The Improbable Shepherd Read online

  I’ve spent more time in the vegetable gardens this year than any other in recent memory. And yet, they continue to elude me. I write down a careful record of what is planted when, and on which day the seeds begin to sprout. I’ve numbered each plot. Drew a schematic in my day book. But because all 18 of them are in varying sizes, something I didn’t want, and some have been extended. Several times, the only way to have a clear picture of what I am doing is to measure them carefully and then draw a schematic in the garden book. Many of the plantations are of beans destined to be dried for the winter. Some seeds, however, have not germinated, which also adds to my confusion. Originally I had in mind to lay ladylike beds of vegetables, rectangular in shape, bordered by stone paths. One year I actually had a real mason lay two cut stone paths, 60 feet long each, the length of the garden. I laid the eight bisecting stone paths. But for some reason I no longer can remember, I created the second half in both triangular and curved shapes. One triangle holds the gooseberries. One quarter round holds the black currants. One long section now is bordered by dark blue Siberian Iris that has now quadrupled in width. Some magenta-colored perennial bachelor buttons have self-sowed in one plot. They are thick, green bushes of plants, far more lush than those that have self-sown on the lawn or grace the perennial border. I’m leaving them until they bloom and then shall cut them back and replace them with kale, which shall visually take up the same space. They shall rebloom.

  July heralds a spectacular day lily display here. In the vegetable garden, of course. That, too, started as a narrow border, in an L shape. Very nice. Its shape enables it to be enjoyed from all perspectives. However, I never thought it would spread as widely as it has. I did dig some thinnings and extended a neat row the length of the vegetable garden. It was that second half, 60-foot-long—complete with curves and triangles—that afforded me the greatest pleasure this year. The currant and gooseberry bushes there were sporting a lush, rich green foliage that reminds me of France. Their proportion was perfect in combination, first, with the Siberians, and then with the emerging day lilies. In the fall they shall continue to give pleasure against the heliopsis, golden six-feet-tall perennial sunflowers.

  Today I prepared a dish using the first of the magenta-stemmed chard. It was a sort of pizza rustica, with bacon rather than the salami that I customarily use, ricotta, eggs (thank goodness two or three had a tiny crack), Parmesan cheese, and chopped baby chard, all in a crust. The men working here were all in appreciation. There was a nettle soup as well, and a very crude pear tart.

  The adventure of the day, or shall I say the best of all the day’s several adventures, was dressing my new ram, Burgo Fitzgerald in his marking harness. Jeff Arnold caught him and held onto him by his massive horns while John Hillis dressed him in the leather harness with a green crayon. More arduous and less dramatic was dragging this fine young fellow out to the sheep. Unfortunately for us there were no sheep in sight in the pasture proximate to the backyard. Burgo ran off, deciding that the far corner of the fenced in pastures was the desirable place to be. I’d quite forgotten that he had never been out of his pen where he was raised, or the pen where he has been housed in the carriage house, with the exception of an hour’s ride in the back of Jeff’s truck. He was frightened of the space. When the ewes were finally encouraged to go to the pasture where his confusion reigned, one ewe stood for him. He followed her everywhere, would turn his head to look at me, blatt, and then continue to follow the ewe. It will be most interesting to see if any ewes sport a green crayon mark on their back in the morning.

  LADY PETUNIA AND LADY PANSY

  THE PHLOX ARE enchanting this year! Dancing ladies. Gaiety personified. They have been beautiful most years of late. The most feminine of all flowers. In the south border against the house they are about five feet tall. I don’t stake them but am considering some unobtrusive system for next year, so they bend and form a cloud of loveliness against the house. The ones in the front border have had some competition of late and are not quite so glorious. They come into bloom, second, facing west rather than south. The first and last to bloom are some in the perennial border, first were a couple of weeks ago, beginning with cerise, and punctuated by star fire, my least favorite and one I actually mistakenly bought. A pity. It is designated for a friend’s garden where it shall be showy but not clash with the rest of the flowers, as it does here. I put three small bouquets on the porch corresponding with the ones next to it. There are three more bouquets in the window of the soon-to-be redeemed kitchen, those all cerise with a cast of cream here and there. They lighten my heart in their own way, whenever I walk in the room. I hope they last awhile. I thoroughly scrubbed the Roland mustard jars that I use for vases. Stoneware. A study in contrast to the delicate cheerful flowers.

