Charlie and Daisy

We do not live on a farm. We live in a high end little picturesque village in Vermont filled with people who moved here from somewhere else. Most of them came from Manhattan and more than half live here only part time. But we live off a little lane up a hill from the historic village center, backed and wrapped by a forested and protected knoll, and so our chickens and critters are more of a hidden secret. But these lambs have brought up some questions because you see, we are not farmers. Most of what I know about farming comes from the See and Say I had when I was about one. I know what sounds the animals make and I know roughly what they produce, sheep-wool, cows-milk, like that.

But I don’t know what it means when a lamb coughs. I don’t know the diseases of sheep and how to treat them. I do not know how to mend a fence, or to keep the lambs from eating the little irises that are just pushing their sweet little green heads up out of the cold dark earth. When my friends Karen and Jack brought their little dog Madeleine for supper the other night and she decided to chase the chickens, I knew that chasing her would only excite her more. I knew that and still I chased her and screamed. Stories with dogs chasing livestock, especially older animals like our chickens, often have very bad endings. The chickens were clucking and scared out of their wits, Madeleine was agitated and couldn’t hear her name let alone respond to a lie down command, and I was running and yelling like a fish wife, sweating and coughing, being chased by two frightened baaa-ing baby lambs, and finally running smack into my friend Jack who looked like he might have a heart attack at any minute. Eventually somebody nabbed the dog, and the chickens flew into their house, and the lambs got bottles and rocked, and all was again right with our little world. None of this was the dog’s fault. It was the fault of the non-farmers who should have never let a strange dog into the yard where it might be enticed to molest the livestock.

And so, should we really be considering keeping these little lambs? We don’t even have a barn. We have a fancy chicken house that looks like something some silly yuppies who wanted blue eggs would build. There is a coop out back where we could expand and add a place for the sheep. But it will cost a bundle to heat and side and insulate etc. And there is a fence around part of the smallholding but it too is mostly just for show. It will need shoring up. And we’ll have to fence in the garden. Sure the lambs are only fifty bucks apiece, but the rest will be well into the thousands. And we like that our dogs and cat and chickens hang out with us in the yard. Will the sheep? Because at the rate they are downing these bottles that is what they surely will be, probably sooner than later. Charlie can jump three feet straight into the air. It is like watching the Christmas Rudolph cartoon, only the live stage show version. He runs sideways kicking up his heels behind him and twisting and turning in the air like a little circus lamb. He is the epitome of a spring baby animal feeling fresh. He is joy in a wool suit. He runs circles around Daisy as if to say Look at me, I am a RAM! He may only weight five pounds, but he is destined for 300 and he wants you to know that he knows it.

For once I am trying not to control the decision. I am trying to just be with these little creatures and let the group decide or maybe even the lambs. I have long coveted a cow. But are we ready to abandon the idea of the Vineyard for a big hunk of the summer? What do I know about cows after all either? Everybody has the right to begin and to learn something new of course. Is that what I am aiming at? Have I secretly decided I want to be a farmer, even boutique sized? Do we want to have to hire a caretaker with the expertise of a shepherd or a dairy farmer when we travel? Will these little guys come when we call them? Charlie already follows me around just like the Mother Goose rhyme promised he would, but will he when he weighs a hundred pounds? How about when he gets to three? Who will trim their hooves? Do they have books for this sort of thing? Who will shear them in the summer? Is this really what we want to be doing in our middle years? And what about that year in Italy.....the questions are piling up.

These baby lambs were a surprise. It had been a while since we got a big surprise in this family. It was welcome and sweet, and we responded and are happy and glad. But now the next bits cannot be a surprise. We must decide and plan or it will surely come to a rough end. Last night when they were curled up in front of a spring fire, after being given their bottles and a little warm bath, they looked like an old oil painting come to life. Their black noses were outlined against all that white wool and their eyes were heavy with a milky sleepiness. The curled around one another and baaed and cooed quietly to sleep. The beauty of the moment took my breath. I will always remember these little lambs and this wonderful spring. But soon some decisions are going to have to be made….

