I sat down on the road side of the great stone wall. And there they came. Into the pasture. Through the gate. One. Two. Three at a time. Sheep. Lambs. Emerging out of the mist. They approached me. Looking at the wall. They could scale it. I knew it. They knew it. Practice. I stayed on the wall. The sheep looked at me. And began to graze the pasture. My pasture. White shapes moving slowly across the fresh, dew-laden grass. My puppy, Glencora MacCluskie, sat, “sit, stay.” Beside me. Ears up. Watching. And I sat on the stone wall. Watching. Listening to the silence.
ARRIVALS
IT HAS ARRIVED. In all of its attendant glory. Once again. Winter. It was -2°F outside my kitchen window at 7:30 this morning. It is still -2° outside, 32° in the living room, and 42° in the kitchen. Usually it gets warmer faster than this. But I hadn’t filled the stove very well last night. It had gotten too hot. I was afraid of over-firing it.
The sunrise this morning was beauty incarnate. Snow is everywhere. Pale blue sky. White etching the trees and covering the meadows, pastures, and lawns. And a splash of peach, pink, and coral at the tree line across the top of the hills in the southeast. It is the beautiful time here. I’ve never seen more than lovely in this countryside, summer. It is the winter where beauty reigns, queen. Loveliness includes pretty, and all of the lesser qualities that define it. Beauty requires a touch of something with a firmer back. I moved here because, in part, it is lovely. Beauty demands too much. Overshadows. Makes the individual insignificant. In nature, at least. I’ve seen beauty in the desert at the Four Corners, New Mexico. And couldn’t live, so tiny a creature, among those astonishing shapes and breathtaking colors. But here, the scale was perfect. I could still be myself, significant in my own life, and accompany what nature had to offer. In winter, when there is snow, it becomes different. I had to become a sharper self this morning. Race downstairs, find a hat and sweater to put on, in the house. One hand lit the cook stove to heat the water for the coffee, the other brushed away the curtain to see what the temperature was outside. Some bread dough was rising overnight. I turned the oven on to preheat it, something I never do but this new bread asks for a hot oven, and started the fire in the kitchen wood stove. I have a new system for starting it that actually works. Ten Nantucket lights, which are rolled sheets of paper tied into a knot. Ten pinecones and eight of the nice, short, seasoned limb wood that works so well for me. It never fails to catch. And after I put a piece or two of real wood it begins to roar, that old, welcome familiar sound. I kneaded the “noknead” bread and put it in the hot oven.
I’ll never understand how one interprets or experiences the quality (I nearly wrote concept) of “warm.” The kitchen air is swirling around me, and feels not only warm but nearly hot. Off come the sweater and the hat. But the indoor thermometer reads only 52°F. The outside one is a high of 10°. It is comfortable. But that is impossible. I shivered coming into the kitchen when it is 52°, mornings. The bread has begun to fill the air with its “nearly done” message. This time, the second time I’ve made it, it has risen astronomically. I’ll have to write down how I did it, if it is better tasting, and I can remember. There had been some discussion in the New York Times and followed by Cook’s magazine about a method by which one can achieve a bakery kind of chewy, old-fashioned holey bread at home. It is also no knead, or perhaps little knead. It had, when I made it for the first time the other day, a quality that I’ve never seen in a home-made loaf, tasting of bread from the Italian bakeries in a neighborhood where I once lived. This is the second time I’ve made it. It is almost no work at all. Part of the joy of it is that it needs to rise for 12 hours. Which means I can have dough to put in the oven upon coming down to the kitchen, mornings, and have bread when I come in from the barn. If this loaf is as good as the first one, and it may be better having proofed longer and subsequently risen higher, it may be of great service to me. Bread and cheese for breakfast. Toast for tea. And a bit of stale bread to thicken a soup.
I do know how to live here. But sometimes it seems as if I can’t. Of late. For the first time. But hope has slipped in on welcome feet once again, and there is possibility once more. It seems as if the right man to do some needed work on my barn has turned up. None too soon. And by this time next week I’ll be looking at a barn that shall be functioning. At least, better than it has been in quite some time. Hope is mysterious. It may come at one end of a shovel or a skid steerer. Often, for me, that’s all it takes. I know that taking care of myself, to my amazement, translates into taking better care of everyone else here. And having something ready for me to eat makes a difference when I come in from the barn. But, unfortunately for this farmer it has to be the right something to eat. And the kitchen cannot reproach me for a mess made while preparing it. The thing that pleases me about farm life, one of the things, is an interconnection of all things. When it works, it is beautiful. Table scraps to the chickens. Coffee grounds dried to use to help start the fire. Laundry drying around the wood stove. It requires discipline on my part that is lacking, at times. But more deeply is required a belief that can affect my life here. That my actions will actually benefit what it all is here. And that has been a crucial point. Uncertainty has entered my heart. That is not good. Today, however, inspired by a loaf of bread and thoughts of someone to hoe out the barn, all seems well.
