Rainbeau Ridge Weblog

A Real Farmer

I often joke that I’m not a ‘real farmer’.  I think that I were a real farmer, then I’d make decisions differently than I do.  I’d make decisions more on the economics of the proposition than the emotions.  I’d not shed tears when animals die.

I have nothing in my background that would have exposed me to ‘real’ farmers but the traditional ones that I’ve met, especially ones on large scale farms, rule by numbers.  They have Farms, not farms.  They have herds, not 40 goats.  They euthanize lame animals.  They shed unproductive ones.  They don’t name their animals, especially not after singers. They mocked me (affectionately) when I told them I started with only two goats.  While I do not mean to paint ‘traditional’ farmers with a single brush—I think I make the point.

I tease myself as not being a ‘real farmer’ for many reasons.  If I were a ‘real farmer’, I would never have cried over the single dead chick in the box when I picked up the mail order package of 25 one-day-olds shipped from Iowa.  Perhaps I wouldn’t have taken in Kobi, the one-day-old, barely alive Southdown lamb, rejected by her mom because she was a runt, the ewe opting instead to mother the robust ram lamb sibling.  I certainly wouldn’t have hatched my own eggs and kept the roosters!  I wouldn’t have nursed Kiara (a doe) for seven weeks after she lost her triplets in utero, only to become septic and wither away. And most definitely, I wouldn’t continue to maintain four bucks just because they serviced the herd but were no longer necessary, and six wethers just because they are handsome!

In light of Jewel’s passing this past week and my ability to quickly rebound and talk about the incident without outwardly showing huge emotion, I remarked to a friend today that I’ve become a ‘real farmer’.  But he helped me recognize that I was mistaken.  ‘Real’ isn’t the right measure or the right adjective.  I’m a different type of farmer, coming recently and fresh to the profession, not hindered by traditional ethics or rubrics. I may no longer cry; but I still feel sad at the loss of life.  Intellectually, I know I need to focus more on the farm’s bottom line, but hope I never lose the soul of what moves me to farm each day.

-Lisa

Spring Cleaning

Just the other day, we had a particularly fine spring afternoon—blue sky, warm temps, and lots of mud.  It was the kind of day that I call a teaser.  After all, it was still February, but it felt more like April.  I prayed that surely winter had ended and spring had finally arrived. 

I looked into the cow paddock and there was DC leaning over, cleaning her mom, Destiny, with her tongue.  As if she were in a spa, Destiny was reposed and seemingly enjoying the licking she was getting—sort of facial-esque.  It gives a new meaning to spring cleaning!

The real deal of spring cleaning has been going on for a couple of weeks now.  It is truly necessary and at the same time very cathartic to clean out the farm.  Things have been shuttered up these last four plus months, seemingly longer with the early onset of freezing temps last fall.  Over the winter the cobwebs had gathered, the milking equipment had been ‘mothballed’.  Chores had focused mainly on keeping the ice out of buckets and keeping hay available.  Now we can remove the accumulated dust and wasted hay, refurbish the milk machines and parts, scrub the barn pre-kidding, haul out the incubators and sanitize the cheese house.

The sun is up longer, the chickens are laying heavily again.  The greenhouse is filling up with plants that had gone into suspended animation all winter.  The sugar maple trees are tapped, sap is flowing and we’ve boiled down and bottled up our first Grade A syrup.  Certainly that portends Spring, even if the calendar disagrees.

I’m ready to rid the barn of the stale frozen air.  I look forward to hooking up the watering hose to the outside tap and not worrying whether it will freeze.  The sight of swelling bellies of the does makes me tingle with nervousness and excitement as I think about the potential 40 upcoming kiddings.  There are gently used towels to stock and empty pop bottles to collect.  Feed rations get ratcheted up, as does access to minerals and supplements.

The last of my fresh frozen cheese curd has dwindled to nothing.  I long for the sweet smell that greets me daily in the cheese house and the rows of hand ladled product.  With milk volume potentially increasing this season, I scheme about new recipes that I might try.  In between the daydreaming, I get back to inventorying my supplies, ordering new labels and calling my inspector to give me the green light for the season’s production.   Calls come in from friendly voices anxiously inquiring about the start of the season.

A team refreshed with new faces, the comfort of the old, returning volunteers and a ground swell of new interest, record number of children in the Sprouts, Buds & Roots programs and a huge growth in CAP customers all have me totally jazzed to begin a new season.

And yet tonight, the forecast is for a block buster snowstorm!
 
With hope it’s not what they forecast,