March Madness

Today I sat in sixty-degree sunshine and watched my baby lambs race across the yard with Pippi, our herding Moodle fast at their heels. Charlie and Daisy galloped in big circles on the grass and played dodge and catch with us when it was time to come inside. But as soon as we nabbed them they chewed on our chins and earlobes and fell asleep in our arms before we got back to the kitchen where they lay still, next to the leftover warmth of the radiator, each with one of the others ears in their mouth.
I have headed back out here to the porch to catch the last of this sweet spring sunshine. I am almost too sleepy to enjoy it. We were up at 2 AM giving bottles since Daisy was too sleepy to eat properly before bed and at just four and six days a missed feeding with no easy mama access can spell disaster. Then we were all up again at five when we heard the hysterical bleating from the kitchen. I raced down wondering what had happened and found Charlie screaming “Baaa baaa meeeh meeh…which translated roughly into, “OHMYGOD I am bleeding to death”
He has a docked tail and he had scuffed it with his hoof and the little wound had reopened and scared him out of his little lambie wits. It didn’t hurt though when I dabbed and cleaned it and coated it with Neosporin, so he is just a run of the mill overreactor like everybody else around here. He will fit in nicely with this bunch.
The night before I woke up hearing the clip clopping sounds of little hooves in the library. Benjamin came home late and neglected to reattach the little gate at the kitchen. So the kids went exploring. I found them in the library chewing up a purple candle, (their mouths are still smeared with a kind of fading pink), and looking pretty delighted with the results.
Then later this morning when I got to my business appointment I kept noticing the stale sickly scent of old milk. It was apparently on my shoulder or maybe in my hair.
We go a little crazy up here in the winter. I have never wanted sheep. I still don’t want sheep exactly. But these two sweet lambs are not sheep. They are our little lambs. And we delight in the little wooly curls showing up on their spindly legs every morning. When you come into the room they greet you with a sweet little baaa and when you give them a bottle they look up at you with milk drunk eyes and their body sort of snuffles and purrs and I start imagining that we better get some fencing out there pretty soon. Benjamin asked today what is so special about lamb anyway that makes people think they need to eat these dear little creatures. He said this as Charlie nuzzled his chin and fell asleep with his cheek buried at he base of Benjamin’s throat. Benjamin, I might add, has always loved lamb.
An hour ago we were chasing the little wildcats out from under the porch where they had discovered the special delicacy that is apparently the Satellite cable. In that moment Benjamin said we need a book about livestock. And I mentioned that this would be good practice for the cow. And Eli wondered if the cow could please have a calf. And I said of course how else will we get the milk to make the cheese?
Fostering sounded good….And of course it really isn’t my fault. The winters are enough to drive you crazy up here.

Oh My!