  I’ve found myself going the extra mile of late. A departure from the activity here over the past year. For us all to survive was in itself a feat that was its own extra mile. No room for embellishments or progress or grace or anything remotely civilized. However, changes do occur, slowly sometimes but real, nevertheless, and, I hope, one of an enduring nature. I’ve set myself three goals to be accomplished each day, accompanied, of course, by carefully orchestrated lists of things to do neatly written in a book with the anticipated time of execution encouraged with due thought. In theory they are to be crossed out each day as duly noted. I’ve taken, of late, to writing the true date next to the checked-off item. However, there are only blanks to be filled in after writing the goals at the head of the page. The first is, “Do something to ready for winter.” The second is, “Do something for progress.” The third is, “Do something to remind myself why I came here.” There’s no room to write, “In the first place.” But you’ve gotten the idea. The reasons I came are clearly defined and most easy to forgo. They don’t have the sense of urgency and compelling necessity that doing something for the winter has, as an example. Or even to create a measure of progress. They are about achieving a way of life, now commonly called a lifestyle, and can and have been set aside for more urgent activities. What should not be ignored is that the principal support of those seemingly more urgent demands is that way of life. And when it becomes eroded, as it has, those more obvious and urgent demands cannot diligently be addressed. And so, with an unexpected and surprisingly intense change in gear, I painted the porch. And tore into the front garden. And made myself some pastry. And boxed kindling. And weeded the quince bushes. And picked more flowers. And painted the larder floor. And mowed more lawn than I have this year. And scooped the grass off of stones on the paths. And. And. And.

  At first it seemed impossible to address, each day, the three goals. Along with everything else. I didn’t. Couldn’t. But suddenly I could. What is most curious, however, was that I was still tired. As I have been. But that didn’t matter one bit. No frequent coffee or food breaks needed here. Just an occasional distancing to look at what was left to do. And to dream a little about what I’d like to do. That in itself is amazing to me. I am grateful.

  I want to walk Nelly on her red leash along the road. I want to bring sweet cicely seeds up to the fenced in reservoir to see if they will grow there. I want to iron a stack of tablecloths for the kitchen-to-be. And bag the goat droppings in the carriage house goat loft. Where will all of this fit in with the lists comprised of tidy the hall? Sweep the stairs? Mop Joachim’s floor? I’m not certain.

  Nelly, dog of dogs, runs across the pasture. She chases birds on the wing. She may know she’ll never land them. But it is the race that she seems to love. The dogs are remarkably different from one another and each in her own way demands me to be a different person. Nelly is a wild creature. And out of nowhere will rush to me for a pet and to climb into my lap, a constant doggy wiggle in my arms and a sudden relaxation and to sleep. Glencora watches. Sits at my feet. Slips into my lap quietly when I hang up the phone. Dogs. My companions. My joy.

  There’s about to be a kitchen here after a year or more of winging it. Three burners. No oven. I
bought a stove to replace the one I enjoyed using so much, the one that mice found made so comfortable a home that they lived in the insulated walls, winters, and chewed so nicely the wires leading to the control box. Were they in the way? It was a luxury for me to be able to set the controls to burn on or off and have food ready when I came up from the barn or a bread ready to be eaten first thing in the morning. The floor has been scrubbed to within an inch of its life and shall be painted and faux finished right after the men deliver the stove. The furniture, stacked for a year in the mudroom, shall be polished and retrieved as soon as the floor is finished. The windows are already gleaming. Spider webs festooning shelves are gone. I am nearing readiness.

