From Squish to Crackle

For months--through February, March, April, May and June--I looked to the sky and said, "Stop."

Rain, after rain, after rain left the ground saturated. Walking across the yard felt like walking on a sponge. In the recently planted pasture, I slid through the mud.

Sometime toward the end of June, the rains stopped.

I watched the weather radar as green splotches went to the north and to the south of us, and I found myself looking toward the sky, asking for rain.

The earth is asking for it too.

The grass is going dormant and cracks are appearing where the vegetation doesn't quite cover the ground--the areas where the pastures are overgrazed or newly plant.

On my daily dog walk, I stop often, looking at the cracks, wondering how deep they go.

I brought a ruler with me this morning and let it fall into a crack.

For a moment, I thought the earth was going to swallow it whole.

Unless the rains come soon, I'm going to trade out the ruler for a yard stick.

The Littlest Lamb

Our first lamb of spring was the smallest born on the farm, and I never expected her to live. She was half the size of her sister and could barely reach her mom's udder.

Twice a day I gave her a shot of Nutri-Drench, which gave her some extra calories and minerals. But, I never offered her a bottle. She was nursing and her mother was accepting her.

Every day, that little lamb peered out from behind her mother, letting me know she was still there.

While the other lambs packed on the pounds, she added ounces.

Now, 5 weeks after her birth, the cat still outweighs her.

But, she is eating, drinking and exploring--and it's time to move out of the barn. So this weekend, she, her sister and mom are moving from the barn and joining the rest of the flock.

I think she'll do just fine.

What I Really Want for Christmas

While I appreciate a 50-degree, sunny day in December, I'm dreaming of frozen ground.

It seems like my farm chores, winter, spring and fall involve trudging through mud.

The mud is so prevalent that it's become part of the weather report in my journal:

Cloudy skies, 36 degrees, mud. 

Windy, 41 degrees, mud.

Another muddy day.

Meteorologists would point out that mud is not a weather term, but I doubt many of them are walking through it, in fear of falling or losing a boot.

The mud is worse around the gates.

I'm sure the mud seems worse this year, as we're past due for spreading gravel under gates--and one of our pastures was just planted this spring. New pastures have more bare space, and few roots to pull the water downward to those underground reservoirs.

But maybe, I think, I've just become old and crotchety and obsessed with the weather (and mud).

Or, maybe we've had a lot more rain.

I check the rainfall totals for the nearest weather station, about 30 miles from us. To date, we're about six inches above normal.

And then, because I can be a data geek, I check the rainfall for 2017, and see it's about 10 inches above normal.

That's a lot of extra water--and a lot of extra mud.

December 19, 2018--Light winds, sunny skies, high of 50 degrees, MUD.

Breaking in the New Farm Hand

For the past few years, Jack's been my number one farm dog. He moves the calmly and confidently, and the ewes never question his power.

I trust him to take care of me and the sheep. This summer, when the lambs were finding all types of ways to tangle themselves in buckets, he was the one I counted on to gently move them into a corner where I could catch and untangle them.

But Jack is well into his 10th year, and Border collies don't live forever. Another dog needs to step up and help out.

Niki is eager to do the job. At age 4, she has the energy and drive to work all day long, and the ewes never question her power. However, we have not developed that trust that Jack and I have.

Building trust takes work, and a lot of time. This fall, I've used her as the primary chore dog. Because chore work sometimes turns into training sessions, chores often take longer. And it's seldom easier to use her rather than Jack.

This week, wet weather forced me to take the sheep on an alternative route to their winter pasture. Rather than taking them through the waterway, their journey took them into an unfenced part of the farm, over a culvert and down the driveway.

Because the sheep had never taken that route before and never been across the culvert, I didn't know how they'd react.

The easy thing would have been to use Jack for the job.

Instead, I took Niki.

I knew she'd have to push the sheep enough to convince them to go over the culvert, but not so much they'd be scared and do some silly suicidal sheep thing, like jump off the driveway and into the rocks below.

She moved the sheep out of the pasture, down the driveway and toward the culvert. When I gave her a lie down command, she took it and waited, watching the sheep drift over the culvert.

With a few flanks, they were safely in their new pasture, and I was trusting Niki a little more.

My Summer Friends

Hydrant Toad

When I step into the horse's stall, I keep my eye out for Jet's Toad. This not-so-little guy spent his summer in her stall, eating bugs. And, I've been tip-toeing around, being careful not to scoop him up with the manure.

Outside the stall, near the water spigot, is Hydrant Toad. She climbs out from her gravel nest when I'm emptying and refilling water buckets.

And, in the garden, there is Mr. Toad who sits under the cucumber vine.

Mr. Toad

I've come to appreciate the toads that spend the summer in flower beds, under trees, in the garden and in the barn, gobbling up insects. A single toad can eat 10,000 over the course of summer.

They aren't as graceful as the insect-eating swallows that soar and dive over the pastures and ponds. But they are much more amenable to having their photos taken.

 Like the swallows, they will disappear this fall. The swallows will be gone within the week when they start their annual trek south.

