Pretending to Farm

Danger: Mush Ahead

As you know, on the 27th we commemorated Pretending to Farm’s one year anniversary. As I discovered the significance of the date late in the day, I did not take the time to say what writing this blog has done for me and the unexpected surprises and perks that have come along with it.

First of all, I have proven to myself that I can do something consistently, persistently, whatever-sistently for a year. I didn’t know I had it in me. As you know, I bore easily and have a challenging time with repetitive activities. Yet, I like to write; I really and truly enjoy it. Who was it that said “find something you truly love to do and you’ll never work another day in your life?” Well, for me, that something is writing. (Psssst… publisher man, send a few greenbacks my way, would ya’?)

What has surprised me more about creating this blog, however, is the circle of friends, cyber-friends one might call them, which I have met through my writing. They include knitters, shepherds, animal lovers (a big shout out to the Giant Schnauzer rescue contingent), and a plethora of miscellaneous readers who, as the others, I have never met personally but with whom I have developed an unexpected kinship.

Beth in Wisconsin, knitter and just-about-anything-else crafter, and I email each other nearly every day and get silly quoting “The Backyardigans” as we both have young children at home. Just before Easter, she sent me wool from a yarn swap she organized with treats tucked in amongst the Lopi, an Easter treat for Pint and super yummy chocolate cherry chip cookies. Beth has dreams of some day living on a farm herself and I vacillate between encouragement and its-not-all-bouncing-lambs-and-fresh-eggs lectures.

Melanie in New York State emails me as well. She has a Wee Farm as she puts it and raises Shetlands just as much for their love as their wool. I adore shepherds who view their flock as more than a commodity. (Most do but I have come across some who do not through the Shetland email list and it mouth-agape astonishes me.) In late winter/early spring, Melanie and her husband tap the sap of maple trees on their property and cook it for hours over a fire until it turns to syrup. Then they bottle it for their own consumption and for sale. When I asked her how someone living all the way in Arizona could purchase some, less than a week later a lovely maple leaf shaped glass jar full of the most delicious, smoky maple syrup I have ever consumed arrived on my doorstep accompanied by a lovely note. I was truly touched (and not just in the head).

Situated in the more than lovely Willamette Valley of northeastern Oregon at the base of Mt Hood is Michelle of Boulderneigh. As with Beth, Michelle and I email each other almost every day and she is full of caring, advice, concern, encouragement, and prayers. She is a much better person than I, or at least her morals exceed mine exponentially. She does wonderful things like pray for me, research my dumb disease which currently is trying to rear its ugly head, and send heartfelt but funny snail mail cards to me. We are currently hatching a plan to meet in person at the Black Sheep Gathering in Eugene, OR in late June which awesome David the Husband has okayed but pesky logistics remain to be solved and sorted. Such as…

…Kathy of Sheep Thrills up in Flagstaff and her troublesome back issues and is she sharing the ride? She is another I have never physically met but has offered friendship and shepherding advice plus I think I have mentioned that she and her husband brew their own beer so she is definitely a-okay in my yet-to-be-completed book.

There are so many more, Carrie down in Tucson, Ali G in NYC, Julie in Surprise and even occasionally the Yarn Harlot or the Mason-Dixon girls. There are Margery and Karalyn and the other Beth, oh my! The list grows and I love it, that and the kinsmanship which was the last thing I expected yet the thing I love most about writing Pretending to Farm.

It’s 8:30 am but pretend it’s well after cocktail hour has begun and picture me standing before you weaving and slurring (it shouldn’t be hard to imagine).

I love you guys!

No Balls Allowed

I had a flash of brilliance, or stupidity if one has the viewpoint shared by many shepherds who send their extra lambs to market to pay for expenses, but I decided to not only castrate Darby (hopefully correctly this time) but Leroy as well. My reasoning behind this is multi-fold (like Kleenex napkins). First of all, Leroy has his funky horn issue. His breeder, Beryl, in her pairings has been aiming for polled or non-horned sheep and has met with some success if one agrees with her philosophy. (Polling vs non-polling is a great controversy in Shetland sheep world. If you think the Sunnis and Shiites have issues, well, listen in to Shetland shepherds’ downright testy horny arguments.)

