Watching the kids helped me realize that we had turned a corner. Our three don't even remember living in the suburbs of Boston. A trip to the supermarket or "Town" is a big event for them. They "make do" and "deal", play elaborate outside games, revel in and regret each others' company. They come home at dusk bug bitten and muddy and with the stereotypical skinned knees. They belong to this place and this lifestyle in a way that perhaps Dan and I never will. Lately, they really have been pitching in with the chores. They can feed and water the poults and chicks and fill the sheep's trough. They are not the least bit intimidated by stomping ewes, our current rooster duo, the curly horned rams.
As for the sheep, they don't know what to do with themselves. Once in the wide open pasture, part wood, part meadow, they stood at the old borderline gazing off into the great unknown. Finally, Daisy, chowhound that she is, munched her way across into the new space and the rest of the flock just followed along. They seem to have the hang of it now, though they come back to rest and to sleep. Sheep are, after all homebodies.