this. In Phoenix, the party would have been stratified by age, class, and lifestyle. Here, you don’t host a party as much as just offer a platform. Everyone comes and offers a little something, making it a cooperative event. And I liked that. I liked feeling a part of something.
“Whoa there, we like to see two fingers of separation between couples if you don’t want to get called out in church tomorrow.”
I turned and saw Jack munching on a brownie. He had surrendered his fiddle to younger talent. My inebriated husband reached over and broke off a piece of brownie from Jack’s ample portion. Jack responded with feigned umbrage, “Well aren’t you the grabby Gus. I don’t like to think where those paws have been.”
Greg started to respond to Jack, but redirected at me, “I thought you were going to put raspberries in these?”
“Raspberries!” Jack exhaled. “I had hoped for so much more.” He handed the rest of his brownie to Greg.
“There aren’t any raspberries, or blueberries, or any berries. What there are are well-fed chipmunks. We’ve got to come up with a better plan.”
“Why don’t you get a cat?” Jack offered casually.
“We have a cat.”
“No, I mean an Elsie cat. Not that yuppie furball you got now. Most cats were domesticated a couple thousand years ago. Elsie cats, more like … well, hell, they aren’t domesticated. That’s the point. They’re descended from cats city types bring out to the country to throw away. The ones that survived are Elsie cats.”
“Come on, that sounds like a rural myth.” Greg has a strong skeptical streak.
“Suit yourself. But I saw a card in the Merc advertising free kittens. Cats out here tend toward the feral—kind of like the people. And speaking of which, your youngest looks like she’s taking to country life. I’m not sure about your oldest.”
He was motioning toward my girls sitting on hay bales around the campfire talking to a couple of young farm boys. They were all laughing and appeared to be having a good time. I’m not sure how Jack picked up on it, but he was right. Annie showed a genuine interest in the farm while Caitlin couldn’t wait to get back to her life in the city.
“I think that may be true.”
“So when she’s done with college, think she’ll come back here?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t know what job there is for her here.”
“Same as everybody else. Live here and work in the town.”
“I hadn’t actually thought much about it. I’ve been so focused on whether we’re going to make it.” It was a good question and I looked at Greg.
“Yeah, same. I don’t know. I can’t quite see her living as an adult under the same roof as us. I think she would want her own space.”
Jack lowered his plate as an idea began to rise up in him. “Sounds like you might need another house. The county allows you to add one more building for farm help. And I do know that the Wayfaring Brothers Construction Company has some availability in their spring schedule. I would have to coordinate with my partner, when he sobers up, but I think we could find a place for you in our schedule.”
Greg looked at me. “It would increase the value of our property.”
“Yeah, except we don’t have the money and we don’t know if we’re going to survive here ourselves and every idea looks good after Luther’s melon balls.”
Jack looked up, “Speaking of which, did you notice how many balls were left?”
Apparently that was the cue as they ambled off in tandem to the melon bowl. My head was starting to swirl as I thought of Jack’s proposal. What would happen as we grew older? You can retire from a job, but farms are something you want to pass on to your children. Who would take over? And if not our kids, why were we working so hard?
And then I saw people dancing and people sitting around the campfire laughing and I was reminded how I could not duplicate this experience in the city. And then I saw my inebriated dog about to pee on a hay bale with two of my neighbors perched on it. And I knew there were experiences I didn’t want duplicated. I rushed to chase him off.
I sat down next to Sarah and sampled melon balls off her plate. And we talked and we laughed late into the night.
Greg was right. Our barn needed that party.
A HAROLDING EXPERIENCE
The back of our farm opens to the wild. Beyond our farm gate is a logging road that ends in a forest. Miles upon hundreds of miles of wilderness. It was only a matter of time before the wild crossed the gate and found its way onto our farm.
It was a lovely spring morning. We were just finishing our walk when Sarah noticed something crumpled and white in the brush. It was a lamb, damp with blood, unable to hold its head up, but alive. I scooped it up and trotted back to the barn where I could tend to it.
Its ear was nearly torn off. Shaving the wool off with clippers, I found puncture wounds around its neck. I washed the wounds and dressed them with blue lotion, an antiseptic that turned the lamb’s head and neck a deep purple hue. Greg arrived and noted the broken front leg. The break was complete, allowing the leg to twist in any direction. The lamb made no protests as we inspected it. We splinted the leg with a stick, taking care to immobilize it well above the break, just as our sheep book said to do. Then we laid the lamb down in fresh straw with a heat lamp. The next twenty-four hours would tell.