Many of Beryl’s rams, however, are intermediately polled and have what are called scurs on their heads, which are what the vet confirmed to us that Leroy has. The texture of these scurs varies from downright rubbery to almost as hard as a traditional ram’s horn. Leroy’s horns lean toward the latter and I can tell we are going to have big-time Hollywood producer problems with them. First the one broke in half, then the other broke down to the bare stump (remember Mardi Gras evening and our voodoo impression complete with ram’s blood covering my shirt and jacket?) Now the horn or scur which broke initially is curling towards his head and we undoubtedly are going to have to get the very nice only-sheep-vet-in-the-entire-Metro-Phoenix-area Laura to sedate him and cut the horn before it impales his brain (this is one of the arguments people have for polling but it didn’t quite work out the way it was supposed to for poor Leroy Used-To-Be Brown).

Since he will be sedated anyway, and I don’t want to pass his funky horn problem on to more offspring (yes, I realize I already did this; I’m learning, pretend farmer, remember?), I figured why not relieve him of the weight of his enormous testicles while we are at it, thereby lightening his load and adding a little spring to his step.

This solves many issues. We can still be cuddly love bugs; his fiber will coarsen much, much slower; and we will not have to build a separate ram pen so that close relatives do not impregnate each other. Also, it will keep our food costs where they are, approaching the downtown Scottsdale skyscraper height limit.

If we decide down the road to once again breed our ewes, we’ll travel up to Flagstaff and visit Sheep Thrills Farm (don’t you love that name? I wish I had thought of it.) owned by my friend Kathy and rent a stud. (Yes, Kathy, after great discussion, we’ve decided not to purchase a ram from you and instead perhaps rent one if that’s okay and bestow on him his own wooly harem; we’ll talk more about this later, and yes I realize I will have to do that scrapie program thing.)

I am relieved to have finally made a practical decision in my shepherding. This is a first for me. After all, I am not a practical person but instead usually take the Scarlett O’Hara I’ll-think-about-that-tomorrow approach to life. Maybe I am finally growing up though I doubt it. I would be much less entertaining for you and it is all about you, gentle readers. Not about that voting thing....

Happy Blogiversary to Me!

I was just looking through the archives and realized that exactly one year ago today, April 27, 2006, was my very first blog post.

What a long strange trip it's been!

Fa-la-la-la-aargh

Tis the season to be breaking, and don’t even sing fa-la-la-la-la. It started with Robert and David the teenager’s shared computer, which was a hand-me-down from Seaman Recruit Jessica and was about five years old. Also, it was being used mainly for video games that far surpassed its processing ability so the crash heard round the house wasn’t totally unexpected. Okay, I can handle this, truly.

Then came the clothes dryer, which isn’t totally broken but has become more temperamental than its user and will only turn on if its door is closed in just the perfect way, and not always the same way. It must be a female appliance; it is hot after all. Sometimes finding its oooh-yeah-that’s-the-way-to-close-me takes a while, like up to ten tries and after dealing with this for around a month, I think I understand the dilemma of men a little more than I did before my dryer went all hormonal on me. As a few lessons were learned, I decided this is not so bad; I just have to coddle an inanimate object in order to clothe my children. I can handle this.

What’s next to act up? This one is a little harder, the big screen TV. Yup, the one we bought barely three years ago, Panasonic, rear projection, fits perfectly into the cubby which the original builder installed for such a thing, the cubby that, when we moved here and put our still working perfectly television into its place, made the television appear toy-like and caused it to run from embarrassment into the bedroom. The what-I-still-consider-new TV has developed yellow and blue shadows around every object which might have been really wild to watch if I was a turn on and tune out disciple of Timothy Leary but I am not so it is just irritating. In addition, the volume control has been communicating with the dryer and turns itself up and down in accordance with its mood. And apparently, it has been very moody lately. Being sensitive to noise levels and being surrounded by noise-making beings, this bothers me more than the yellow and blue shadows. My ability to handle breaking season is coming into question. My tolerance level is in the red zone and the glass bulb at the top of the mama’s-going-crazy-mometer is about to break cartoon-style.

