Off with a Whimper

Ordinarily, we at Maggie's Farm meet lambing season with a sense of anticipation. We look forward to new lambs romping about, new colors, personalities and waggy-tailed nursing and charminng high-pitched bleats.

A pasture full of pregnant ewes can feel like a stack of unopened Christmas presents.

This year, however, we wavered. More sheep = more hay = more money down the farm drain. More sheep means more questions come mid-season when we may (likely will) "disperse" the flock. Our hesitation is evident in the not-yet-sheared state of our ewes, the projects not-yet-completed, the focus on other things.

Well, dulled enthusiasm or not, lambing season doesn't wait.

Henny Penny, our big polled ewe started with hers a little earlier than expected-- those unmistakeable contractions rippling across her broad flanks. Now, Penny's a pro, having produced two sets of twins already, so I didn't worry much. I hustled her into the barn, watched and waited, watched, waited, and when it was bedtime for the kids, I left her a while. Dan came home and we did a barn check at 9 at 9:30, at 10:30, at 11. (Penny was in the early stages of labor. Nothing was amiss).

At 11:30, Dan went down again and found a dead lamb in the stall with Penny. She had licked it clean, but its nose and throat were full of amniotic fluid, a sign that it had been breach (came out back legs first) and had taken its first fateful gulp while still inside. We rubbed the lamb dry anyway, and forced the fluids from her mouth. But of course it was too late.

You'd think shepherds get used to such things, death being so close a companion on a farm, but one never quite does. Each little life is encouraged, coaxed forward, agonized over. Also, we've been pretty lucky here on Maggie's Farm, and aside from one preemie (our first year) and one other breach (our second) we've had strong healthy, lucky lambs four years running. This year, our luck ran out.

I should have stayed up with Dan to watch for the lamb's twin or placenta and see the thing through. But I had to be up at 4 for work the next morning, and so I was sleeping when Dan pulled the second lamb-- also breach and much smaller than the first-- dead, from Penny's womb.

A horrible start to lambing season.

Penny called for her babes for a few days, but she has given up now. Lucky to live in her present of hay flakes, spring sunshine and sunflower seeds, she doesn't think that far back. Our three remaining pregnant ewes (Daisy, Copper and Leela) are taking their time this year, all with big bellies and pendulous udders. All due anytime after the 17th.

I am hoping the rest of the season will go smoothly, joyously, a lambing season as it should be.

Boys Being Boys?

Some of you might recall my "Poultry Politics" post of a few weeks ago. Well, the situation appears to have changed. Young Roos, Apollo and Dionysus, once best buds and partners in crime, seem to have decided sometime Saturday that as they couldn't beat up dominant rooster, Jaguar, they'd settle for each other.

What followed was an epic day and a half long battle. We separated them, they moseyed back to clash again, the control-freak dog (Luka) barked and hounded them, there was a freakin' BULLDOZER moving earth a few feet away, and it mattered not at all. These young roosters puffed themselves up, pecked each others heads, puffed themselves up, pecked each others' heads, etc. etc.

On and on and ON.

It appeared mid Sunday that Dionysus had won the battle. Guess what he wins? A trip to another farm. This place ain't big enough for the two of them.

Meanwhile, it appears that Jaguar, feeling the pressure, has accepted lowly Soccerball into his flock as insurance against the two ruffians down in the barn. Here they, a watchful eye on their hens:

Now, here's the thing: You might say, fine, well roosters, what did you expect? Why title this post BOYS being boys? This is not a fair characterization of the male gender. But wait--

Here you see Charlie, our dominant ram, watching the feathers fly

and fly

and fly

And fly.

He looks for all the world as if he can't be bothered with such testosterone-induced nonsense. Right?

Well, later that same day, we reintroduced Charlie's son, Dodge

back into the ram flock after his winter breeding sojourn, and guess what? The two began to pummel each other!

The scene was fairly similar to the poultry, only the mammals butted heads, chased each other about, butted heads, chased each other about, etc etc. On and on it went on all afternoon, until Dodge (50 pounds lighter but audacious as the day is long) decided to fold. (Unfortunately, I didn't get a picture of this as I was waving buckets of grain and hollering for them to quit before someone gets killed.)

What were the hens and ewes doing, while all this testosterone flew? Why, what they always do: Eating, resting, scratching about, caring for chicks, gestating lambs, the usual. Sure they have their squabbles but nothing (ever!) that approaches the heat and fire and raw mean of those goshdurn boys.