Clearly, the lamb had been the target of a predator—most likely a solo coyote. We guessed that our morning chatter on the trail had diverted the predator from its goal. The lamb was too large and unwieldy for a rapid escape so it was deposited in the bushes. The question now, was it the only victim? I did a head count while Greg checked for tracks. It would be good to k
now what we were up against. Rarely do predators take only one helping. Once they know the buffet bar is open they return until there’s a reason not to. It’s the job of the farmer to supply that reason—other than an exhausted supply.
Counting sheep is difficult. They let me get up to the last four or five and then the whole herd does a stutter-step shuffle, half to the left and half to the right. I’m pretty sure it’s on purpose. If sheep are difficult, lambs are impossible. They meander under their mothers, seeming to disappear in the woolly understory. Often they’ve ducked down for a little refreshment, so it’s not counting heads so much as counting butts. And if you’ve seen one butt … well, you know they don’t offer much individuality. Even allowing for the disappearing lamb discrepancy, the count was low by at least five. Our little convalescent was not the first victim.
The news from Greg was equally dismal. He had found cougar tracks. Far more efficient predators than coyotes, cougars are the bane of sheep farmers in our region. And they enjoy a protected status so they can’t be freely hunted. A cougar in the act of taking livestock can be shot, but it’s extremely rare to catch them in the act. The state offers the services of a professional trapper, but usually the trail is cold by the time the trapper arrives at the scene of the crime. Cougars range about 150 miles, and after a kill they move on, so the cougar is usually long gone by the time the trapper arrives. Of course, they will return. The buffet is open.
Still, it seemed strange that a large cougar had dropped the small lamb instead of carrying it off. The answer came from a check of our birthing records. The lamb’s bigger brother was among the missing. Apparently, hearing our approach, the cougar could not manage the twin pack he was carrying. Making this little lamb incredibly lucky—assuming it lived through the night. Glancing at it, that didn’t seem very likely. Once again, nature delivers a losing proposition all the way around—for the farmer, for the cougar, and especially for one little lamb.
Before going to bed, I decided to check on the lamb. I prepared myself for the likely outcome but tucked a warm bottle of milk under my arm just in case. Truth be told, I don’t like the feeling of surrender. I’m a little stubborn that way. The lamb lay prone on the straw but was still breathing. I trickled a little milk down my finger and into its mouth. The lips moved as it lapped at the milk. So I trickled a little more and the lamb lapped a little more. I gave the lamb the entire nipple and she began to suck. I smiled. This one was going to make a fight of it. She only got a third of a bottle down before she turned her head away exhausted, but it was something—a good thing. If this lamb could survive the jaws of a lion maybe I could survive the doubts and down-drafts that threatened to swallow me. Maybe.
We spent the next day hiking the property in search of stragglers. Now that was a vain hope! Rarely do lambs separate from the herd. Occasionally lambs get caught in blackberries and remain caught until we hear them bawling and cut them out. With a cougar on the prowl, we would not be the first responders to a bawling lamb.
The following day we saddled horses to extend our search. The dogs came along. We lost Cisco in a particularly dense thicket. It took quite a bit of calling before he came out, but eventually he did. That was not unusual for Cisco. He is the bad dog.
Brick heard of our troubles and was eager to help. He brought his dog for a second canvassing of our property. This time all the dogs vanished in the same thicket. Brick bushwhacked his way in to inspect and I followed. Halfway into the thorny maze, he found lamb carcasses. Cougars don’t eat their prey at the kill site. They drag it back to a lair where they can eat in peace and return for seconds. This was the perfect place to hide cougar leftovers, so dense it was nearly impossible to move in any direction but one.
It suddenly occurred to me that we were in the cougar’s pantry. And we were unarmed. I suggested that we not over-stay. Brick was charged up on the idea of hunting cougar until he realized at that moment he was more likely to be the hunted. We agreed that lingering served no purpose.
The state trapper was out the next day with his dogs but, as expected, the trail was cold. The cougar was long gone. The trapper cautioned us to be vigilant over the next two to three weeks as the cougar completed its foraging loop. Most likely a young cougar, inexperienced at hunting, and fallen into the easy path of harvesting livestock. And like most things that come easy, the long-term consequences were going to be more severe—probably fatal in this case. Close association with humans almost always ends badly for cougars.
