I did, by the way, buy myself something that is special to me and that I have wanted for a very long time. The last time I was in Paris I bought myself an Opinel knife. It was a long time ago. They are sized and the one I had was perfect for my hand. There is a very fine shop in Oneonta that sells camping and hunting gear of top quality. It is where I buy heavy socks as a Christmas gift each year. On my way out of the store I noticed an Opinel knife on the counter. It was too small for my hand. The sales person didn’t seem to know they are sized; however, with a little persuasion she pulled another out of the box. It was perfect. I bought it. The price was reasonable. Most of my shopping except for that in the Salvation Army is over the phone. It is possible to buy these knives online but I was reluctant to. I had shown my old and prized knife to John Hillis who cautioned me to never take it outside again were I not want to lose it. So, it never again accompanied me to the barn. Now my old one, carbon steel by the way, not the miserable stainless, shall accompany me fearlessly while the new one, most treasured, shall stay in reserve in the top drawer of my little rosewood desk. Safe.
We are at the onset of winter. Some years I have loved it. Some years I haven’t. Last winter it started with hope and promise and crashed miserably in the middle of February. Therefore I find it a little anxiety producing to feel hopeful this year. And yet I do. Mysterious. The sheep look good. The goats look good. Wood doesn’t. Hay is not what it should be. One ewe, a granddaughter of Noah Saltonstall, bearing the triangle of freckles on her nose that characterize his descendants, has suddenly sprang as broad as I’ve ever seen an ewe. She scrambled off when I tried to see if she were bagging so I don’t know how close she is but I’m curious beyond belief as to what she is about to offer. The number of bagging ewes increases daily. There shall be lambs for Easter this year. It is the goats that I am concerned about. My little Verity follows me everywhere. She is the supposed Sable who is the startling white of a Saaren. Her twin was Toggy looking. Brown with cream markings. Go figure. I’m no longer certain that the breeding records of some places that have sold me goats are accurate. The goats from the Holy Myrrhbearers are always consistent. Others aren’t. And so while lambing has some measure of certainty to it, kidding does not.
A hundred days of cold are before us, more or less. Today has the damp raw quality of late March and I can’t help thinking of gardens especially with catalogues coming in. But the joy of this season is lambing, and in that I am grateful. My reason for rushing out throughout the day is not the emergence of daffodils, but the arrival of Noah Saltonstall’s great-grandchildren.
Kid goats are born around the equinox, although I like to have them born a little later than that so the does will be in milk to lend to the children’s camp in Andes. They love to have goats to milk. Last summer four were sent down. My young stock are about 10 months old and still look small to me. They have been better fed than any of my prior kids. Their size mystified me; however, they are about as big as a two-year-old Toggenburg here. They look well filled out with shiny coats, clear eyes, and energetic personalities. The young buck is beautiful and perfect in all ways. The goat story shall be a series of surprises to me this year.
May the new year bring enough joy to carry us all through. May our hearts be lightened and our eyes opened to the beauty in each given day.
LAMBING
OF COURSE THERE is a lamb racing around the kitchen this grey and bitter cold morning. Single digits again after the promise it would be “warm” for a few days. I resent seeing my breath in the house when I first get up. After all, I was raised with central heating wasn’t I? A long time ago. The memory of it lingers on.
The lambs look good this year. Even the mysterious littlest one who may or may not be the sister of the fine little ram lamb here in the house. I had seen an ancient ewe lying in waiting by the barn wall. There was no movement in her sides, nor was she straining in any way; however her back legs were stretched out and her face had stillness to it that I recognized. I went up to the field where some firewood was being cut, thinking there was at least a half hour before the lambs would be born, but instinct born of I don’t know what led me back to the barn right away. There, apparently, were four new lambs. Another ewe had, with no fanfare dropped twins, as did the ancient sheep. The lambs mingled, staggered, and flopped around each other and their respective dams. Now that was the question. Who was whose mother? Both ewes claimed all of the lambs. I saw the tiny one under the older ewe. Tail wagging. The deep rumbling that came from the sheep made me certain she was her mother. But the younger, bigger, sturdier ewe butted in, claiming her. I ribboned each ewe’s neck, and decided to give them an hour or so to sort themselves out. When I came back down one large ram lamb was nursing from ewe number two. One ram lamb was looking miserable, his back hunched over, and was wandering from one of the two sheep to the other. The tiny pretty little ewe lamb was curled up next to my black sheep, Ophelia, cozy and alert to the world. Ophelia was not her mother. All three had a full tummy. Peggy O’Shannesey, the older ewe was bellowing, looking everywhere for her lambs. I counted. Three. Not four newborns. Three. Both ewes claimed the lambs. In the course of a few minutes I saw each one nursing, yes, two. But there would be only one wandering near the second ewe. I never did see two ewes each with two lambs at a time. However, they each tried to claim which ewe was nursing from the other.
