Farm Humour

Grace came in crying this morning. One of the cute chicks we bought the other week is dead in the coop.

It happens. Chicks have a high mortality. What made this one worse was that it didn't die, exactly, but was more murdered. By one of its flock mates.

The pecking order is so named for a reason. It's brutal and disgusting, but there you have it.

Life on a farm has its share of horrible moments. Lambs die because their mother's don't feed them, sometimes even if we find them on time. Sheep die because coyotes attack. The other week the farm dog needed a paw treated for a really gross infection that had my stomach churning. All our cats vanished one week - probably fishers, but who really knows. And chickens can be really, really mean.

But these moments are few and far between really. And I like to think Erik and Anna and Grace are growing up aware of the delicate balance of life.

The children were sad. They were upset. They were looking for solutions to stop it happening again. Erik got to dispose of the body (because, you know, Mom is a wuss).

The three of them looked at it wistfully.It's head was off. Not completely though, just sort of detached.

You know, said Anna, we never named that one. I guess its name is Nearly Headless Chick*.

I've heard that doctors and police detectives develop a rather grim sense of humour to deal with the dark side of humanity. The dark side of farming has its own grim humour.


*Only funny if you're a Harry Potter fan, and familiar with the ghost of Griffyndor.

Real World

The first week of summer was low key and full of possibility, then we escaped to the cottage for a fabulous week of relaxation (I did some work, but editing doesn't feel so much like work to me - it's so much fun), followed by a day out with friends at a battle re-enactment and rounded off with a dinner party at another friends where we swam in a lit pool until midnight and ate filet mignon with a lovely Cabernet Franc.

But today, reality hit once more in the form of piles and piles and piles of dirty laundry; a kitchen in dire need of cleaning after we were away for a week and my dear hard-working husband had to juggle mowing 30 acres of hay and work despite nursing a serious gastro virus that laid him low all week; and weeds that I swear were not here before we left but which are now three feet high. I washed, wiped, and weeded, saving tomato and basil and tomato plants as well as my asiatic lilies, all of which were greatly at risk from the creeping charlie and dandelions and one bizarre weed I don't recognize but which takes over as soon as I turn my back.

Got most of it done. Or at least started. Then swam with Grace and Erik. Then sat on the veranda with a Smirnoff Ice. Oh yeah. Now dinner awaits Andrew and Anna who will be home soon, and I think we are settling in to watch Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.

Ah, Sunday.

This and That, Part II

One thing that being pressured for time does is force you to focus. I gave whatever I was doing - turnover work briefs, edits, making presentations for the literature class I am teaching - my complete attention. The down side is that some of the other things I love to do - blogging, reading, long walks with the dog, writing - didn't get done.  I had small chunks of time- long enough to update Facebook, or comment on Twitter, and about 24 minutes a day (the 12 min drive to and from the office) to think. It was in these 24 minutes that I came to a realization:

On Joy
So many of the things I do - you too probably - I do because they have become part of my routine. What I found was that some of the things I temporarily gave up were not things I missed. In addition, during the activities I did make time for, I became hyper-aware of how much pleasure they gave me. Or didn't give me.

This gift of clarity is not without complications. One of the things in particular grieves me when I consider not doing it, and I need to figure out whether it is something that the joy can be salvaged from, or whether I am in mourning for what was once wonderful and now need to accept that it/I has/have changed and move on.

On Facebook
One thing that I really enjoyed during this brief but insane period was the connection Facebook provided. I didn't have time for long phonecalls with friends or drinks out with the girls, but through social media I was able to feel like I was still part of the human race. I knew what was going on, even if I couldn't participate. And I love how easy that is. Facebook as a communications tool is fantastic. Through it I keep in touch with family in the UK, friends around the world, navy pals across Canada, and - even though I never expected this - it's even super helpful for local friends. I can't tell you how many play dates, get togethers, and invitations I have given/received through this medium.

There is always a dark side though. Communication can get twisted and assumptions made. I found that out this past week and without going into details, may I just remind everyone that Facebook messaging is not the place to air a grievance. Also that psychological warfare doesn't work on me.