John planned our Sunday. He had an inspiration. He called Peter and Ame, parents of Eli's pal Will. They have a sheep farm with 80 newborn lambs. Hannah was here for the weekend and she loves baby lambs. Who doesn't?
We pulled on our boots and headed for Pawlett where the oldest flock of sheep in Vermont live on the sweetest little hillside in the whole state. Many times we have pulled over and admired those sheep grazing up there in the wide green grass just above the mighty Mettowee River. It is one of Vermont's prettiest spots.
We pulled up their long drive and climbed out of the car to a racket of ba ba baaing. There were still about twenty pregnant ewes on the hillside and a couple of proud rams looking like they could run the world. Inside the barn were sixty or so mamas and all their adorable little lambs. A couple of mommies had mastitis, and couldn't nurse. One had given birth to triplets and was snuggling them all but relieved when the bottles came and gave her a break. Two mommies had died during child birth and all told there were about fifteen bottle babies waiting for fresh bottle recruits. There is no finer way to spend a spring day in Vermont than feeding a newborn lamb its bottle.
Can you imagine how this idyllic story turns out? We were in the car with our seat belts on when Eli quietly said ,"Will said I could have a lamb to raise"
We all looked at each other.
After all it is spring and spring makes us a little bit silly up here.
And we do have a heated chicken house.
Plus Eloise could probably use a little Hospice lamb. There wasn't even any discussion. We turned right instead of left and headed up to their house. When we got out of the car Peter asked us if we'd forgotten a lamb. Before long he persuaded us to take two. When we bring them back the flock will likely not accept them immediately, but with a buddy they won't care and will fit back in quicker.
We are fostering a little girl and a little boy, now named Daisy and Charlie. Charlie was born yesterday and is a little wobbly and very very tiny. His mom was old and died in childbirth. Same as Dasiy's did, only she is much more mature at four days.
As we drove away talking about the heated chicken house, Amy suggested that if we brought them in at night, (not that there was any reason to do bring them in, no no of course not), we might want to give them a bath.
They went into the tub first thing where a little Shea butter soap made them as good as new. They were whiter than we'd imagined. And oh my how adorable.
They played with Pippi, she chased them and then brave Daisy would do this little head bent down head butt and baaa and Pippi would back up and lay on her back and wriggle. Charlie would sniff her tummy and then the whole thing would begin again. We laughed and watched for an hour. It wasn't long til Pippi was mimicking the head butt and we were all dying of joy. Eloise curled up and indulgently let them sidle up to her warm fur. Even old Grandpa Stuart grabbed a toy and started running around like a youngster. There is nothing like a little lamb to celebrate a fine spring day.
We did put them in the chicken house after their bottles.
We did.
For about an hour.
Then John and I went out to check on them and they looked forlorn and lost, not sleeping, but wandering around the edges. In silent agreement we each bent down, picked one up, and aimed straight for the kitchen. Hannah and Eli were watching from the windows. They are now curled up in the kitchen. Maybe we'll let them watch Big Love with us.
I just reminded John that this was the outing he planned.
Uh-huh...baaaaa It's spring. Hooray!

The Fifth Season

Schools got cancelled last week for mud. Half of Vermont lives on a dirt road and the buses just couldn't get through after three long days of pounding rain. The snow runs off the sides of the mountains and since most of the people live in the high sweet valleys we get buried under mud. Up here in Vermont, in America's north country, spring comes in the form of rain, rain on top of snow, softening the snow and ice, so that as you walk across it, the snow opens up to hard bare ground with every step. You know that something is happening down below. There's stuff happening up top too, but you can hear the water underneath. Before long there are the squishy sounds your boots make as they ease across the yard, but there is the constant sound of water running down below too, Just beneath the world you see is this other one that you can hear and sometimes even touch with the soles of your shoes. The earth is waking up and even the birds are coming back.

Spring is early this year. March is usually a month filled with snow and since that first week when we got two colossal snow storms it has been quiet up here. We have had fifty degree days. It's looking like this year we might have an Easter egg hunt in the cold leftover grass instead of the white snow. The US Snowboarding Open is this weekend and the kids are racing in just their jeans.

Through it all, the deer are still walking the same trails they've been making all winter long, The mash the snow into hard-packed rough ice covered muddy clumps that will remain long after the softer snow has melted away. Their footprints are the icy understory in the forest now. We throw hay and salt down in the meadow for them as winter ends and they have already gotten all the low bark off of our trees. They are looking skinny and the coyotes take more of them in the late night hours. It sounds like a horror movie out there some nights and when we can stand it no more we begin to throw the hay. We are chastised for this by the locals. The Vermonters let nature take its course. I try. I really do, but by March I feel like everybody needs a little Disney break and I cave every single year. I fatten up a few deer and the coyotes move on to somebody elses's woods.

Our small holding backs up to a protected forest trail. So we have wild woods that begin just at the edge of our land. Our chickens don't lay well when the coyotes are hunting in our meadow. The sounds that interrupt our sleep seem to unsettle them too. And we don't need wild animals molesting our livestock, so we fatten up the Kent Hill deer and they are faster and stronger and the coyotes move on.

The sleepy season is almost over. There was a winter's farmer's market yesterday in Brattleboro. It was filled with cute little girls in dresses and boots and their Vermont mama's selling a winter's worth of pottery with their long braids tied back with flowery ribbons. They was Thai food and musicians with guitars and harmonicas. All the farmers had little pots of veggies and flowers for your house and piles of seeds filled with hope and promise. God we've missed each other and this sunny Saturday was cause for celebration. We came right home and ordered our new baby chicks.

