The Improbable Shepherd Page 3

  Is my new puppy part of the new or old order? Is he a member of the service economy or of Adam Smith’s design for increase and the creation of true wealth? That remains to be seen. For the moment he is simply part of my order of things. He is part of the laws of the increase of the heart.

  PERSEPHONE

  I MET PERSEPHONE for the first time in the parking lot at the hardware store. Probably it was the first time that parking lot experienced such an encounter. She, a little doeling, sat quietly in the arms of her soon-to-be prior owner in his red vehicle. And cried inconsolably while looking at him out of the window of Jeff Arnold’s truck as she sat with me. It was a good thing that we had errands to do before she was introduced to my farm. It gave me a chance to hold her, and for her to look at me. I could pet her and talk to her and explain that although it would be different where she was going, that she’d like it in a while, because I was so happy to have her join us. She is a pretty and affectionate creature. It will be a good thing for us all. I put her in a pen with Cecelia Lycett-Green, who is about her age. Cecelia immediately proceeded to bash Persephone against a wall. The battering stopped as soon as I threw in some second cutting hay and gave a stern lecture to Cecelia. It must have been the lecture that did it.

  There is something about bringing in a new animal to the farm that adds even more than simply its own life to the mix. Perhaps that is it. Within the equation is an expansion that is equal to more than its own life. I’ve only had three original (to me) ideas in my life; one of them is that two and two cannot possibly make four. Each of the two is either diminished slightly by the impact of their joining therefore being a mere conjectural, three and seven eighths, or are added to with the heat of the combustion caused by creating the combination. On the farm, and in my life here, it is always equated as more than four. Persephone Winterstall has added a little bit more than herself to the mix of young goats and to the combination that includes me. For I, while I am the shepherd, and stand taller than the others, am simply equal, although different, from the rest of us. And am greatly enhanced by that. This little goat, who cried so before I came into and after I left the carriage house, and who is only at rest when putting her face between my hands. This little, little goat adds to me. One and one in this instance does not make two.

  The second morning that Persephone was here, I found Ethyl Merriman and her young daughter in the pen as well. Doby Fitzgorman, young ram, was removed to the pen as well after I found he had discovered the hole in my vegetable garden fence. I moved Ethyl Merriman out. Left her doeling in and realized my next move would be to get all of the doelings in that pen. A sliding bar needs to be made at the pen’s outer wall to keep the goats from jumping into it from the adjacent stairs but that can be removed quickly should I have to get in quickly.

  The air is sweet today. Soft. Almost spring-like this rainy afternoon. Late October. The rain clatters where it clatters and drips where it drips and in all ways makes it a time to wish for a little more comfort and warmth. The fires have caught, reluctantly, but caught nonetheless. Windows that were open all summer and had become jammed shut, and the two in the basement that were most flagrantly letting cold air and wind in from the north and west have been boarded up and sealed.

  I made some scones today. Scottish ones. On the griddle, the way they were meant to be. Fireside things. To be eaten around the fire as well as to be baked over one. I changed the recipe and found I had made something of a mistake in doing it. Butter is my favorite food. No harm in adding a little more butter to the batter. But there was. It promptly melted out and started to fry the little triangles rather than allowing them to bake. I won’t do that again. They are good spread with jam and eaten accompanying a cup of tea, strong, without milk or sugar. Irish Breakfast or Russian Caravan. I could be so happy.

  The new goat here on the farm is unmistakably a Nubian. She has a loud voice, a very loud voice for a creature so young and small, and yells, there is no better term for it, when she hears me leave the house, at the top of her voice, and keeps it up until I open the big doors to the carriage house, rush in, and take her face in my hands. I’ve already told you her first name is Persephone. I’m not certain of her last, but Winterstall keeps coming to the forefront of my mind. That may be it. That is it. Persephone Winterstall. I’ve wanted a Nubian herd forever; long before I inherited my Toggenburg, for Candida Lycett-Green is a pure Nubian. Her daughters, Cameron and Cecelia are half Nubian, as shall be her next daughter, considering the prolonged visit Cornelius, flock sire, has been making here. Cameron shall only be part Nubian, but her firstborn carried the same characteristic markings as she. The breed has more butterfat but less volume of milk than the Toggenburgs. But I like them for some absolutely mystifying reason. The color and markings of the Togs please me so. And having a herd that is usually uniform pleases me as well. The Nubians here, at least, are all piebald, if anything, and are not particularly beautiful to my eye. Those with Tog in them have cream stripes down their faces. They look better to me. The hay is sweet. Square bales. I love to wind the string into compact balls and hang them on a row of nails. Rows of round green balls. Tidy and neat. The windows need to be replaced there. Soon. Perhaps tomorrow.

