The Improbable Shepherd Page 9

  JANUARY THAW. JANUARY thaw. The waterline to the carriage house thawed after I had been carrying bucket after bucket full of water to 10 goats, one donkey, and some chickens, day in and day out from the kitchen sink. It created a short term flood in the building, however, a water trough had been placed beneath the faucet of the hydrant and it diverted most of the water outside. Miracle of miracles. Should the miracle continue beyond today, I will no longer have to haul water from the house this winter.

  Two of the goats are clearly bred and, while not yet showing an udder, are broadening every day. For some obscure reason, apparent only to themselves, all but Cameron decided to walk into the big goat pen with no hint of encouragement on my part. Cameron, who is bred for the end of March or the beginning of April, quarrels with some of the other goats, and, it would appear, has a more peaceful life alone with the donkey and the little wethered goat Niccolo Merriman, whom, I hope, shall pull a cart for me this summer. Niccolo is possessed of some charm and a friendly personality. Mother Katherine is expected to come to celebrate the Twelfth Day of Christmas and should she make it, I hope she will show me how to make a halter for him. He and I shall then begin to train together. Mother Katherine has been asked to bless my flock on Twelfth Night. I haven’t done that in quite some time. It used to be a most observed practice here on my farm. Circumstance prevented it happening for the past few years. Necessity and a profound need to celebrate joy have prompted me to ask that it be done again.

  The house remains cold. I become conservative with the use of firewood when temperatures rise; consequently it often is as cold inside when the outside temperature is 42°F as it is at 10°. I must change my ways. Hard to do. Fear governs. A hard and determined taskmaster.

  More optimism has been dwelling here over the past few days than has been all year. For some completely inexplicable reason I believe, with no evidence to substantiate my belief, that this shall be a very good year. Systems have begun to present themselves to me. On modest levels. Pretty little containers in which to save change with which to buy those Italian red onions I tried to grow last year. And one or two to save change for leeks. I even started scrubbing the cobwebs off of the shelved things in the kitchen, a very old set of ceramic canisters, a Royal Copenhagen coffeepot without its spout, and cans too pretty to throw away. The sheep are contributing to my sense of optimism as well. No lambs yet! I’m not ready for them. But some very ample-looking ewes, wandering around. They each have their favorite spot in which to eat their dinner and stand not far from their mangers looking out at me when I come down the ladder. Most don’t crowd around when I start feeding them. They wait for me. One older ewe got herself bred the other day. I hope it means a June lamb. And if so, a ewe. There has been more interest in lambs of late than usual, as well. From very different groups of people. While this does not necessarily mean more actual customers, it does indicate a new interest which creates a modicum of hope all on its own.

  I’ve been rereading one of my favorite books of all time, Cache Lake Country, by John J. Rowlands. Rowlands writes about each month of the year that he spent living in the North Woods. It is a little like the stories I write; however, he seems to be always happy and always comfortable in his surroundings. He describes how to wrap oneself in a mere two blankets in order to sleep outside. Winters! I’d forgotten about that, having wrapped myself according to his instructions several winter nights in the summer bedroom before the winter bedroom was ready for me, on more than one occasion. The point of it was to not be able by accident to slip out of the covers and freeze a foot or toe. I found myself nearly tied in on occasion and it was almost impossible to extricate myself quickly enough to not be squashed by my pups or able to race to the bathroom. Rowlands, unlike me, includes an awful lot of information on how to make things. Everything from baked beans to cooking in a hole dug in the ground, to creating refrigeration or moccasins. I’ve always wanted to sew the moccasins for which he gives a pattern. They make sense. If I ever could tan a hide it would be a nicer thing to do. There is a peacefulness about his writing, which permeates the book, that I feel somehow after reading it, even though I don’t really relate well to the ways he describes how to survive. I think, were I suddenly in his shoes, I’d probably remember very little about his methods that would sustain me. However, the peacefulness and a sense of mastery of the environment linger on long after the pages are closed. My son and I both treasure the book and I have ordered it for a Twelfth Night gift for a person who is certain to appreciate it.