I have been downstairs for two and a half hours. The kitchen feels roasting at 68°F. It is 14° above zero outside. Some of my animals have been fed. Others shall be shortly. The chickens get the scraps from the Fidget pie I made last night. Sometimes English country food fills the bill. Layers of apple, onion, potatoes, and bacon topped with a short crust and moistened with some chicken stock. The chickens, when all in life follows its appointed order, get the apple and potato peelings and the fire in the living room gets the onion skins wrapped in newspaper to help it start. And this farmer shall have some hot food upon coming in from the barn.
I came across a French cookbook (nighttime reading), that I’ve never used. My friend Valerie, who is an artist, bought it to paint from the pictures, and sent it along when she was finished using it. It was translated from the French and has the country recipes that are such a perfect fit here. Salt cod, which I make every Christmas, and bean soups. The recipes take time to prepare, something that is of advantage here. “Step two after an hour wait,” when coming in from the barn. Take long cooking, which also works well here on the top of my wood stove and creates a welcoming atmosphere in the house. And, usually, except for the price for the right cheese for the soup, very inexpensive to prepare. Quick and easy play no part here. But inexpensive and delicious do. Were I ever to think in terms of healthy food, which I don’t, healthy would come into play here quite by accident. At least if a well-balanced variety of foods is what keeps us going, a good winter soup, French country, will do it.
It is amazing what a little hope can do. There is hope that the barn shall be shoveled out next week. There is hope that there may be some repairs to it as well. There is hope that my last lambs will be sold. And hope that some firewood shall arrive next week as well. And there is another hope that is, in fact, a promise. And that is the one thing certain, without fail, to lift the heart and comfort the soul. On Sunday I shall be going to pick up my new pup. A sister of Glencora MacCluskie. An eight week old Border Collie puppy. To live with us and brighten my life. On Sunday, who shall arrive, winter afternoon, to the farm but Nelly Zolotoroffski, Border Collie.
Nelly Zolotoroffski shall arrive. Hope on four legs with a white blaze and wagging tail.
NAMES
I AM OFTEN asked how I arrive at the many names that are given to the livestock here on my farm. The most noteworthy has been of course, Giuseppe Patrick Nunzio McGuire, donkey. Hardly in second place but quite even with it are my Border Collies, Glencora MacClusky and Nelly Zolotoroffski. Of course there are also Burgo Fitzgerald and Doby Fitzgorman, rams; Adelaide and Honey Merriman, goats (mother and daughter); and the Young Pretender, ram. Then there are Candida Lycett-Gr
een and her daughter Cameron Lycett-Green, and her daughter Cecelia Lycett-Green, goats. Grandmother, mother, and daughter. The next family offspring in their line shall be Candace Lycett-Green.
I’ve never completely invented a name. They are always suggested to me from one source or another. Originally, when I first had sheep, the Barsetshire series, 30 or so novels written by Angela Thirkell (the grand niece of Anthony Trollope), provided me with numerous names. Lavinia Brandon was a favorite. However, Thirkell also commented that first names were more difficult to come by than last names. Witness our current fancy for giving girls last names as first names. MacKenzie and Taylor come to mind. She had continued the Trollope series, the six Palliser novels, skipping a generation or two, but writing about the same families and the same neck of the woods in Barsetshire, England. She wrote over a period of 30 years, describing the inevitable and gradual intermingling of families and social classes, usually through marriage. But she had the same problem that I have. Do I name another sheep Lavinia Brandon after my first Lavinia who died 15 years ago? It is too lovely a name to be buried in a sheep’s grave. But am I deriding the original Lavinia by giving her name away? How do I do that? Assume that one of the kitchen lambs, or both, for they are twins, is a great-granddaughter? They then could become Lavinia and Lattice rather than Virginia and Veronica? The names that seem most delightful are usually British. Of course, Sterling Burgess is an interesting one, American, our own Tasha Tudor. Sterling shall be a goat, I think, of outstanding qualities, of course. My donkey bears one of the names of the friend who found him for me at an auction. Included are the names of his father and grandfather. Glencora was the central figure of the Palliser series and Burgo Fitzgerald was the name of her first love. Irresistible to have them both around, even if one is a dog and the other a ram. Nelly is the name given to all of my grandfather’s dogs. Some pictures were recently sent to me by my cousins of our family “fahm” that included pictures of several Nelly’s, always rolling on the grass, tummy exposed, ready to be scratched. Her last name has become Zolotoroffski because she needs a last name with some ring to it. “Here, Nelly,” doesn’t quite cut it, calling her in from the fields and woods. “Nelly Zolotoroffski, here!” has more authority behind it. So be it.