  The new goat, whose first name is Rebecca and last name vacillates over becoming Tottingham, shall arrive, for the second time, in two weeks, or shall be returned in two weeks, and is in milk. A cheese-making station shall be set up in the renewed kitchen. She is giving a decent amount of milk each day. My friend Barbara Arnold is a practiced cheese maker. My cheeses have been failures over the past two or three years. It is unimaginable but true that I have been unable to create curds in the milk, which is, in essence, that I can’t spoil it to make cheese, for some unfathomable reason. I hope to learn from her as it is critical that some real use be made beyond yogurt and cappuccino. Oh, Rebecca vacillates not between being Tottingham and another equally interesting (to me) last name but between being Tottingham and not. Her offspring shall bear her last name, you see, and therefore I shall be committed to that name for a number of years and to her offspring for the rest of my life. The last name is, therefore, a very serious affair. Westmoreland comes to mind. I’ll see if it sticks. The little doeling who saved her own life has had her name attached, unstuck, and now, perhaps attached again. “Lady Pansy Lamb” appeared on a printed page and seemed tempting. But she is a goat. Petunia slipped in as Lamb slipped out. She is a Merriman as a matter of fact and now she, it would seem, is Lady Petunia Merriman. Belinda’s daughter presents a problem. Or half a problem. She is now Pansy. Lady Pansy, at that. However Belinda’s surname has not stuck, and so that line is still up in the air. It shall come to me, I know. She is a beautiful mahogany color while her twin has become a deep rich ebony. He is not as yet named. It shall be soon, however.

  Thunder rolls in across the great white sky and carries disquietude in its wake. Summer storms were once a pleasure to me. Events to be enjoyed for their attendant drama and the anticipation of the relief, which it so often brought. A single word has changed all of that for me. Hay. The imperative in many of our lives. Is there to be hay? Will the hay be ruined? Again. The incredible arduous intensity of the labor that goes into making hay. Will there be another disappointment after the backbreaking work that occurs simply to make the hay the winter demands to feed our livestock? I don’t know how the men endure it. The good season. The bad. The good day. Then the bad one. Rain, unexpected. Destroying or compromising everything. I look across the hills in the direction where the hay fields are from which the hay will be coming for this farm, at least. Is it raining there? Sometimes a grey cloud will race across the sky from that northern corner and dread enters my heart. It is not a fear that there will be no hay. There usually is enough, except for last year’s. The dread comes from the terrible price a day’s rain can cause. The exhaustion of body and soul and heart. I still don’t know what keeps a farmer going. From where does the courage come? The endurance? The strength in the face of hopes dashed. My admiration is couched in heartache.

  THE FAMILIAR TIME

  IT IS THE time of year that is so deeply familiar to me. And yet I am not familiar to myself. It would seem that I should know how to do all of it. The wood. The storms. The drapes. And yet when I saw a featherbed in an unused room, it was almost in surprise. Oh, I’d better put one on my bed in the summer bedroom. I still sleep there. There is a pretty, nicely tied bundle of twigs on the wood in the wood box. Oh, I should make 10 a day of those. Fire starters. Until the snow flies. Perfect for. For what? Or rather, for which? The last choice of many places here asking for kindling is the stove in the summer bedroom. Partly, I must confess, because they’d look so pretty in the green metal washtub that I use for firewood in that room.

  One old familiar routine is the belief, even if it has played me false, that should I chip away at something every day, it will get done. That never takes into consideration that more will be added to the “something,” such as more dirty laundry, a classic example on this farm where I’ve never gotten used to the right way to be dressed to do a chore, and clothes become far dirtier here than, I’m certain, on any other farm. All the things I’ve thought I knew how to do, start the bread in the morning so I can have a nice tea in the afternoon; put tomorrow’s clothes with me in bed at night so they’ll be warm rather than 40° when I put them on in the morning; grind the coffee at night; Oh, oh, oh, all of those instructions. A multitude of instructions. But it is the exception that breaks the rule. And, today at least, I barely know where to begin.