On Health
Two weeks ago I woke up with a terrible neck pain. Too many hours at a computer, no doubt, coupled with the stress of doing too many things. It has only just healed - two weeks of carefully watching my posture, sleeping so my spine is straight (as opposed to the little ball I normally curl into), and gentle stretches. It made me very much aware of how valuable health is. We take it for granted, but during my two weeks of agony all my activities were marred by the pain, and I was even crankier and more cynical than usual (those of you who knew me in my Deximenes days will not be surprised; everyone else - to whom I am no doubt sweetness and light embodied - just needs to take my word for it)!

On Spring
I love winter and we've had a fabulous one on the slopes or snowshoing through the forest. But spring is around the corner.

Don't believe me?

See for yourself:

The first lamb has arrived, a true harbinger of Spring, even among hardier sheep stock. And like every year when this happens I am filled with a sense of wonder and a feeling of cheerfulness. Nothing is so cute as a lamb. Absolutely nothing. It's put a huge smile on my face.

Broken Record

We were blessed with a gorgous Saturday in Eastern Ontario. Oh, it was cold when we got up at 6, and the kids had to dress in their winter gear to go fishing with the cubs, but by the time they returned at noon, the day had shaken off the chill and the sun had burned the frost away.

I feel sometimes that I say the same things year after year. That I do the same things year after year. I suppose we all do to some extent. And so Saturday afternoon was spent in the garden. We dug up the rest of the potatoes and put them away into storage to get us through the next few months. We roto-tilled the gardens, and added rich compost to the soil, and then planted and mulched 150 bulbs of garlic that I had saved from our August harvest. The kids raked leaves into a huge pile and we spent a good hour leaping into them in the late afternoon sun.

All these things we do every year. And every year they seem important enough to write about.

As the sun started to get low, you could feel the day's warmth start to evaporate and I went inside to make pasta and stoke the fire. Andrew came in behind me and being the wise man he is, stopped me from making dinner.

Come and watch the kids in the sunset, he said, pouring me a glass of wine. We won't get many more days like today for a while.

And so wrapped in my plaid, I sat beside him on the deck and we watched the kids play together and laugh and race and run until the sun slowly sank behind the trees and the chill drove them, hungry and happy, into the kitchen.

Mussels

Tonight, under cover of darkness, I went out to the garden with my Lee Valley pitchfork and dug up a big bulb of fresh garlic.

I admit it felt a little witchy to be digging up herbs in moonlight, but that just added to the charm of it all.

And it was worth it. Andrew brought fresh mussels home after soccer and cooked them in wine and garlic. We ate them at 10 pm, Erik slipping down to join us in our nocturnal mussel feast.

A little tast of the East Coast.

And the last I will have, for a week at least, as we embark on our 100-mile challenge. As of Saturday, we will be watching how far our food travels to get to our table. Inspired by my friend Jackie in Creemore Ontario, I'll be keeping tabs here and on facebook as to how we make out. We no longer live in Creemore, but there's no reason we can't support  and participate from afar.

Sadly, mussels will not make the list.

But wine doesn't count, right Jackie? Right?

Intrepid Explorers

One of the greatest things about living where we do (ie: the middle of nowhere) is that there is lots of scope for the kids.

I'm bored is a phrase rarely heard, partly because they know I'll make them weed carrots or something equally entertaining, and partly because there are lots of opportunities for adventure.

When they were toddlers, I'd let them out for a few minutes at a time without me, as long as they stayed in sight from the french doors. As they got older, I just had to be able to sight them from one of the windows in the house, and the boundary line was the maple tree and the Enchanted Forest, the pastures, and the fence in the back.

Three years ago when they were 7,6, and 4, on a pleasant sunny winter's day when I was spackling the kitchen ceiling and they were restless, we gave them a walkie talkie, set them up on their skis and allowed them to cross the field and back. We checked on them with binoculars, but the sense of independence and joy they got from that expedition was worth every second of extra time the ceiling took as a result.

And today, they are adventurous, independent, spirited explorers. They know first aid and safety. They carry water and granola and walkie talkies, and they explore. They make plans, make maps, and make forts.

And make memories.

Days of Summer

Summertime...and the living is easy...