It was the hunched-over lamb who has found his way into the house. At first he couldn’t figure out how to suck and had to be tube fed. By last night he had figured it out and that morning would have gladly taken more than his allotted six ounces per feeding. More would have made him sick. I’ve decided to mark him distinctively and put him back in the barn. Tomorrow. He will be bottled, but I really don’t want any lambs in the house right now. The pen in the basement is ready for them; however, it is bitterly cold down there and it would be best if he were able to snuggle up with some sheep.
This morning, the tiny ewe lamb who has claimed both dams as her mother and the black sheep as her nursemaid is alive and well and enthusiastic about her life. She has captured my heart and shall stay. Most of the ewe lambs shall stay. The few that I am not keeping are going to starter flocks, one in New Hampshire. I need more sheep as I have turned away requests for over 40 that I could not fill this year. Yearlings don’t often freshen until they are two and yet I’ll keep as many ewe lambs this year as possible, and hope that a few at least will freshen next year. I am considering buying some more ewes. We’ll see. Several of this year’s lambs, of the twins, are tiny. One large, one small. I’ve been told that sometimes when a ewe conceives triplets the one alone on the side of the uterus will develop normally; however, one of the two on the other side may be reabsorbed, leaving the remaining one with less to receive nourishment, and grows as it would were it to share that side with another lamb. That may be why the two ram lambs from my two very mixed-up sheep are so big and the little ewe lamb is so tiny.
This is the interesting time. There were two accidental deaths and an unexplained death. And so, out of 35 lambs surviving, as of this morning, lambing has gone well. A remarkable number of lambs not needing to be bottled. A remarkable number of yearlings mothering their lambs. So far.
I have made a mess of my living room, racing back and forth to the barn all day long and twice at night. The baby monitors no longer work, so I can’t hear what is going on from the warmth of the house. However, several of the births I witnessed were soundless. A small number were born in the feeding area outside in the sunshine. Ewes wearing thick winter coats don’t realize their lambs are outside. They do frantically lick them off both to dry off all of the birth fluids and to stimulate them to move around.
I brought in one of Noah Saltonstall’s granddaughters and her twins yesterday afternoon from the feeding area outside. She wears the triangular pattern of a freckle on her nose that he had. One of her lambs is a ewe. I wish they both were. Her bag was red and her nipples long. I penned them in a jug. It wasn’t easy.
One of the lambs had trouble figuring out how to reach the opening in the teat to get milk. She sucked the sides of the nipple and wouldn’t get it quite right until I showed her how to bend her front knees to get underneath with a bit more convenience. She didn’t need much more than being shown once.
Some much needed construction has been accomplished in the barn. A sliding gate that never worked properly has been enhanced dramatically and I can open and shut it with one finger. My dream. Another gate functions for the first time in years. Today an additional one will be installed that will make moving hay into the mangers that much easier. I’ve a hay chute to be built and a ladder to the hay loft to enable one to save a lot of steps. A natural salt feeder has turned up in a scrap pile outside. After it is dug out it will be perfectly useful. And I am almost finished with it. The sheep prefer to eat out of plates, that is, from mangers rather than from the floor and so an outdoor feeder needs to be made that can be brought inside when it is no longer needed. Still another idea. Oh well.
I braid yarn to make necklaces by which I can identify and pair up the lambs and their mothers. Some are pretty to my eye and some are not. All are recognizable. Some on the littlest ones have to be cut off already and made bigger. Those on their mothers are all right. Some lambs have slipped through the cracks and aren’t wearing necklaces yet. Tonight I’ll sit by the fire and braid some. Each year I learn something new. This year it is to not go down that ladder without some braided necklaces in my pocket.