Because the geese are coming back too. The first ones have just started coming. They head down to the pond and hang out around the edges grabbing the fish who are swimming up toward the sun. These geese are huge. It is as if the Canadian flocks send out the strongest sentries first. These are the ones whose job it is to declare that winter is over. They make a bog racket when they come back and like trumpets they sound the spring. Welcome back guys. Watch out for the mud.

Meet Olivia

I love spring. It is like the early morning of summer. Everything seems possible. We are at the tippy tippy beginning up here. There will surely be at least a little more snow, but a whole slew of days in the 40 and 50s brought everyone to the post office in our flip-flops. We rush the season up here. Yes it is muddy. Yes it is really more the time for muck boots. And okay, yes, the ground is still frozen solid plenty of places. I’ll admit some of those sticks I tried to pick up when I was clearing up the yards were frozen to the ground. But the sun was out. The skies were a cheery pale yellow and cool blue and the swagger of the possible was in the air.
The pussy willows are just starting to bud. The first little fur is visible and there are little purple leafy things sticking their heads up all over the ground. The jonquils have pushed through and their green shoots climb a little taller every morning now.
The land around here is a blank slate. I resolve to make the most of our garden this spring. I am going to dig a bigger patch and grow flowers next to the vegetables so the thing will be an artsy display that sustains us all summer long. This is the year I am going to get it right. It will not be in the shape of an embarrassing swastika with puny little walkways and ghastly overgrown weeds that hide zucchini two feet long. This will be a proper kitchen garden. It will not float uselessly untethered to the land, sitting out in the middle of nowhere where the sun just happened to seem bright one day. This one will have mature borders and tall elegant boundaries of something like Cypress or anyway some New Englandy version with tall elegant lines that will balance the ordered rows of rhubarb and old-fashioned tomatoes.
This will be the year we will take complete advantage of every warm day. We will eat suppers of vine-ripened tomatoes over freshly made mozzarella drenched in balsamic and dusted with basil out on the terrace with the company of our chickens. We are going to raise some new baby chicks this spring and some of us are even considering a cow....(more later) Plenty of Augusts from my old life found us huddled in flannel pajamas in the air conditioning eating cheese curls and watching old reruns of Seinfeld. But we live closer to the land now and by golly we are going to make the most of whatever it throws at us.
We are going to make time for coffee up at the waterfall and feed our croissant crumbs to the chickens in the mornings. We are going to soak up the sun until it simply lives inside us. We will not waste August watching House.
I have a pile of gardening catalogs and seeds growing in every window. I am going to lie on the balcony in the spring sunshine. I am going to stay outside every single day as long as the sun does and we will lie on blankets in the yard at night and look at the stars. I pledge never to complain about heat no matter how high the temperatures climb. I’ll just grow watermelon and put cucumbers in out water pitchers and mint in our tea.
This weekend I am going to bake bunny cookies and bring out every mismatched piece of flowery china we own. We will have deviled eggs and sweet cookies and maybe even pimento cheese on fluffy white bread.
It is spring in Vermont and anything is possible…