  There is a peace in the carriage house farm that is almost palatable. The order is simple. Subject only to a modest amount of refinement. Which is necessary in all ways here at the moment. I have much of what is needed to make it work properly for us. What is lacking is that illusive quality. Time. The will remains unshakable, although it almost seems as if it is simply obstinate stubbornness, a quality with which I am most familiar. Once more there shall not be water this winter. But electricity is a certainty. And hay, square bales, shall be forthcoming. The thought of carrying water all winter from the house is unbearable. However, perhaps a new way can be devised. It remains to be seen. My plan for a number of years has been to house both goats and young sheep stock in the carriage house so they can be most closely monitored. This year’s variation on the theme is to keep the Horned Dorset flock and the goats ensconced in there. And the donkey. And the chickens. I have a beautiful desk there as well, so there also is room for me. Hope combined with a sense of purpose and firm resolution is what is needed to carry the day. What I’ve often said when I feel discouraged is that the only thing to do is buy a cow. Perhaps Persephone Winterstall, goat, Melody and Bess Throckmorton, and the three yet to be named Horned Dorsets can equal a cow.

  The wild creature who ran away rejoined the flock on the neighbor’s lawn two mornings after she first headed off, straight to Treadwell, she is quite wild. I expect that is why she was sold in the first place. To date, I’ve not been able to separate her from my flock proper. The moment I come near them she suspects me and tries to run for the nearest hill, mountain, valley, or glen. Anything to get back to Norwich. If she comes to this farm bred, as I was told, I’ll know soon enough. However, if not, she may freshen with a Friesian cross. The farm is entering its interesting stage. Again. It will be good.

  BUBBLES AND EDNA

  THE BARN SWALLOWS swoop over my head as I milk the two latest goats to arrive on the farm. They come burdened with two rather impossible names. At least impossible to incorporate into the previously established genre of names I am accustomed to give here. The sweeter of the two comes to the call, “Here Bubbles.” The rambunctious one is Edna. While to some the kind of names I give my livestock are amusing, to me they are simply a delight. My beautiful, late lamented sheep, Fancy Bewling comes to mind. I loved looking at her and saying, “Now, Fancy that!” The goats have family surnames. The Merrimans and the MacDouglases. The sheep are another story. However, I was told these two goats will come when called, provided I call out Bubbles and Edna.

  Edna was the more vociferous of the two when she first arrived. Tethered to a fence, she looked longingly at me and spoke her opinion loudly and in no uncertain terms. But about what?

  Yesterday afternoon I tethered her once more to a fence post and left her
for a short while. When I returned she was gone. The rope in tatters. My Yankee soul is loath to not try to reuse last year’s ropes, the ones I painstakingly braided out of a new roll of baling twine. I’ve begun to accept, however reluctantly, that I must start afresh each year. While they seem to still be quite strong, they have a tendency to disintegrate when any stress is applied to them. So be it.

  Instinct prompted me to look to the pasture rather than search among the more luscious of possible edibles in the vicinity. There, in the distance, mingling with the sheep, grazing quite nicely at that, was Edna. Oh, no! What now? “Edna,” I called. “Edna. Come.” My sheep looked at me as if I had lost my mind. It was the appropriate time for me to call out “Cahm ahn! Cahm ahn,” and put them in the barn for the night. But no. Here I was singing quite a different tune. Some stared at me. Others just picked up their heads. Three or four started to saunter to the barn and then stopped. Edna came, at a leisurely, lady-like pace, directly to me, let me pet her head and lead her back to her carriage-house home. She has probably been called Edna for all of her life. But shall not be for much longer. Louisa, maybe. Even, perhaps, Millicent; but Edna, no. However, making the transition shall take some ingenuity.