The jazzy notes tumble out of the open window and here on the porch swing, in this instant, it seems true. Summer is easy - no need to match clothes for the kids for school....they toss on shorts over their swimsuits and are off;  dinners tend to be simple...barbecues and salads, and fresh ripe berries for dessert; bed time has more flexibility....we are often up until close to sunset biking or playing croquet in the coolness of evening.

In this instant, the living is easy.

But that is mostly because I have a knack for enjoying the moment and pretending there is nothing outside of it.

In this space, there is no half-acre garden to re-mulch, no weeds to pull, no flowers to deadhead and nurture. There is no hay to bale, no sheep to tag, no grass to mow, no driveway verge to trim. The mud room does not hold the remnants of a school year's worth of artwork and books and papers to be organized, and dressers are not overflowing with pants and skirts and shirts and sweaters that will be too small come Autumn and need to be sorted.

In this space, we are not planning camping trips and beach picnics, a week at the cottage and a canoe trip into the wilderness. We are not counting down the days until the Highland Games or the Williamstown Fair - must-do things in our summer. We are not still working, and grocery shopping, and heading off on hot sultry nights to sit at the site of a soccer field and watch the kids play. We do not have eight family birthdays to celebrate before September.

In this moment, in this space, in this instant, there is only the sweet jazzy belief that summer is, in fact, easy.

Hay Season: Hitching a Ride

Good for the Goose

The neighbour across the river left a message on our answering machine two days ago. By the time we finally tracked him down - leaving two messages of our own in the process - we were curious as to what he wanted.

Maybe he wanted to know if Andrew still cleared snow?

Maybe he wanted someone to hay his field this summer?

Maybe the sound of our sheep dog barking at coyotes (and the occasional train) was driving him nuts?

The interesting thing about having a reputation for eccentricity is that you never know what surprises lie in store. In this case, the neighbour had a goose that was getting violent and he wanted to know:

1. If we knew how to deal with a violent goose;
2. If we wanted the goose; and
3. If we knew how to butcher, pluck, and cook a goose.

Now how many people can claim to be so sought after?

Little Lambs

Andrew bought day old still wet twin lambs into the house a week ago after their mother decided to walk away from them. We dried them, put them beside the fire, and hand fed them lamb replacement formula through a tube at first, and later from beer bottles (which just happen to be the right size to fit the lamb bottle nipples we keep in stock).

Most sheep are wonderful mothers, but it happens every year that there are some who just can't figure it out. Sometimes it's because Mom knows best, and the lamb is ill - that happened the first year with Oliver Twist who died after a week. Last year we had no abandoned lambs, but the year before we had the memorable duo of Portia and Jessica who would leap out of their box at night and tap dance on the tiles in the kitchen. They are having babies of their own this year.

So while the other lambs frolic and skip outside, these two were in here. Frolicing and skipping. Bleating and wagging their little tails when they see us. And for all the annoyance of having babies in the house theat need to be bottlefed every few hours, they are really really cute. Totally adorable.

Every morning after feeding, the girls take them outside to play while I clean out their crate and put fresh sawdust down. Back in they come, feed again, and fall into a heap together to sleep.

There is nothing so sweet as a baby lamb, and they quickly become favourites - even the dog and cats like them. But what in the end do you do with baby lambs?

After a couple of weeks, they can stay outside in the pen, but we still have to feed them formula until the snow goes and the young green grass is ready. And then there is the reintroduction to the flock which takes time. Sheep are so darn cliquey.

But last year we had a woman contact us looking to buy a baby lamb for a pet. She has a small property with a goat, some chickens and a small pony or two. We dug out her email and asked if she'd be interested in two lambs. And she said yes.

One of the things we do here is sell breeding stock. Increase the rare Jacob herd where possible. These two are not purebreds, but they are perfect for pets.

Andrew took them to work this morning, and the lady is going to pick up these two beautiful creatures. I'm happy for them, but it was difficult to say goodbye. The kids cried last night when we told them. And I am dreading the moment they come down and realise the lambs are not here.

Lines to a lamb

I have to admire your hardiness.

It was minus 22 degrees out yesterday. And windy. Probably the coldest day of the winter so far.

If I were you I'd have waited until the first balmy days of spring. Or timed it for last week when we had a mild spell.