It has been years since I started going down to the barn with a thermometer in my pocket. The foolproof way to tell if a lamb has nursed or not is to take its temperature. Should it be 101°F or less the lamb is carried off to the house to first be tube fed and then bottled. Their normal temperature is around 102–103°F Real danger is a reading below 100°F. That calls for emergency measures. This year that has not happened although I am keeping my eye on Noah Saltonstall’s great-grandchildren. I’ve had a step placed in front of her jug to help me climb over its gate. Last night I was pressured into hoisting it up and crawling underneath it to get in to check the twins. Twice.
This is the interesting time of year. It makes the winter easier to handle in many ways. The night skies are beautiful and going down to the barn gives me an opportunity to appreciate them at their best. The moon sometimes comes up over the mountain in the east, and I try to catch it in the early evening. It takes until the count of 120 to emerge from an awakening glow to a perfect circle. The sun takes eight minutes to rise in the morning, through the window of the white bedroom. I’ve run down to the brook from the barn in order to see the moon rise in its fullest when it has started to appear at a higher elevation.
The sheep and goats and dreams are what make it possible for me to live here. I’m not certain what I would have done if I didn’t have them. Oh, my silver would be polished and my linens ironed. I do like that kind of thing. And terribly miss having things the way I like to have them. Today I wrote down everything I did from the moment I came downstairs until I went to the pharmacy to buy some more thermometers. Also written down was a list of things I wanted to accomplish today. They all seemed easy to do. And to not require much time. A reasonable list. Start the fires times two. Bring in wood for each once in the morning. Once in the afternoon. Empty each ash bucket twice. Make a loaf of bread. Tidy the living room, kitchen, wood room, and white bedroom. Sweep all stairs. Sort the laundry to be taken to town tomorrow. Et cetera. Next to each task was a number. One half, one quarter, one hour. The farm was taken care of. The firewood was brought in. And none of the rest of it was accomplished. Only three lambs were born today. And I don’t really know why I didn’t get the rest done. To the barn.
The timing was perfect. I saw the moon at exactly the moment it peaked above the hill and got to watch it as the world turned.
ENVY
THERE ARE SO many places for this story to begin. I don’t know from which to choose. Last evening it would have been about Nelly, sweet dog, a free spirit. Or yesterday, about water. And today about the frozen pump. And perhaps the lamb that shall be born in the next hour or two. Of course, there is a story about a dish or two that I recently bought. And the lamb coats I am fashioning from a very warm sweater that has become too holey to wear. Perhaps there even is a story about envy, having started to read, last night, a book by a very famous writer who wrote about living in an old house in the country. She had many friends, family, and someone to share the experiences with, as well as the money to feed stray cats, real fish, and meat. There are two more places from where to begin. Both came in yesterday’s mail. One was a box of books and a few other things, a birthday gift from a fellow farmer in Kansas. The other was a box of Honeybell oranges, a gift from my cousin Marilyn. Both boxes took the edge off the water and pipe issues. As did paying for the dishes, although I was too late to pick them up. Overall it was a balanced day that preceded this one. And the color of the oranges sitting still in their open box delights me and has taken the edge off of what’s maddening in the day. Oh, I forgot the 111 bales of hay brought yesterday. Second cutting. I am deeply grateful. Left by the road, however. My driveway is impossible without a four-wheel-drive truck. And the kindness of the neighbor who lent his so the person who has been helping here can draw them into the barn with a little more dispatch, rather than pulling them piled high on the toboggan. The bottle lambs, the bigger ones, shall go in a pen in the barn today, without fail, and the kitchen, which has become pretty again, in some respects, shall have the floor scrubbed to within an inch of its life after chores this afternoon.
The floppy-eared two-day-old ram lamb has a fondness for sitting himself in hard-to-reach places, or rather places that he can squeeze into but would strangle himself getting out of, such as behind my cook stove. The plug in is at the correct height for him to hook his jaw over and won’t give when he tries to pull his head out. The drainpipe out of the sink is another favored spot, as is the bottom spokes in the rocking chair. I’m not certain if he is big enough to go back to the barn, but he may have to. A little coat I’ve made for a ewe lamb this morning was a little bit too small; however, it fits him with room to grow in. He’s got to go. I’ll fill a lambing jug with some straw and put five of the six in there for a couple of days to acclimate them.