As the days progressed, so did the lamb. After a few feedings, she was on her feet hobbling around. I moved her to the kitchen infirmary to make feedings easier for me. Her peg leg on the wooden floor combined with her purple and white, two-toned complexion kept the dogs in a nervous state. The mere sight of the zombie sheep approaching them sent them flying through the dog door.
I named her Harold in homage to the children’s book Harold and the Purple Crayon. To me, it seemed as though she had used a purple crayon to recreate herself. The name captured all the incongruities this plucky little lamb encompassed. She became a favorite of mine, always reminding me that if she can survive the jaws of a lion, then what can I survive? She would live a full life on our farm.
We continued to lose lambs to the cougar that summer. All our attempts to redirect, trap, or kill failed. We strung an extra loop of barbed wire to raise the height of our fences, but the cougar still leapt over, carrying off hundred-pound lambs. We erected a radio to blare rap music and kept lights on the loafing shed all night. We cleared thickets to deny sanctuary. Greg took to sleeping in the woods with his rifle. All to no avail.
That September the killing stopped. We heard a cougar had been shot in the valley south of us. But we heard of cougars being shot every summer. Perhaps it was our cougar that had been shot. Perhaps it just moved on. We’ll never know.
The back of our farm opens to the wild. It’s only a matter of time until the wild finds its way onto our farm. Again.
PART FOUR
NEW YEAR WISER
This was our third year tally and I came to it chastened by experience. I no longer expected the farm to be profitable, but I did hope for a trend in that direction. A little better than last year would be good enough. Unfortunately, the price of heritage turkeys was down. Other farmers had discovered the niche. The price of lamb was up, but the switch to Katahdin had lowered my harvest weight. It was going to take several years to build the Katahdin brand sufficiently to command a price premium. Then there was the cougar, which had lowered my total count.
Total farm income was down significantly from the previous year. But the deeper trend was promising. We now had two niches that could eventually make the farm sustainable—but how long would that take? We were still burning through our retirement savings. Greg quipped there was no need to worry since, at this rate, we would die before we retired. I didn’t laugh.
The unholy trinity of farming states, “It is a high-capitalization, low-profit, high-risk business.” I doubt there is any other business that requires as much up-front capital to operate while returning so little profit and bets it all on something as capricious as mother nature. Big ag has the scale to exploit the razor-thin profit margins and, with access to government subsidies, to manage the risk. Small ag cobbles together broken-down equipment to scrimp on capital, chases niche markets for profit, hopes for mother nature’s bounty, and scrapes by in the meantime. Play for time and hope for the best.
Of course, hope is not a plan, it’s a wish. Too much wishful thinking leads to delusions, which, in turn, lead to corrective consequences. We had shed a lot of our delusions since coming to the farm, but maybe the farm itself was the final delusion to be pruned.
This year’s numbers argued for capitulation, but the deeper trends offered a taunting “maybe.” After all, the numbers were based on this year’s market, and markets fluctuate. I would regret quitting the farm if next year’s market turned favorable. Probably the deeper truth was that I wasn’t don
e with the farm. Something inside told me I could make this work. I just needed time to give the trends a chance to manifest. I needed time to grow these niche markets. Quitting before that would leave me ruminating on “might have been.”
Was this perseverance through adversity or stubborn adherence to a delusion? I couldn’t say. Certainly, farmers are known for their stubbornness, possibly because the farm life continually confronts them with decisions like this one. The numbers are mixed, and the data is ambiguous, forcing the farmer to look inside and subjectively decide an outcome. Those who look inside and say, “enough,” leave farming. Those who stay become stubborn old farmers.
Was I becoming stubborn? Probably. And tough too. I was being shaped by repeated exposures to loss. Every year I lost lambs and every year I felt sadness with each of those losses. But increasingly, I was looking to the next year’s season with a growing sense of the ebb and flow of life that assuages that sadness. The loss of a solitary lamb was no longer a singular event, rather I viewed it in the larger context of nature’s cycles. I didn’t know if I was becoming more resilient or more calloused, but certainly the experience contributed to an attitude of defiance against adversity—a willingness to play for time, work to improve the odds, and wait for a better outcome. I could take loss, even multiple losses, and bounce back.
One of those deeper trends that kept me hopeful was our connections in the community, which included a roster of skilled tradespeople to call when the need arose. Just as important, we were known to them, which helped with communications. Chief among these were the Wayfaring Brothers. I really needed to find something for those boys to do that would make money for all of us. There was Jack’s suggestion of a farmhouse for my daughter.
Country Grit: A Farmoir of Finding Purpose and Love Page 10