But you arrived yesterday, a tiny wet bundle of newborn lamb, shivering under the timbers of the lean-to, next to your mother. Wobbling on tiny legs, your tail wiggliing furiously when you found milk - the sign we look for to assure ourselves you have found nourishment.

The first lamb of 2010.

You Know You've Lived In The Country Long Enough When...

...you smile when the snow arrives because it will fill in all the pot holes on the roads and make your drive to work smoother;

...you've stopped cleaning the back windshield every time you get in the car because it will just be covered in mud and dust again by the time you get to your destination;

...you take the dog for a 20 minute walk and don't bother telling the kids because you're just outside on the property;

...you don't even blink at the $400 worth of gravel it takes to grade your driveway every spring;

...you've traded in your gym membership for a half hour daily chopping wood because it's a more practical way to exercise;

...you've learned about substitutes for every food imaginable just so you don't have to run the 20km into town every time you're missing an ingredient;

...you think it makes perfect sense to stockpile six months worth of food in the cellar;

...you think wellies are an important part of your wardrobe;


...you keep extra wellies (rubber boots) around for when guests come to visit and want to see the sheep;

...you recognize your neighbours by the tractor they drive;

...you give directions using compass bearings and local landmarks (as in turn North at the rock shaped like a rooster;

...you've been known to weed the garden or shovel the steps in your pyjamas in the morning because no-one can see you anyway.

Hay Fever

The rain was coming - you could practically smell it.

So Anna drove the tractor....

Andrew tossed the bales into the wagon...

Erik and Grace stacked them up....

And I did what I always do...

Gadded about taking photos - rather blurry ones at that! You try getting a clear shot from the back of a jostling hay wagon!

Hay Therapy

This post was written for a speech I gave a few years ago - I post it now because hay season is upon us, and the tractor beckons...

When we decided we wanted to live and raise our family in the countryside of rural Ontario, I envisioned a large spacious house surrounded by large shady trees and curvy perennial gardens that send flowering vines cascading over stone steps. Andrew envisioned rolling fields and farmland. I contemplated lazy weekends spent reading books on the verandah, a jug of iced tea beside me; my husband contemplated the satisfaction of running a hobby farm and the manly prospects of mending fences, tending cattle, and driving his very own tractor. So when we saw the house and property into which we ultimately moved, I admired the proportions of the large airy living rooms, and Andrew stood on the deck and admired the hay field. We compromised: he didn't get the huge barn, and I didn't get the verandah.

I am basically lazy. I see weekends as a time to kick back and relax. Not so Andrew, who wakes up bright and early on Saturday morning rubbing his hands together in gleeful contemplation of all the things he has to do that day. As I'm standing barefooted in my pj's pouring myself a cup of coffee and shaking cornflakes into bowls for the children, he is dressed and pulling on the ubiquitous rubber boots - or wellies as they are referred to around here - and detailing his litany of what he is going to do. "I'm just going to check on the calf, then I'm going to fix that wire on the tractor and go and finish fencing the other field. This afternoon I'm going to bushhog down by the river and chop down a couple of dead trees. We can turn them into firewood and burn them next winter." I swear his eyes literally light up at the prospect of all that hard labour - while I nod absently and bury my head in the newspaper. It's barely 7.30 am.

This is in the spring. By summer, he's kicked into high gear, and is up - if it is possible - even earlier, bringing me coffee in bed which I drink groggily, only half awake. Which is how I got coerced into driving the darn tractor in the first place. I must first say - and I say this without hesitation - that I am not a tractor person. I did not get excited the day the shiny John Deere arrived in the driveway; I do not thrill to the sound of its roaring engine, and I certainly do not - like some people I could mention - carry around a photograph of it in my pocket. I believe what I said was, "Get a tractor if you want but don't expect me to drive it." Tractors , in my opinion, are noisy, bumpy and more or less to be avoided.

So on this morning in early July, I drank coffee luxuriously aware that it was Saturday and the weekend stretched before me. My mother in law had all three children and I had the day to myself. The Glengarry Pioneer Museum? I thought to myself, as my husband mentioned that the forecast was for rain tomorrow. Lunch at the Priest's Mill with a girlfriend? I was brought out of my pleasant reverie with a start.