The latest one is too small to leave. He is one of the miracles that occur here from time to time. Occasionally there is what I call a bell that goes off in the back of my mind. Sometimes more loudly than others but always clear and distinct. It always signals instructions about what I must do. Now. And it is always in regard to preparation for a future event. It never discloses what the event shall be. But it always designates what preparation needs to be made. In the old days it signaled the necessity to sew some dresses. Of late it is about being ready for “the next phase” without giving any indication of what the next phase would be. Just a strong, loud, insistent, “Get Ready.” It does have a minor note. Polish your shoes. All of them. I’ve never known what causes the bell to go off in my mind that warns me to go into the barn. Now. But it does ring on occasion and I always drop whatever I am doing and obey it. Immediately.
And so it came as no surprise that when I raced down there yesterday afternoon I found in an unexpected place a newborn. Wet. Ears either red from its dam’s blood or beginning to become frostbitten. I tucked him under my jacket and got us up the ladder without incident. The wind was fierce from the north and there was enough ice under my feet to scare me. However we made it to the house. I dried him. Tube fed him my magic mix: an egg, corn syrup, cod liver oil (if I have it), and lamb milk replacer. He was then ensconced in the lamb warmer box, which has a “hot water bottle” fashioned out of an Ivomec® plastic container. It is flat-sided and squat. Much better than the water bottles I have used in the past. Nelly Zolotoroffski, Border Collie dog, found this latest addition to the indoor flock fascinating. She has been known to be accepting of lambs, unlike Glencora MacCluskie who hates them with a passion. I’ll let Ne
lly stay in the kitchen for a while, I thought. She stared at me questioningly for a moment and carefully climbed into the box with the lamb. She arranged herself around the little creature, put one front leg over the back of the lamb, and looked at me for reassurance. Is this alright? It was. She kept the lamb warm all night.
I have rarely had the experience of envy. My mother, when I was 16, gave me a lesson about envy that I never forgot. We used to go on Wednesdays after school to Peterson’s Ice Cream Parlor to spend time together the last year I was in high school. One afternoon three girls sat in a booth behind us. They were students from Connecticut College. They wore cashmere twin sets and pearls and had the “regulation” blond hair, straight, each with a barrette holding it away from her face. They had the loud cheerful laughter of the privileged class of people who believed themselves to have inherited the earth, and it would be of no consequence if they were a bit of an annoyance to the people around them. Their conversation was what my mother would call foolish. “And you think you’d like to be like those girls,” my mother asked. She knew how I envied the education that Connecticut College offered, in all ways. “If you were like them you’d have to talk like them, too.” That did it. Years later when I was alone in the world with two young children, their father had abandoned ship, and watched the women who lived in the middle class housing across the street from the tenement whose six flights of stairs I climbed two or three times a day, a baby in a sling across my chest and a two and a half year old by the hand, groceries or laundry in the other, I never felt a pang of envy for their baby carriages or their husbands on the park bench next to them on Sundays. Would I really want to be them? No. The price would have been too high. However, last night, in my cold bedroom, under six blankets and comforters, with Glencora MacCluskie by my side, I read a book written by a woman who wrote the kind of stories I write. She has a house in New England that she called a farm and a house on the Cape. She bought both with a friend. They both had husbands to support them although they each earned their own money. She wrote about pipes freezing at night, and winter’s beauty and attendant drama. However, she lived in a community where helping hands, workmen, friends, and family were abundant, available, and willing. And had the money to create a life quite comfortable for herself. I think it was the cheese store in the village near where she lived that got to me. She couldn’t resist the selection, often overbought, but had many visitors to share it with. I came home late yesterday from a plumbing supply expedition in Oneonta. On the way, I stopped in at the Meridale Market for a lump of Gouda. It became supper. It was delicious but not a real consolation. Reading that night about a real cheese store, and the other shops that created the woman writer’s village, I found myself possessed by the rare moment of envy. The contrast was a bit much. The carnations I bought a few days ago to remind myself of who I am froze in the vase in the hall between my kitchen and living room. Until their stems bent, they looked like exquisitely perfect wax flowers. White carnations. I chose this life. I didn’t inherit it, nor did I marry into it. I’ve never regretted the farm. It is the lack of wherewithal that came as a surprise. The lack of wherewithal. And the repercussions that accompany that. I’m not surprised at the repercussions. I am, however, dismayed and grossly inconvenienced by the lack of money. Enough said. Somehow I’ve managed.
The Improbable Shepherd Page 12