  We had a skunk visit last evening, my dogs and I. I don’t know who startled it but I know it was the goat feed that drew it. The smell lingers on this morning. Nelly is the most likely to worry a skunk into emission, if that is the right word. It may also have been drawn to the chick pen, formerly the goose pen. Cover it at night with a tarp. It’s been in the 30s. Give them some cracked corn and warm whey in the evening to help hold them over. The chickens have reconsidered laying eggs repeatedly. Some days they do and some days they don’t. The Aracanas, with their exquisitely beautiful pale blue eggs, seem to have become relatively consistent. Five, sometimes six eggs a day from six pullets, almost chickens. It is my much-touted Welsummers who are disappointing me. Two are laying nearly white eggs rather than the brown ones as have been their custom. Two of the 17 sexed chicks I bought are showing signs of being roosters. My friend took eight of the 25 and two of those seem to be roosters as well. The hatchery allows a measure of two errors in sexing chicks in a batch of 25; therefore there will be a credit on two next year, if I remember to ask for it. Next spring it would seem that I’ll have approximately 36 chickens and shall have to revise my system of selling eggs. I’ll have to revise my system of selling lambs as well.

  This business of raising them to sell in the fall is not working. Or rather, is less profitable than most endeavors, here on the farm. I’ve lost two, one to coyotes, one to fly strike. That makes the additional money I charge melt into a loss, averaging the price I earn and their cost to me. A friend of a customer asked me the old question that newcomers often ask. “Do I eat my own lamb?” thinking, of course, I’d be too delicate or sensitive to eat an animal I raise. The answer always is, “I can’t afford it.” Including the price of slaughtering the meat. Their barbecue dinner party, albeit, a group of friends all ate that afternoon, cost what I spend for groceries, dog and cat food, and cleaning supplies, for three weeks. So be it. I have eaten my own lamb at a wedding, once. It was delicious.

  The barn has undergone a repair that is both skillful and visually satisfying. The mow floor had begun to sag and was certain to give way, if not this year then in the next couple of years. I have been afraid to put the winter’s hay in it. Not that much of it has arrived as yet. A set of supports was installed with a crossbeam in such a way that it was not only functional but pleasing to look at. One worry gone. The creep feeder in the south pasture has been modified and now does its job. The lambs for sale have been placed in there as well as a ram who has no longer served his purpose. I never thought I’d sell him. And thought to let him live out his life here. However, it was he who decided to jump into the south pasture. Not because he was thinking to end his life, but, I surmise, his sons were becoming aggressive toward him and he wanted to get away from them. He is eating grain now, and second-cutting hay, and stomping his front foot at his youngest sons. If he is sold, so be it. If not, so be it. He will cost $90 to feed this year and $20 to bury if he goes. The $110 could feed some young s
tock. I’ll let his fate decide for him. I am of mixed emotions about it.

  Frost has decimated my beautiful musquee, the orange winter squash that I planted in the composted manure pile by the carriage house. In all I got about 10 good-sized squashes, 15 smallish ones, and 25 tiny ones, some of which have gone into a soup currently simmering on the wood stove. Had I planted them a month sooner I’d have a superb crop with enough to sell, as well as enough to feed me for a part of the winter. The fava beans are maturing. Their expected 80 days are, by today, 100 days attempting to become beans. Some are fat, round things, big enough to dry. Some are brown tinged, hit by frost. A few are way too small. There still are a few white and black flowers which will never turn into beans. The plants themselves are lush and thick and still beautiful. I had planted some in both triangle gardens, and now know that the best ones grew in the easternmost patch. Next year. The refrain of all farmers and gardeners. The heliopsis were their usual magnificent display. Some as high as seven feet tall. The tiny pale cream Michaelmas daisies that look like baby’s breath overtook the perennial border this summer, and were this fall only an imitation of themselves. In other words, nature disappointed us, most of us this year. Again. Oh, there is comfrey to dry for the goats. I hadn’t picked it this summer at all. Rebecca Penhaligan doesn’t favor it. Green that is. The three kid goats may. Niccolo is growing into a fine, sturdy young fellow. (I just read in Dickens’s Our Mutual Friend that to be called a fellow was in Dickens’s day, an insult.) Niccolo will have the shoulders and back to pull a cart nicely. His twin sister Lady Petunia Merriman is small next to him. I spent some time sitting with the two of them and the shy and retiring Lady Pansy yesterday. The Merriman twins are most affectionate, rubbing faces next to mine. Lady Pansy will consent to touch my hand with her face. So be it. I’ll win her over.