  Tomorrow is my birthday. It is a very different kind of birthday than I have ever known. I love holidays and celebrations of all sorts and hope to be able to take a little time tomorrow to celebrate. Life here has changed in one very big way and in many small ways and will never be the same. While the vicissitudes of daily life on a farm have a familiar cycle of ups and downs, my own life has become, in many ways, unfamiliar and a little uncertain. Oh, there are things of which I am most deeply certain and that live in the bottom of my heart, but a new dimension of late has caused me to stretch beyond what I thought were my limits in directions that I didn’t know existed. This year is full of hope and promise that were absent last year at this time. The best I could do was hold on and survive. The way I did it was to become as silent inside as I could be. Still. Quiet. And to never resonate with any fear or foreboding. I succeeded in that. But this year, even beset with more financial problems than are the custom, there seems to be an element of possibility that I’ve not experienced before. It is in the air in these mountains. The air I am breathing. Now.

  My dog, Glencora MacCluskie, has decided to take her chances in an attempt to sit on my lap in the green chair. What is challenging her most is that Peabody, the cat, is sitting immediately at my side, preventing me from occupying the whole seat. Glencora hates Peabody. She is now balancing on my leg, head on my knee, one paw only about a half inch from Peabody’s back. The fire is giving off some heat. The three of us are reluctant to move, although Glencora is probably in the more comfortable position, I, the second, and Peabody is the most well placed. She had occupied the chair first, and I was reluctant to move her. The dogs take turns with the cat sleeping with me, of late. One cat one night, under the covers, keeping me warm, or warmer. Two dogs the alternate nights. One behind my knees, the other, her head on my pillow. That one is Nelly. I try to cover her over if I can without smothering her. Sometimes it works. Glencora seems to have a thicker coat, and doesn’t mind so much.

  I got some unexpected money a day or two ago, and shall spend it on morale boosting. In other words, I bought some books. Nothing like a little escape from what has been a cold but not too awful winter as yet. My daughter is a pastry chef and made chocolates for those fortunate members of the family. Chocolates. A new book. Perhaps a fire. Heaven for winter nights. I’ve come across some favorite poetry, Virgil’s Georgics, the part about shepherds, and some Li Po Mountain poems, and am wishing they could be read aloud at the close of the day. Perhaps they shall be. There is a beauty to winter evenings that no other season presents. I think, perhaps because I was born so close to the first few days of winter, that I appreciate the lengthening of the days and the silence of the evenings in a different kind of way from people born in the bright days and shorter nights of summer. There can be a peacefulness that I experience at no other time of year. Of course, as lambing hasn’t begun as yet, that peacefulness may soon end; however, at the moment it fills this house with its unique presence.

  THE ICY PATH

  THE WIND TONIGHT defies the imagination. The tall pines behind the carriage house bent, if possible, and stared back at me. I was afraid of both the sound and the sight. Or lack of ability to see beyond the building. The snow hides the barn from me, swirling into my face. The thought came to turn back. I wanted to but couldn’t have stood the sense of failure that that would have brought me. There was only one new lamb since five this afternoon. It was just born, and so there may be a second. It has been primar
ily a twin story since yesterday. Fifteen in all including this wet little thing. One lamb had found itself trapped in a manger, and its mother wasn’t able to tell it how to get itself out. Her sister had gotten herself in an odd corner as well. Twenty feet away. Their poor mother was frantic trying to rescue each of them. So I did it for her.

  She is an East Friesian I bought from Old Chatham some years ago. These two will be among her last and I want to keep them. One has a distinctive black spot on her back. The second looks too much like most of the others. I had found them around 11 last night. Wet and newly emerged into the world. In the wrong place, of course. The now defunct lambing room where many had freshened in the past. When I came home today from jury duty (I was excused for six months), they had slipped and slid back into it. One followed her dam outside to a snow bank. The other stood on some ice. Blatting as her little legs buckled under her. I picked her up. Called to her mother, “I’ve got her. Calm down.” And so she did. They were all, this little family, moved to the barn proper where I’ve put them several times already. Were I only to have a way to shut them in, even if only at night. That may still happen.