And so...

For WHATEVER reason, boys will be boys, at least here on Maggie's Farm.

I'm not willing to generalize, but-- in looking at the state of things in the world, the "civilized" and not so civilized battles in governments and corporations, villages and schools-- I think, perhaps, I could.....

Hot Mamas!

It doesn't feel very springy this week (20 degrees at night!) but two of our three "barn hens" got that broody feeling nonetheless. I didn't expect much, it being so freakin' cold out much of the time, but between them, we have 16 new chicks!!!! Not really needed but sort of cute just the same.

Pearl hatched hers out in the sink:

I keep expecting to find little chick-cicles in the barn in the mornings, but these mamas have managed to keep their broods nice and warm. Wings spread wide, this girl has managed to warm 10 chicks through the long, cold nights. this little yellow guy's out for a breath of cold air; the other 9 are inside those feathers somewhere. Pretty remarkable, I think.

Poultry Politics

Anyone who's spent time around chickens knows there's a constant twitter of tension afoot. Hens have their pecking order (I believe that the term "pecking order" itself was more or less invented in conjunction with chickens...) and yes, there are the bossy ladies and their underlings, poor "Lulu", tailless through the winter and "Chicklee", whose innocent name belies a steel-eyed ferocity. There is "Happy Chick" who is generally not happy at all but scurrying out of the way of more powerful hens and so on and so on. Always a simmering dispute, a newly formed clique, a ruffled feather.

But this is nothing compared to the all-out warfare of the boys. "Little Jaguar", our two year old yellow green gem, remains top seed in Maggie's Farm version of March Madness. He is the sole coop-living rooster, buds with all the established ladies (many almost 5 years his senior-- an accomplishment considering that each chicken year must be about 10 human ones), courtly and well-mannered to a fault.

Then there are, Apollo and Dionysus, last spring's chicks turned ruffians. They've managed to peel a few low ranking hens (well, their sisters, mostly) away from Jaguar and flee to their not so secret (and very messy) hideout in the barn. These two get along famously and together, they strut just out of range of the old man. There have been a few skirmishes. I twice found the boys, and Jaguar too, heads streaked with brawl-related blood. But so far, it's mostly a cold war.


And then there is the "nerd" of the flock, poor "Soccerball", he of the funny name and low, low ranking. Soccerball spent a good bit of the winter huddled under the coop, ostracized, cold, miserable. (At least as miserable as a chicken can be). Even Soccerball's siblings, "Pearl" and "Basketball" (Yes, the kids name most of the poultry...) have joined up with Apollo and Dionysis. Poor guy!

Soccerball spends most of his time on the outskirts of Jaguar's flock, one eye fixed covetously on the hens, one on a quick retreat. Maybe one day he'll manage some sort of coop coup.

Until then, the politics-- and politicking-- goes on.

Unearthed

Hints of spring in the air this weekend. Tiny buds on the brambles, fat-bellied ewes, broody hens (ugh!) and all sorts of unearthed treasures.

A fairy house forgotten all winter:


A pair of bulldozers (Come to think of it, this is what our vehicles looked like parked in our driveway a few weeks ago...)



The remains of a spectacular fort (And the tools that created it, too)



So THAT's where that hat went!



And this baseball too.



I feel a certain kinship with these objects today, as if I too, am waking from a long, cold snowy dream.

I enjoy some aspects of winter, really. The woodstove for instance. I even sort of enjoy getting up early to stoke a nice warm fire for the kids. (Our house is primarily heated by wood, so this task is crucial on those below 20 mornings.) And a cold clear 4 AM makes me feel tough. I like Orion in the sky, the look of our neighbor's white fields under a blanket of moonlight, the cozy, homebound feel of "snow days"... and the inevitable power outtages.

Of course, there are many less pleasing aspects of the New England winter. But I won't dwell on those here.

This weekend, the first that shouted "Spring" with certainty was also a weekend of cleaning (Spring cleaning?) and full-throttle writing, of kids NOT stuck inside arguing and puppies out for a walk.

A great weekend all around--

as if we've all shrugged off a little snow and started up where we've left off.

When the going gets tough....

...the tough, um, adopt a new puppy?

Sorry I've been away so long everyone. I have no good excuse. Just general busyness. Also, not much new to report here on Maggie's Farm. We are in a sort of holding pattern, waiting until spring to make the possibly hard decisions about our sheep and farm.