  My carriage house has been hoed out to the walls with the exception of two of the pens that hold livestock. It hasn’t been like this since I started farming. Everything has been sorted out and reorganized, ready for me to determine how I want things to be. Those words alone are part of the miracle. Far too often, expedience is the driving force here. Or rather, perhaps, immediacy. I’ve rarely had the luxury of being able to choose where and how I want things. Some quite forgotten or often ignored things surfaced. One was a little table that shall soon be moved to the lovely, lovely place where I milk goats, under the barn bridgeway. A table on which to put the milk pail when I am bringing the goats back to their places, mornings on the lawn, evenings to the carriage house, has been a long-time necessity. I’ve been of the custom of propping the buckets on top of an old wine-colored plastic garbage can that has disturbed my “dairy” for far too long. Upon opening it the other day I discovered a treasure of composted manure I had dug from the barn some time ago. The miracle workers have moved it, as well, to be spread under the apple trees my mother bought me the year I bought the house.

  My “dairy” has a stone floor. It is under the barn bridgeway. Hence the visitation of the barn swallows. They have, over time, built their wattle nests on the floor joints of the barn bridgeway high above my head. They seem to be away from home, mornings. It seems to be evening milking to which they object.

  I make cheese. And bought some very nice gallon jars with wide mouth tops in which to store the milk. One per goat. I’ve never fancied the kind of goat cheese that has a strong taste. The one I make is very mild and delicate. Sometimes I top it with pepper and chives. Or rather, bottom it with pepper and cheese as I sprinkle the cheesecloth on which it drains with the above and turn it upside down when serving it. My goats make very delicately flavored milk. Tomorrow I shall buy some yogurt to start making my own. There is a nice cheese made from drained yogurt that can be stored in olive oil that has enticed me for years. Soon it shall be made here.

  Sounds of the roof being torn off shatter the silence. The baby chicks in the two cages in the living room become agitated with the sound.

  The new roof is the second miracle of late, cedar shakes. Copper box gutters and flashing. A revamped chimney or two. A civilized house in the making. I’ve had the good fortune to have found a remarkable crew who are fair, efficient, and entertainingly funny. They sometimes shout unacceptable things at each other. At least things that would be utterly unacceptable from me, but that they seem to accept with equanimity. I’ve loved every minute of having them around! And will never be able to express my gratitude to them. They are a joy.

  White rambling roses dot the pastures and hillsides here. They were once planted as hedgerows to keep the cows in. They are now considered to be weeds. I love them. Some were dug up across the street one year and discarded. I wished to have them. A year or two ago I saw a tiny one, roadside, my roadside, at that, among the sumac trees. My sumac never quite produced any fruit for me. I do so love “lemonade” made from the pinnacles. Therefore, I usually end up picking it elsewhere rather than from my trees.

  And so, it was with no compunction that I broke some branches and some small trees that were obscuring my view of the soon-to-be blossoming rose bush. For, you see, that rose bush has grown beyond my imagination. And it is trailing, gracefully at that, over the fence, and the sumac that is still standing. It is lovely. Lush and full. Thick and yet rambling. There are many buds on it. It shall be lovely to see. It makes me so happy to have noticed it.

  I found, this afternoon, almost in the same moment, an undergrowth of tiny currant bushes, all about a foot to 18 inches high. They are begging to be transplanted in sunny and fertile ground. I have a decent amount of black currant bushes. Some gooseberry bushes, and a few gigantic, now that I understand how to grow them, red currants. However, this find shall dramatically expand the red currant plantation. Frost hit much of the berries this year. However, in the words of Beverly Nichols, fearsome gardener, gardeners are always talking about “next year,” “next year.” As am I. Next year, or in the case of the purloined currants, the year after. They are a perfect size to transplant with the least amount of trauma. I’ve just to decide to where. There are two triangular gardens on the far side of the big vegetable garden here. I had thought they would, or at least the biggest, be devoted to black currants. But, perhaps a section of red ones will be in order.