"So since you are free today, I thought you could help me with the hay before it rains," said the deep rumbly voice beside me. "I'll let you drive the new tractor," he added, making it sound like a great honour. "You can rake, and I'll bale."

I plead sleepiness for not putting up more of a fight, and by 8 am I was dressed and outside staring up at the big green tractor. I was about to get my first lesson in how to operate the thing, and with a sigh, and a glance at the hay field which loomed large and golden behind the house, I abandoned the last of the pleasant thoughts of what I could be doing this fine day, and prepared to climb into the driver's seat of the tractor.

I drove a standard vehicle for years, so the physical operation of the tractor was child's play. But while the Volkswagen Beetle that preceded my blue mini van kidmobile had a stick shift, that was as far as any similarities go between a car and a tractor. The VW was a smooth ride with leather seats; the JD made me feel like a kernel of popcorn in an air popper, but at least the constant motion kept me from sticking to the vinyl seat. The VW offered a choice between the radio and the CD player; the JD offered a choice between having the throttle loud or very loud. The VW could turn on a dime; the JD with the rake attached had a turning radius approximately equal to that of a transport truck.

I finally raked sufficiently well enough for my husband to let me loose in the field alone. Up and down I went. Up. And down. Up. And down. Once you get the feel for the job, it is quite easy, and it wasn't long before the raking was second nature and I was shifting, turning and piling the hay in tall windrows like a pro. I had been prepared for boredom, even for resentment at losing my precious day, but somewhere along the third row, a funny thing happened. I began to enjoy myself.

For one thing, it's always nice weather when you're raking hay. And when the sun is shining down, and the breeze whispers past your face as you drive, and the sweet smell of freshly cut hay wafts through the air, it's pretty easy to feel optimistic about the world and your life. After a while, you cease to hear the roar of the tractor and it fades into the recesses of your subconscious, allowing you to hear the song of the birds who have forgotten you are there. The rattle of the tractor over uneven ground, likewise seems to recede and the jolts which initially startled you now seem merely comforting - like being rocked. And it is you and the tractor and the earth and the sky. And nothing else. And as you work your way up and down, looking over your shoulder to check the straightness of your rows, you are able to let your mind drift. All the little things that might have been bothering you fade into oblivion and you are alone with your thoughts and your dreams on a pleasant warm afternoon.

People who suffer from stress or anxiety are often recommended to try some sort of therapy - aromatherapy, colour therapy, water therapy. For my part, I recommend hay therapy. By the end of the day I was pleasantly tired, and had a very real sense of satisfaction at seeing the neat bales of hay scattered across the field. There had been so many things I could have done with my day, and in the end raking hay gave me a gift: the gift of spending time alone with my own thoughts. I felt happy. I felt contented. I felt connected to the earth in a way I never had before.

I even offered to help put away the hay, but Andrew, likely wanting my experience to end on a high note, hired a couple of students to do the dirty work, and took me out to dinner instead. The perfect end to what turned out to be, unexpectedly, a perfect day.

The Hat

Everyone knows Andrew.

Or rather, they know his hat.

Every day, winter and summer, spring and fall, he wears the hat.

This is the third Tilley hat Andrew has bought. I keep buying him new ones for when we go out. Tilley hats may last forever on safari, or mountain climbing or trekking through the dessert. But they are no match for a farmer.

(This is not a paid plug for Tilley, honest. We're just really, really impressed with the quality of their hats, and Andrew is never without one. He even has a smart Winter one now.)

But more than practical, they identify Andrew.

I didn't recognize you without your hat, people will tell him on days when he does forget it.

Although we don't encourage people to wear their hats when public speaking, it wouldn't be you without the hat, is a comment a fellow toastmaster made once.

When driving in Toronto I got a call on my cell from my brother in law. You're two cars behind us he said. How do you know that, I replied? We're driving a different car.

I can see Andrew's hat, said Stephen.

But you truly know the hat is important when you go to move sheep from one pasture to the next.

All Andrew has to do is walk into the field with his hat on, and the animals start to run over. It's the man with the hat. the man with the hat.

And where the man in the hat is, the food is also.

Down on the Farm

When I was in the meadow yesterday I took some pictures of the animals.