  I won’t go out again tonight. The path is ice created from my repeated footsteps. The snow melts under my boots and then freezes. The flashlight bulb is dim. And the drama induced by the wind has conquered whatever courage I might have. Were I to slip off at the bridgeway I wouldn’t be found for days. Yesterday was my biggest lamb day of all this season. Twelve lambs, six sets of twins. Today there seem to have been three more, although I’m not quite certain. It only works if I collar every one, and there are still a number from last week that I didn’t collar yet. I’ve run out of yarn colors, which surprises me, but I’ve made a few braids anyway. A couple of the ewes will sport the same colors; however, their lambs are different enough to distinguish them from the others.

  The lambs are mostly males this year. To sell. I always think. And some ewe lambs to keep. One in the kitchen has a particularly fine long fleece which is why she is inside. She was a single with a good mother, but I couldn’t get her dry enough. By evening her long fuzzy legs were cold. Very cold. The temperature that night was expected to drop. I knew I’d find her with frost bitten legs, so in she came. She is particularly fine and shall stay forever.

  The sound of the wind is a little more than I want right now. It is the ocean far from land. I had bought myself this most solid house some years ago, and the wind never made one curtain even think about giving so much as a shudder. I grew up on the edge of the ocean, two blocks from Long Island Sound in Connecticut, as a matter of fact. But it was along a river that I walked, a wide, deep-harbored river, but a river nonetheless, to go to the beach on the Sound. So while the ocean was not far from my mind it was the safety of visible land that surrounded me. I’ve often thought of taking a stack of books and going on an ocean liner from New York harbor, sitting on deck under a cashmere throw or two, being served tea and little sandwiches. The problem with that is I think I’d be afraid of the ocean. The vastness and the sound of it. Tonight is one of the worst wind storms I’ve ever heard up here in these mountains. Even the lambs in the barn when I went down there were blatting for their mothers. It is usually silent when I go down at night. Tonight it wasn’t.

  I’ve firewood now, to last at least three if not four weeks, especially if I restrain myself to living in a one-room cabin, sometimes called the kitchen. I am making some progress in this room. Minor progress, but progress nonetheless. The firewood needs stacking, but it is undoubtedly adding to a vague sense of the possibility of life getting a little better here. I bought something for the house today. Most satisfying. I had given myself a small allotment from some unexpected cash and bought several books, the prices online made it tempting and I succumbed, and several gifts. One, the best one, for my artist friend hasn’t been sent yet, I was waiting for the driveway to be plowed so it could be picked up. It may go out tomorrow. My dining room is walled in cedar wainscoting. The dishes are white as are all of the tablecloths, napkins, and seat covers. I came across in Stephen’s Antiques and Collectibles a group of six cups and saucers the brown of the cedar walls, and cream. It was obvious that I’d regret forever not having bought them as I do long for a set of brown on cream espresso cups I saw five or six years ago. So, with the last of the discretionary money they came home with me. And sit now on the dining room table. All but one that I’ve left out in the kitchen to look at for a little while. The name of the designer on the bottom of the cup and saucer is Clarise. A perfect name for a goat. There has been over the years a sense of “c” names in one line of goats. Cameron is due in April. Her doeling, should she drop one, shall be Clarise.

  Names are beginning to present themselves for the new lambs. This month’s World of Interiors gave me a possible three. Thank goodness for the English. Turtle Bunbury shall be a sheep. Marisa Guinness is a maybe. All found in one page. Olivia has never been used here before. Dado Parington and Chuffy Farnsworth are new to this farm as well. Pricilla Arbounoth was bestowed a couple of weeks ago.