I must admit, it's been much, much harder to get myself out the door and down to the barn each morning now that the whole operation is in doubt. Sometimes, the hay I toss over the fence feels like the worst sort of pointless waste, especially when the sheep leave a carpet of it behind for the barn chickens stomp it into inedibility. At times like this, the cost-- $10-15 a day-- is hard to accept. At other times, it seems hard to imagine doing anything else.

So yes, I am trying to look at the flock with clear eyes, but they are sort of like family now. And family is not about practicality or expense.

We do have one big change-- a new puppy named Milo. He isn't a sheepdog, or even an actual breed. But he is to be the kids' dog, and is people oriented in a way that our more driven, task-oriented canines just can't manage. This means he is easy to re-direct... and loathe to be left alone. Sort of the exact opposite of our other two.

Milo is the result on an unplanned litter. He is an "Aussie Golden Doodle". He is keeping us busy this winter, near constant potty trips and lots of extra clean up and chewed kids' toys. The puppy usual.

So, why, you ask. Why the heck did we add a new element to an already overstretched situation? Um, crazy? That's one explanation. In short, it was the Micah's idea. He is "her" puppy and she is doing a decent job of being responsible for him.

Also, he is Luka's puppy. We worried that our little Icie character would put on the green eyed monster when Milo arrived, but hoped it would be good for her to share her family, toys, treats and sheep. We expected months of refereeing ahead, as Luka really knows how to put on that green-eyed monster. But, after an anxious "what do I do with THAT thing?" day of yipping anxiety, Luka decided little Milo was HERS and she has been so fabulous with him; she even plays tug and lets him win sometimes. Which is a something of a positive development.

So a lot of trouble in the short run-- but perhaps good for us all in the long run. (Though if you ask me about this in the wee hours of walking or when I am cleaning up puddles, I might have a different opinion.)

Cold Feet?

"Why farm?" We get that all the time.

We have full time plus jobs, three young children, long commutes, crazy expenses, a house that requires the chopping of wood for heat and a hundred other chores, all sorts of creative, political and social obligations etc, etc and I can't tell you the number of times folks, hearing about our jam-packed lifestyle shake their heads and call us crazy.

We used to laugh it off. Sure, well. Yeah...

But lately, we are wondering if perhaps we ARE a little crazy. Too crazy.

It all started with the hay. We don't have any. Our farm is small, and so, like many other unfortunate farmers we are forced to buy our hay from those with the land and equipment to produce it. $4.75 a smallish bale-- if we take the seats out of the minivan, load it ourselves and drive it home-- untold extra dollars if we have it delivered. This year, due to other obligations-- kids' birthdays, family, etc etc-- it snowed before we got the hay in. Now the driveway down to the barn is an ice slope with little hope of thaw, and we are stuck with 70 bales of hay (about a month's worth) in our garage. And many trips to pick up hay ahead.

In addition, Dan spent precious time he should have devoted to grading finals on fixing the fence Charlie bashed in trying to get a few more ewes "under his belt". And the water hydrant in the barn broke so we have to tote buckets a little farther over the treacherous ice. And it is cold, in the single digits in the mornings.

All just everyday stuff. But it's stuff that might seem more worth the trouble if we could eke a little profit out of the livestock. We can't. Haven't. And won't in the forseeable future.

You see, the jobs and kids and other obligations keep us from focusing on the selling part. We should be out there pushing yarn and pelts and meat and every other scrap of "by" and "value added" product". The selling needs to happen in order for "farm" to be more than the landed equivalent of "boat" (as in: a hole in the ground you pour your money into.) As it stands, the money we pour into the livestock could be our childrens' security or education or maybe just a breather in our constant financial juggle.

Part time farming really is a losing proposition.

I don't mean to sound grouchy. Or whiny. Or even glum. I don't feel any of these things. I am just coming to the realization that maybe... just maybe... I will regret that I haven't had time to teach that felting class with my kids after school or concentrate more fully on the half written novel or just play a few more rounds of "Fundomino" without having to truck on out to take care of the animals. Also, there is all the money to be saved.

On the other hand. Our sheep are family. I would miss the expensive little beasties, and mucking around out there in the cold, too. And watching newborn lambs. And figuring out breeding groups. And all the shearing days and unintentional "sheep rodeos". I would also miss feeling that deeper connection to the seasons and cycles and the inimacy with birth and death, joy and sorrow, that farming sort of is.

It's winter on Maggie's Farm, and I guess you could say, I've got cold feet.

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