After getting a this-is-the-honest-competent-TV-repairman referral from dear and efficient friend Mo(nica), I called them, described only the colored shadow part of the problem and was told without them even looking at the thing that the repair would be a minimum of half of what we paid for the thing brand new as the IRC circuit in the convergence (like I know what this is) is undoubtedly broken. The estimate to repair the TV was given without even mentioning the possessed volume control. Crikey. Ability to handle the season of breakage waning further.

Finally, Seaman Recruit Jessica told me last night after going to the dentist that she has three expensive-to-repair cavities (tooth decay is kind of like breakage) and that her iPod, mandatory appliance of young and sometimes old everywhere, has mysteriously and suddenly stopped working.

Now, I have been told that these inconvenient and unexpected conundrums are supposed to come in threes and through some freak of nature, we have exceeded that number. In the meantime, we caved and got the boys a new computer (thank goodness desktops are less expensive than they used to be) for which they have shown their gratitude by fighting incessantly over whose turn in it is to use said computer.

The TV? The resolution (get it, resolution) of this breakage has yet to be decided. I am still hoping through some freak of technology that I will turn it on one day and all will be repaired, unshadowed and evenly volumed.

In the meantime, how about a picture of things that are supposed to break and are welcome and delicious when they do? From left to right, turkey (the most delicious eggs of all time), duck (from Bennifer Aflac, it was a Siamese twin and is the biggest egg ever collected here at RL, the boys saved and taped it back together and show it to their friends when they visit), duck from a Buff Indian Runner, and the remainder are chickens, Rhode Island Red, Buff Minorca, and Buff Polish. The mama’s-going-crazy-mometer goes down a bit just gazing at them (and not the TV).

He's Been Converted

The Wild West has finally made its mark on the Pint. Yes, this is his preferred method of watching television, observing the recently constant teenager battles, or the resulting Gramma meltdowns.

It's a good thing he's so darned cute. Pint keeps my sanity gauge on the postive side, if only barely. (It wobbles like those old applause meters. It might be good if everyone gave me a good clap and no, not that kind.)

A Piece of Cake

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about pioneer women, real pioneer women who, whether through loyalty, optimism, idiocy, or a combination of all of the above, made that covered wagon journey west to parts unknown in search of a new life and new opportunities and to face both foreseen and unforeseen dangers.

My modern pioneer dreams, which ebb and flow in accordance with my hormones and ability to face reality, have probably led to this train of thought, that and the fact that David the Husband is out of town on business again and the majority of the running of the farm and the caring for the children and house rests on my slumped insecure shoulders. (My mother has been telling me to hold my shoulders up since my first memories.) Just getting teenaged boys ready for school and driving them the three miles to the bus stop, followed by morning farm chores, feeding dogs, all whilst caring for a toddler was a challenge for my inefficient slow-moving self. And I have a whole day of much of the same ahead of me. I can just imagine someone like me trying to do it back in the true pioneer days, without motor vehicles or modern appliances, probably pregnant with my sixth or seventh child (some of which I have most likely buried in the family cemetery) and my husband out clearing land or working cattle for days on end, not knowing whether he was dead or alive or whether bandits or Injuns would arrive on my doorstep at any moment. I honestly don’t know how they did it. Modern laundry makes my whelm runneth over. Envisioning myself by a riverbank scrubbing the prairie dust off the clothing of a whole passel of children against a washboard or even worse a rock, well I just can’t picture it.

Here’s to the women who preceded us, women who worked harder than any of us do today, who probably received only a smattering of gratitude and enjoyed little if any free time. I will endeavor to think of you when I feel put upon or overworked because, if you think about it, my life is cake in comparison. And I like cake.