The toads, though, will stick around for another month or two. Then they will burrow underground and hibernate until spring, when the insects return again.

The Wailing Lamb

I take great joy in looking out my office window and seeing ewes and lambs grazing in the pasture.

As the morning moves on, the lambs tire of grazing and nap. The ewes though, still nursing lambs and needing calories, keep walking and gobbling up grass.

I write and watch as the ewes move down the hill. Most lambs follow.

But one, snoozing in the morning sun, does not.

When he awakes, he sees no ewes or lambs. They've all moved about 50 yards down the hill.

He does what lambs do, what we adults would like to do when things are not going our way.

He stands up and wails and wails.

As lambs grow older, the ewes respond less and less quickly to lamb wails. A 30-day-old lamb calling for his mother only elicits a couple "over here" baas from mom before she returns to grazing.

The lamb wails again, hoping she'll come.

She doesn't.

Giving in, he lopes toward his mother and other sheep. The lambs and sheep return to munching grass.

And, I return to my work, happy to be diverted by lambs.

As if Chores Weren't Hard Enough...

After spending three weekends at sheepdog trials and clinics, I turned my attention to the farm.

The chore list was long: groom the dogs,

 (So glad only two of the Border collies are rough coats)

sort out the ram lambs,

clean up the horse paddock (actually a joy now that it's finally drying out),

mow (it may have stopped raining, but the grass is still looking lush)

weed and mulch the garden...

and watch the kitten.

Between four Border collies and trap/neuter efforts, we've kept stray cats to a minimum on the farm. But this one appeared while I was at a sheepdog clinic. And so far, I've found no one who wants an adorable kitten--so, for now she's staying.

She thanks me constantly by being underfoot. So, I've resorted to holding her while I'm moving ram lambs, feeding the chickens, dragging around the muck bucket.

She purrs, delighted with the arrangement.

Stop and Watch the...

It's easy to get caught up in the farm's endless "to-do" list. We spent the weekend, mowing, trimming, tilling the garden, weeding, removing thistles from the pastures, planting, cleaning stalls, vaccinating lambs...

But, every once in a while, I was reminded to stop and enjoy the farm. Mama Hen and her chicks were a constant source of entertainment.

Hatched six days ago in a lamb stall, they spend their days scratching and pecking. Here's Mama Hen giving a lesson.

Sometime another hen ventures into the stall.Mama Hen is quick to puff up, but then they settle into scratching and pecking again. Here's Mama Hen and the Intruder.

If I always carried my camera...

I could capture those moments that make me pause and shake my head and smile.

I could post daily photos, asking, "How did this come about?"

And giggle at the answers.

But, if I did, would the cats, dogs, horses, chickens and sheep try too hard to get photos of themselves on the web?

Would the photos look staged?

And would the farm seem less magical if I shared it all?

Readers: I'll let you guess the story behind the photo.

The Last Day of Indian Summer

During my lunchtime walk, I saw more squirrels than cars.

The bushy-tailed critters scampered from yard to yard, tree to tree, a flurry of motion.

Did they know it was the last 70 degree day of the year? The last Monday before the end of Daylight Savings Time?

The farmers knew. Soothing hums of diesel and the rhythmic chunk-a-chunk-a-chunk came from the fields around our farm.

In several fields combines munched through soybeans, and in our front field, two farmers baled hay -- green, loose bales that'll smell like summer all winter long.

The husband hurried to the woods to cut wood for winters to come.

I, tired of cleaning out the garden, turned to cleaning out horse stalls and paddock, clearing manure so that doors will open easily when the ground freezes and heaves.

 When sunlight faded, my husband and I came indoors.

But the combines didn't take our cue. Their headlights came on and they rumbled through the fields into the night, gobbling up beans before the rains came.

Where's Trick?

When I pull the wheelbarrow out from under the tarp and find him sleeping there, I wish Trick the Cat was black or white or yellow -- any color other than the browns, tans and blacks of a raccoon or groundhog.

After all these years, you'd think I'd become accustomed to the barn cat showing up almost anywhere. But he still startles me when I find him curled among the feed bags I'm about to move or among the tomato plants I'm about to pick.

By now, I should always assume he'll be in the middle of farm life, wherever that may be.

He often spends the night on the hay and straw bales.

Not only are they soft, warm and dry, but they provide a prime view of the horses and sheep in the barn.

In the dawn's light, he surveys his kingdom.

Telling the chickens and sheep to look at him. And they do because they've been ambushed by him on numerous occasions.

He likes to groom himself atop the fence -- and usually plays a game of chase-my-tail where he wraps himself around the top board.

If I'm working the dogs on sheep, he waits in the tall grass and pounces the Border collie (something I have yet to get on film).

Lunging the horses? No problem, he'll roll near their path. They'll move for him.

Then, he's on to torment the chickens.

A few cockerels notice the intruder, but when Trick doesn't react to them, they go back to eating tomatoes -- which don't challenge them.

 I never know if he likes to torment the chickens or if he is hoping a sparrow will land nearby.

When the sun heats the day, he retreats to the garden where he sleeps among the parsnips....

awaiting a human to torment and rub against.