These are the two newest calves.

This is Fiona. Let me eat, she's saying.
She's so cute and fuzzy I just want to hug her. Not that I can catch her. She's about the same size as a sheep.

This is Casey, one of the mothers. Don't ask me who her calf is. Could be Ella. Could be the holy terror (the one who chases sheep with a big grin). Andrew would know but he's not here to ask.

And here are some of the sheep.

Sheep are not smart. These sheep are in the field with all the short grass looking over at the meadow with all the long rich alfalfa and timothy. They're trying to figure out how to get over there.

Hint: Try the gate!

And here, having followed The Hat, and therefore enjoying the sweet grass in the meadow, are the rams.

Sir Poppy on the left is senior ram. That means he rules the barnyard. Or thinks he does. The bull thinks otherwise, but they've reached a truce.

Mike is 2 years old. Which makes him the equivalent of a 22 year old human. Which explains why he has a funny looking nose and limps slightly.

You would too if you thought it was a good idea to charge the bull. Daily. Hey, Hughie, you big dummy, I can take you. Biff.

Hughie the bull is very patient. He lets Mike headbutt him, ignoring him as one would a pesky mosquito. But ultimately, he gets fed up, and tosses Mike with an easy flick of his big head.

Doesn't bother Mike. He just tries again. And again. Hence the squished nose and the limp. Not that Mike notices. I sure showed that bull, he's thinking, smugly.

Testosterone. Amazing stuff.

Into the Meadow

I took a walk through the meadow last night.

Yes. The meadow.

This is the temporary gate where Andrew was fencing.

And this is Lady on the other side of the gate, cautiously eying the electric fence.

No Way I'm going near that, she's saying.

She's been there before, up against the electric fence, and now is very wary.

She won't go past, even if I know it's off and go over it.

She won't go past if the gate is open

She won't even go past the place where the fence used to be!!

I mean, honestly! It can't be that bad. Grace has touched it three times.

So this is the dog running down the lane and through the meadow on the other side of the electric fence.

I don't come into the meadow much. This is the view the sheep have all day long. Maple trees lining the driveway. Lucky sheep.

And in case they feel the need for spiritual salve, there is the spire of St. Margaret's across the river.

Sun On Your Back

Tom Allen, my favourite CBC broadcaster (along with Stuart Maclain) also writes a CBC column, and spoke today about the government’s decision to close down prison farms. These are farms worked by prisoners to produce food, thus taking some of the burden off society and providing prisoners with daily work and some skills. Tom makes his own great case for why these farms should stay, and one commentator added to this by suggesting that the food could also be sent to food banks, which would ease some of their struggles too.

Apparently the government feels that prisoners would be better off learning more “contemporary” skills. Maybe so, but I don’t think they should dismiss the farming altogether. Living on a farm, in a rural community, I see firsthand some of the many benefits of an agrarian lifestyle.

For one thing, farming gets you moving, gets you outside, and gets you in shape. It’s physical labour, no doubt, and it can be tiring, but it also calms the mind and provides great mental clarity when, at the end of the day, you sit back with a rewarding sense of a job well done. Farmers don’t have insomnia, and they never wonder if they could have done something more productive with their time.

For another, farming is hands on and gives a connection to the land. To see newborn life emerge, to see shoots struggle valiantly through frost, is to see the wonder of the universe; to watch things grow is to understand the delicate balance of nature; to be part of all of this is to foster a spiritual awareness of the world around you.

For a third, farming develops a very strong work ethic. Reap what you sow is not an old adage for nothing, and all those moral stories you hear about the grasshopper who sang all day, and the little red hen, stem from the lessons of agriculture, and are ingrained in the farming philosophy.

That’s why farmers farm. It’s a lifestyle choice combining physical, mental, spiritual and emotional benefits: to feel good about what you have accomplished, to be part of the world around you knowing the impact of the choices you make on the land; and to recognize the primordial nature of what you do.

If all that farming provides is a moment of solitude with the sun on your back, a good night’s sleep after an honest day’s work, and a good work ethic, it is beneficial. But that is not all. Farming skills may not be “contemporary” or sophisticated, but with solid farming skills, you can always find work if you are willing.