What Passes for Spring Up Here

A couple of days ago I declared that winter was over. I am sticking to it.
Yesterday we began daylight savings time and what a glorious beginning it was. It got up to 50 degrees here and most of the snow melted. Oh, we still had those three and four foot icy drifts against the house that would need chiseling and way more sun to get going. But most of the stuff was really and finally gone. Old ladies all over town were hammering away at the ice with rakes and shovels and picks. It was as if someone had announced a spring-cleaning party. Everyone got the memo. We were all out there. Even the robins were hanging tight to the apple trees and making their glad sound.
We started picking up branches and carrying them to the woods. I hung a little painting on the front porch and brought out the pillows for the swing and the chairs. We took away the winter locks that tighten the doors and keep the wind at bay, and threw open the front doors. The dogs ran joyously in the mud and flowed the rivulets of water down into the meadow. We had tiny little streams and itty-bitty rivers all over the place.
Next I put away anything in the house that felt like winter including the drapes of red berries covered grapevines that twirled around the mirrors and over the mantels. One was festooned with swags of felt hearts and there were birch branches in vases covered with little pink and red felt kisses left over from February celebrations. The old French glass pinecones were put away and the German glass Easter Eggs filled the bowls instead. A couple of springy looking old iron rabbits hopped out onto the sideboard and the candle sticks all got dusty purple to replace the bright red tapers that had been melting since early February.
We changed the snowman flag to one with irises and pansies. Because the declaration had been made and it was time to follow through. We even emptied all the porch pots and carried old withered plants to the woods. The sun stayed out until at least 6:30 and so did we. Supper didn’t come around until after 8.
Of course today the schools are on a snow delay. The roads are icy and the white stuff blankets the land. This is what they call a sugaring snow. Big fat wet flakes and higher temperatures again tomorrow will have everyone tapping trees and boiling sap. It’s running strong now. Low temps at night, plus a few wet snows, followed by sunny warm days equal thick rich maple syrup for which every farmer up here is known. I love to go into the sugar shacks and breathe in the hot sugary smell. There are four grades from fancy down to B. But each farmer creates a taste of his own from the age of his maples and the temperature of his fire. True Vermonters prefer the B and we have developed our palettes over the years. No more thin lightly flavored pale amber Fancy or Grade A for us. No siree. We are real B people now. We like ours dark and thick, not heavy like molasses, but richer than the diner stuff and with a deep maple flavor that lingers.
So it looks like winter again out there and the purple, orange and blue glass eggs inside seem a little premature. But no matter we have had a taste. This is just a little spring snow. It won’t amount to much and by tomorrow or Wednesday it will be part of the flowing streams and mud rolling down the mountains. This is why they call it the sweet valley. The mud rolls down rich with nutrients and lays the foundation for the riot of color that is surely on its way. It’s snowing. We need a fire this morning. Because finally, it is spring in Vermont.

Hurry Spring

Winter may be losing its hold. That whole in like a lion thing happened up here with a vengeance. We got a new dozen inches of snow on the first of March. Early yesterday morning it was -1. This was highly annoying to me and Eloise. But today we are expecting rain and a high of near forty. This stuff is gonna melt. It’s supposed to be in the thirties and forties here for the next several days. The ice under the snow is going to give way. The robins have come back and they are busy at the apple tree and the wintry berry bushes. Yesterday afternoon it was sunny and warm in Putney and you could smell the mud heating up under the snow. I declare that winter is over. I need it to be and so and I declare that it is.
I am moving out of the season of fear that has been enhanced by one cold gloomy icy day after another up here. I am afraid of losing Eloise. She has for so long been my calm sane touchstone. She kept love alive for me during the dark days around my mom’s funeral. Her calm steady presence has always been my reminder.
But warm days are coming. The new meds seem to be improving her pain. We are going to have some spring at least.
I think fear is an emotional geography meant to be crossed.
Eloise doesn’t have much to do with fear. She mainly thinks about cheese, and lying in a big pile of soft snow every morning, it is a part of her routine, along with watching chickens, and eating cheese, chewing bones, and snuggling close for a back rub. The failing markets don’t move her to panic and neither does a sore knee or old age. She struggles to stand up now so we bought her a therapy bed. But it is hard to get up from and so she has given it over to Stuart and Pippi who are quite pleased. Instead she stays by my side teaching me in this as she has in all else. No reason for panic. We might just get a whole summer. Sad won’t kill you. And I can be sad later when she is gone. I better enjoy this last part or it will prove I didn’t learn much from her in ten years.
We had been helping Eloise watch her weight. That meant less cheese. Cancer means more. So as far as she is concerned this whole cancer thing is just an old age bonus. There is a big lesson there.
Change is disturbing, endings are sad, but necessary for whatever will come next.
So come on spring…..

Love

Eloise is the love dog. She sidles up to you and scooches ever closer. Pretty soon she is sitting on your foot or lifting your hand gently and teasing it down her back with her nose for a rump rub. She has a sweet friendly way when she leans into you. At 110 pounds you feel the lean and steady yourself as the warm presence takes you over. When I work at my desk she is always close by. She is content to be…her example has quietly taught me about calm over fear and worry. She has always understood what matters. There is food, cheese especially, (the cheese rinds from the boutique farmsteads at the farmer’s market are cause for celebration), bones are nice for a long sunny afternoon chew, and only scratches and cuddles are urgent. She let the cats clean her face over the years just as she let little children climb on top of her. She has always taken the long view.