  I seem to be buying a couple more Horned Dorset ewes. Described as two year olds, then changed to three year olds, they are something I’ve wanted for some time. There are already six here and a ram, plus three ewe lambs and a ram lamb. They are not easy to find, of late, those original Dorsets, old fashioned, chunky, ancient faces from the English Downs. “Will you give me the magic I need?”

  Life has become intense here in ways anticipated, but not wished for. I struggle with experience versus hope. I buy baby chicks, sheep, goats, a roof, perfume, vegetable seeds, and dahlia tubers. My heart has been engaged as well. And that alone has lightened the load.

  RUGOSA ROSES

  THE RUGOSA ROSE seedlings are coming this week. I’ve wanted them for 20 years. I am inching forward. Slowly. Too slowly. And backward. Too quickly. The first planting will be next to the green, partly painted fence on the Meredith side of the house. It is a neglected side at the moment. But won’t be for long. I’ll finish the painting, with any luck, shortly after the planting.

  There is a charming backyard that comes in and out of favor behind the carriage house. When I first came here it was impassable. Full of rusted horse-drawn equipment interspersed with saplings and non-productive blackberry canes. I regret the horse-drawn machinery. One piece of which was stolen. The rest traded for services not rendered. And rejoice in the lawn that emerged. It has alternated between being neat and not. This year and last it has been a storage area of wood, both wood to be burned and wood to be used. The last of the wood designated for the barn is piled there as well. Some bad hay was dumped over the barn bridgeway wall. It has dissolved at last, what wasn’t moved. I think I’ll put a row or two of the Rugosa rose seedlings there as well. There will be more than enough. I haven’t thought through where they all shall go. I bought a hundred. Minimum order for the price. A joy absolute.

  There are some quince-colored horse chestnuts in Cooperstown that I have also coveted forever. It has been impossible to track down their source. But I shall. And plant a row of them in front of Greenleaf. Two of the ancient maples that once were along my lawn are gone. An ash is about to go. Two elms were down close to the house long before I ever saw them. I am still filling the holes in the lawn made by their roots. Every spring I pile more dirt, manure, and hay seeds hoping to fill them. Had I not, the holes might be humongous. As it is, they are awkward to m
ow over.

  Some flowers have jumped the perennial border in front of the house, self-sowing themselves in the lawn. Last year I left them. They grew amazingly tall and abundant. Perennial bachelor buttons. Magenta rose color. This year I intend to move them.

  I had once gardened in a deliberate but general kind of way. Flowers in clumps balanced each other. I tried to keep the perennial border in constant bloom. And succeeded. For the most part. No orderly rows in any of my gardens. But I have changed. A little. The newest borders are, and shall be, in rows. Rows that will bloom continuously. But rows. With any luck I’ll move the self-sown dealbatas from the front lawn to the two new borders. The daffodils have begun to bloom. Some bow at their waists, the effect of cold weather and the abundance of rain. They shall present their joy for several more weeks, in their many splendid varieties.

  The geese kept my lawn mowed this summer past. The horseshoe shaped front lawn is very neat because of that. I’ve been putting waste from the chicken coop onto some sections of grass that have been particularly shabby, with great success. The manure piles on the pastures, the ones which have been well raked, have performed their mission. Dark green surrounds them. With any luck, this year’s manure shall be spread such as well. The pastures need all of the help they can get.

  I’ve noticed that farmers tend not to have flower gardens. Vegetable gardens exist more often than not on farms that have a work-at-home wife. The effort of putting up the results of success in the vegetable garden can be a full week’s work. I’ve not figured out yet how to best handle the autumn abundance of apples and pears, let alone vegetables. An ancient—and I do mean ancient—recipe called “apple cheese” was one of the most successful and delicious things I made this year. It consists of a finely sieved apple puree with sugar, cooled until it almost gels. It is left in a mold for three months. Turned over and sliced thinly. Fantastic.