Definitely Pretend

Well, we (as in I) suck. After going in ewe-tero to help bring Darby into this world and receiving many comments and compliments, some stating that in fact I was now a real farmer , even a hero, rather than a pretend farmer, I was brought back to reality yesterday in my attempt to castrate the poor wee ram lamb Darby O’Gill.

We should have done it the other way around. I should have held Darby and David the Husband should have placed the band. He holds his boys most nights as he sleeps for reassurance anyway so he knows how things are supposed to feel. However, since David the Husband caught the boy, I placed the band. David inquired about both testicles being in the scrotum and I thought they were but wasn’t 100% sure and had a nagging suspicion as did my husband that they were not.

After receiving two comments from experienced shepherds (thank you again Shetland list) on yesterday’s blog about making sure everything was in the proper place, I had more misgivings as did David who called me and asked me to double check to feel if the gonads were where they belonged. David the Teenager and Robert caught him for me and I just felt an empty sac, fleshy and loose. I reached further up beyond the band and felt two undescended testicles. In short, I had failed miserably as both a shepherd and a ball buster.

Taking the advice of Nancy from “A Shepherd’s Voice,” (thank you Nancy) I had the boys catch him again and with cuticle scissors in hand, nervously cut the band away. I was very afraid I would cut the poor lamb but I suppose teenaged boys know the pain of injured testicles just as well as the next male so held him very still while I did the deed. After a little massage and love, we let him be comforted by his mother Charlotte and will leave him be for the next two weeks and hope the wee huevos descend.

As you can tell, I do not, as some suggested, need to change the name of the blog because I am once again definitely a Pretend Farmer. Oh the shame of it all!

Implements of Torture

After a very relaxing Sunday morning into afternoon filled with teenager wrestling and computer tinkering, and yes I am being very sarcastic, I decided to take a day off from blog posting. That one-two punch laid me out cold and I was no good to anyone, except perhaps my knitting needles for the remainder of the day.

I had intended on wishing Darby and Fiona a happy two week birthday and Madeline a happy one month (as of the 21st) but just the shear act of typing on my computer and gathering photos was too much for medium ol’ me.

Today, I will endeavor to make up for some of my failings (not all of them as this is an impossibility, I think Einstein wrote a theory about it.)

Here are the requisite cute lamby photos.

Aren’t they getting big?

Now check out this torture device. What do you suppose it is? Some sort of riveter/grommet placer? Medieval dentistry equipment? Any guesses?

Well, let me tell you. It is a castration tool. Put the band on the end, squeeze said ooh-it-makes-me-squeamish-just-thinking-about-it-and-I’m-not-even-a-man device, and place around the base of poor Darby’s testicles. Ewwww. The band cuts off the blood flow to the testicles and the poor balls just shrivel up and disappear.

After great hemming and hawing, pacing and praying, we decided to wether poor Darby. While consulting with the great Shetland Sheep email group, which has been an amazing source of information for us, we learned about the dangers of rams as they age and the fact that one is truly not supposed to be nice to them because they will view you as part of their flock and try to dominate you. (This means I have to totally change my relationship with love bug Leroy but I digress.) When being subjugated by a ram, one faces untold danger, and I’m not being sarcastic this time. They ram (hence the name) to try to show who’s boss, hard, in fact hard enough to break bones or so I’ve been told by Shetland shepherds across the globe. I’ve heard stories of fences being rammed over, siding being crashed through, sheds being destroyed, and, when turned toward another ram, horns broken and bloodied and the occasional though rare mortal injury. Fun, huh?

Since we are in this hobby farm business for the fiber and love and not particularly for selling breeding stock, we figured one intact ram is enough around here. We wether cute and sweet Darby and we can still be love buddies (stop it, you pervs). We can pen him with Leroy No-Longer-Brown to keep him company without him posing as an adversary. Plus, wethering a ram keeps his fiber soft and nice for years to come. If we need to bring in another bloodline for breeding purposes, we get a loaner ram. Nuff said, plan made, courage to execute plan not quite reached.