She is pure love. Everyone smiles when they look at her. People comment about her graceful elegance. She is always calm and ever poised. We share nothing in our personalities except that she has taught me every single thing I know about being calm and centered. I am excitable and loud. She is quiet and dignified. She is content with the view from the porch. She watches Stuart run around protecting us all from the unsavory terrorist in the garbage truck, or the thief who conceals himself in the appliance repair suit. Stuart barks and worries and Eloise herds him back into the house, reminds him about the fire and settles him back down. Pippi, the newest member of the house jumps around begging for “mom” to lick her. She rolls on her belly and Eloise obliges with a few long licks and eventually noses her down into something closer to calm. She opens her paws and lets the puppy scoot into her warm embrace. She always preferred sleeping alone. She is big and gets hot, but she tolerated little Pippi who needed a doggie mom and accepted this role too with her usual grace.

She loves to watch the chickens. She especially likes when we give them scraps of things like POTATOES. They think she is a bear. When she ambles over I swear she smirks when they run off and she gets the scraps. But a cautionary quiet calling of her name, and she takes only one bite and then comes right back to the porch letting those chickens have their supper. This lady can sit next to a low table filled with canapés and never even put her nose near. She waits to be invited, which of course she always is.

There has only ever been one thing that ruffled her. When the kids were younger and we would wrestle and play with wilder abandon she would bark and chase us away from whichever child she felt needed her protection. Eli losing a game of hide and seek and tag would call piteously “Elooooise”, and she would come running and pin whatever bigger kid or adult as Eli giggled and happily ran away. She protected him fiercely like a Mama Bear would a cub.. Once when a dear friend played soccer with him in the yard and he screamed, Eloise came bounding out of the house and caught that friend’s arm holding it gently in her mouth until Eli sounded the all clear.

She has the biggest vocabulary of any dog I have ever known. “Where is Eli, Eloise?”, and she’d run and bark wherever she discovered him. She is smart and beautiful and she is all love. Her first vet asked us why we’d chosen a Bernese Mountain Dog. I answered that they were gorgeous and smart. “Brains and beauty” he quipped. We didn’t know the half of it. We walk in the woods with all three dogs and our cat Zoe. How did we get a cat to walk with us off leash? Well, Eloise taught her. She came along a couple of times and hopped out of sight amongst the fallen trees. Eloise would go off trail and herd her closer and eventually she got the idea. The cat stays as close now as any dog. Stuart leads the way because Eloise lets him. Pippi runs ahead, falls behind, and bounds off the trail after chipmunks. Eloise galumphs along after her and gently redirects her back to the path. We all fall in line around this calm natural leader. She smiles and leans into you and you find you have no choice but to accept her superior wisdom. Once when we lost power during a winter storm she slept next to me and I was as warm as toast. She never once moved despite her preference always to sleep alone.
When any one of us is sick she sits vigil by the door to whatever bedroom we are in. She waits and just sits with us. She holds whatever we must hold as steadfastly as any minister ever has.

I don’t know how to face losing her. I am not ready damnit. Anyone can see I need about forty more years with this dog to become even remotely the better person she calls me to be. But I figure she’ll teach me how to do this hard sad goodbye thing too. I know already that it has something to do with more cheese rinds and maybe if we are especially lucky a few quiet days on a quilt in a sunny patch of soft grass. She has taught me how to get past fear with presence and constancy, love and hope. I expect she has something to teach me again But I sure hope she waits a while….

Eloise

Today is a really sad day. Eloise has been diagnosed with bone cancer. We will make her comfortable and steal as much time together as we can so long as we are able to keep her feeling well. If we can just get through the rest of this winter maybe we can have one more sweet summer together. All this snow and ice are especially diabolical right now.
I am as close to Eloise as I have ever been to anyone. I love her dearly. She is only ten years old, but in ten years we have made a whole life.
There has been nothing but joy in this sweet uncomplicated relationship. I cannot stop crying....