  Next morning. Three new arrivals, singles, today in contrast to the plethora of twins the other day. Last night was bitter cold. As was this morning. It gave lie to the predictions I had heard that it would be in the 40s from three days ago throughout the week. How disappointing. Some of the sheep remember freshening in the lambing room and are going in there again. One eight-year-old has, and last night a yearling, had a single in there as well. She was wary of me and wouldn’t let me near her new baby. I hope the lamb is a ewe because she will learn from her dam how to be an attentive, serious mother herself. I’ve decided to recognize whose boss and shall this afternoon bed down the room with some hay. Unfortunately, I need the hay. However, they shall need the bedding. Others shall follow suit. I’m certain. And if they eat it, so be it. One of today’s arrivals is out of a Friesian-Tunis cross that was crossed by accident and here in error. His grandfather had been introduced to his grandmother by a trucker who didn’t think the East Friesian ewes and Tunis ram would be interested in each other. They were. I had a Friesian ram at the time and wasn’t planning on a mixed flock. Thank goodness the lamb is a ram and I don’t face any harder decision than the one to sell him. This year’s choice for a replacement ram may have appeared in the little Horned Dorset ram. I’ve been asked to reserve my most beautiful ram lamb for a customer. It will take a month or so to make that choice. Many haven’t even freshened yet. A couple miscarried and may have been rebred for summer lambs. I’ve seen one or two covered already. It will be interesting when it is all finished to see what has happened. To date I have mostly ram lambs. All females except a few that were promised to repay a debt shall stay. It is unlikely that I’ll want to sell any starter flocks this year. I need replacements. There are a number of lambs now in the barn who, because they aren’t sporting collars, I can’t identify. I’m off to braid ribbons.

  ALIVE

  THERE ARE MIRACLES that happen on farms, sometimes. A certain special kind of miracle that is clear and simple and can be attributed to the gift of timing, perfect, yet accidental, timing. Sometimes I become tired in the mid-afternoon. There are nights when I lie awake from three to five in the morning. Other times the tiredness is less understandable; however, I’ve been known to take a nap around 3:30 for a half an hour. The other afternoon I compounded the felony by picking up the book that had consoled me in the middle of the prior night and read for a clocked 15 minutes. Guilt ridden, I then raced to the barn to feed out afternoon’s hay. Late. The sheep raced out to the barnyard. Baleage was their afternoon tea and brings more enthusiasm than square bales. Blatting, bellowing, calling. A noisy lot. But there was one sound that was different. Louder. Regular. Insistent. I raced down the stairs and the ladder to the barn proper. There was a ewe behind the bigger feeder lying on her side. I ran to aright her when I saw something white at her back end. A lamb. A big one. Stuck. She couldn’t get it out. It was her agonized groans I had heard. I didn’t wa
it to soap my hands but reached in and pulled. He came out all at once. Alive. Had I gone down when I thought I should have, I’d have left the barn before she went into labor and would have lost both mother and lamb.

  This morning I found, in the normal course of things, a lamb born a few days ago, with his front leg caught in an old stanchion. This wasn’t the miracle of accidental timing in discovering Genivere and her little Mr. Big, but was satisfying in its own way.

  I am still lambing. Still lambing. March. And can only say damn. The latest ones have come after a hiatus of 10 days or so. And there are more to come. This was one of the strangest lambing seasons I have ever known. Thank goodness the lambing pen in the cellar was built a couple of weeks ago, because there are three kid goats in there as well as too many lambs. Adelaide Merriman, goat, is giving me enough milk to bottle her twin doelings and nearly one more lamb. The other day she topped her record and gave me 128 ounces of milk. Were I to put milk in my coffee, there would have been some left over for me, too. When another goat freshens, I may be able to have milk for a piece of cheese.

  Being surrounded by animals is beginning to get to me. The cat just ran off and hid the pen I’m writing with when I went downstairs to bottle lambs. The kids and lambs have developed sharp teeth and hoofs, and I am black and blue from them accosting me when it is bottle time. It seemed to make sense to bottle two or three at a time, but slow as I am, I’ve begun to realize I am neither bitten nor jumped on, nor trashed into if I only do one at a time. I’ve managed to open the gate just a little, letting each one come out separately. They will all hate me someday, however, because they don’t like to be put back summarily into the pen. Or should I say with dispatch. Shall they remember I fed them or shall they remember I bodily picked them up and dumped them over a gate? So be it. Two of my favorites are in there. Twins. And three other ewe lambs whom I am keeping. Two are the biggest and one is the fluffiest. Another fast grower may be my choice as well. A lean and neat looking younger lamb may stay, not because she is particularly beautiful, she isn’t, but because she is classic in form and style.