As far as Leroy goes? Well, I’ve been told to give him lots of toys to burn up his testosterone-fueled badness. Hang a tire from a tree for endless hours of fun and excitement, that sort of thing. (We’re talking sheep here, not brain surgeons.) In the meantime, I might just squeeze a little more love from him before I have to throw him to the ground to show that, yes, believe it or not, I am the boss of someone (just apparently not teenagers or computer equipment).

Riding the Range

First of all, a big “Phew!” because I thought we had lost these photos. I checked my camera and David’s and mine and David’s and thought all hope of finding them was gone until I was fiddling around on the computer and discovered I had (Eureka!) downloaded them. I have no memory of this and don’t tell me it’s because I had been tippling and had anheisers. I swear I am forgetting things all the time these days, no matter the time of day or the state of my sobriety. And I’m in my mid-forties! I sure hope I don’t have the real A-word.

Anywho, we went to the annual RVHA Family Picnic a few weekends ago (RVHA stands for Rio Verde Horsemen’s Association and you don’t have to have a horse to join; you must pledge to support the preservation of the area’s rural atmosphere which of course I am 120% behind). Anthony seemed overwhelmed by all the unknown-to-him people and only cracked a smile during the Easter egg hunt because (would you look at that!) there’s candy in them there eggs.

The obstacle course was meant for the older kids but nothing-if-not-sturdy Pint gave it a go. He’s a chunky little devil; I think he looks built to be a baseball catcher.

He approached the trail rides with a large dose of trepidation. Are you sure I should be sitting on this thing? (Check out the size of the saddle. I didn’t know they made them quite so diminutive.)

Just sitting there on a dead-broke, couldn’t-be-spooked-if-the Devil-himself-said-boo gelding that was roped to a trailer provoked thoughts that by the looks of it were way beyond his young age.

Though he did manage to eat a brownie while holding the horn. The kid’s got coordination (unlike his Gramma).

Finally, the ride began, joined by the lovely Elaine who works at Lorrill Ranch, home of Cowboy U for those of you who watch CMT, and generous provider of safe escort for gobs of kids who wanted to give horseback riding a try. Is it that hard to crack a smile you two? Only the horse looks happy.

I’d like to say a great time was had by all but, at least for this portion of it, the jury is still out (but not for long by the looks of it).

By the way, congratulations to Kathy at Sheep Thrills Farm on her new twin lambies. How I love the wee wooly bouncers!

A Fowl Day

It’s a hard morning on the farm today, a day that even though I eat the fowl regularly without qualm one, I dread. It’s Rooster Eliminating Day. The pullets and cockerels from our latest incubation are growing and, although we haven’t identified which are which, the older roosters are, for one, pecking at them, and for two, crowing more frequently and loudly than ever. I suppose they are trying to show their dominance but it’s too much and they have to go. (As I write this, they are going.)

Me? I have no problem with the sound of roosters crowing. It inspires me, encourages my dreams of someday living on a real farm.

David the Husband, however, has a real problem with it because he is concerned about disturbing the neighbors, most of whom have assured us they like the sound for similar reasons that I do. Yet, a few grumps always stand out and want the roosters and their instinctual noise gone.

Well, I hope you’re happy you people who-move-to-the-country-and-complain-that-it-is-not-more-like-Scottsdale. My husband is covered in spattered cock blood and the flock is very quiet and wary of what is to come.

If we were into voodoo (which rest assured we are not), I suppose our sacrificial requirements are met for now. I don’t understand how chopping off a rooster’s head would help anything other than noise pollution levels; however, if it helps, please send some good mojo our way.

Also, send some good thoughts to poor David the Husband who doesn’t like administering the death blow any more than I like it being done. Hunny, thank you for not holding me to my promise of being the next to do the dirty deed. Just the thought of it being done is enough to make me hyperventilate.

So long Lemon; so long Spyro. Slick, you are still amongst the land of the strutting only because I helped bring you into this world and argued your case for a temporary reprieve. Please be quiet for both our sakes; your life depends on it.