I shall be looking for a Toggenburg buckling soon for the goats. His last name shall be critical as all of his line shall bear it. All of the cats, barn cats as well as indoor cats, have names beginning with the letter P. Prentice and Prescott; Pembrooke, Pendelton, and Peabody. The next ones, and I’d love to find an orange pair once again, are to be Penhollow and Pendograst. Next summer, perhaps, I’ll luck out. The Horned Dorsets are Bess Throckmorton and Melody Throckmorton, respectively. Mrs. Sinkins, a name given by my old friend Liz Gruen. Margaret Fearnley Wittenstall and Alexis Lennox Boyd. Bess is named after Sir Walter Raleigh’s wife. The name Melody came to me without much thought. Margaret and Alexis were mentioned in the English magazine Country Living. Those names flew off the page at me. Delight and joy! The twin Horned Dorsets born this winter to my most impossible, and therefore unnamed, sheep have yet to be named. They are five and a half weeks old. One suddenly stopped nursing and needed heroic measures in order to save her life. She, of course, was then brought to the house. When she seemed big enough she was moved to the carriage house until I realized she was at risk from all of the other animals in there. Many are horned. All are adults. She now lives with another lamb in the wood room. She is growing, energetic, and even finer in confirmation than the twin sister who remained with their mother.
It is unfortunate that their dam has never been called anything but the Impossible Sheep. The designation was well earned. She was five or six years old when she came here five years ago. And a fine jumper, par excellance. When she began to train some younger ewes who never thought to challenge a fence before, I began to despair. Two winters ago she sprained her ankle. I checked for an infection. Found none. There was nothing I could do for a sprain. She limped around the barn for weeks. And never leapt a fence since. She is 11. And recently decided to accept me. Will wonders never cease! While I seem to be remiss in naming the twins, I found on my pages of suggested names two that had been considered shortly after they were born. Felicity and Fiona. And so they shall be. And their mother? The Impossible McPhearson seems best. Therefore they shall be Felicity and Fiona McPhearson. Twin Horned Dorset ewe lambs. My future.
And that is how my sheep get their names.
FLY FLANNAGAN
HIS NAME IS Fly. Fly Flannagan, this fluffy round ball of a puppy, lying here in the crook of my elbow. I had never really liked the name Fly. Or rather, I had never really understood it. In Scotland, where Border Collies live in great abundance, Fly is a name commonly associated with the dogs of the renowned trainers. All shepherds. Unlike the trainers stateside who seem to be comprised of Frisbee throwers. I’ve read stories of countless dogs with the name of Fly. Fly the dog who found and dug a ewe and her lamb out of a snow drift, having been buried for days. Fly the faithful. Fly the swift. Fly the greatest sheep dog of all.
But I am an American. And here in cluster fly country, black fly country, and many others of the species of fly, had not an appreciation of the name. But in its perplexity, it always gnawed at me. I wanted to like it.
One day, suddenly, with no apparent reason, I understood. I saw in my mind’s eye an infinity of shepherds each calling, “Fly. Fly. Fly.” as this inimitable Border Collie races, feet barely touching the ground, up a hill, across its expanse and back down again, the sheep, in a flock before her. If, indeed, it is a her. And that was part of the dilemma. Is Fly the name of a dog or a bitch? I didn’t know.
Fly has fallen asleep. Instantly. The moment I sat down with him. He is exhausted after having a wonderful playtime with Peabody, the cat, in the kitchen. She sat on a chair. The better to swat him on the nose. He’d retreat. And then charge. Only to be swatted again and retreat once more. Life is good.
My Border Collie Steele farmed here with me for 10 years. She had been exquisitely trained and her training combined with her superb instincts created a miracle on this farm. She and I were inseparable. She was my lead and my shadow. I could not imagine how I could manage my farm without her, and found that after she died it was more difficult than I had thought possible.
At first the sheep believed she was still at work when I called out to an unhearing wind, “Steele, put them in the baaarn.” But soon they realized that she was gone; her daughter, only half Border Collie, with her show dog father’s instincts, was inconsistent at best, and they began to know they could thwart my wishes. A hundred 150-pound sheep, thwarting my wishes.
I’m not a natural with dogs. Was hesitant to train one myself. Didn’t want a male. However, when I saw that little doggy dog face, eyes staring me down, ears flopping, with the same white arrow on his forehead that Steele had, I asked to see his parents work. His father, mother, and aunt each went out to the pen and separated a flock of sheep from a herd of goats and brought the sheep to their trainer. They then, singly, returned the sheep to the pen and brought the goats to their trainers. He asked me if I wanted them to drive the chickens to him as well. I replied, “May I write you a check?” I was sold.
My former hired man, now driver, Ernest Westcott, and I brought him home in the truck yesterday. “Two hundred miles roundtrip,” Ernest said. The puppy stared up at me. The music in the cab of the truck was a little louder than usual. Strange sounds to that little creature who spent his whole life in an outdoor pen. After awhile his eyes closed, and, with my hand over his ears he fell asleep. I looked at his registration papers. There was the answer. Both answers. His father’s name is Fly. And one of his grandmother’s names is Fly. So be it. And Fly he became. That little round ball with the round eyes, staring up into my face.
But what was to be his last name? I thought of McGillicuddy. It almost seemed right. However, almost doesn’t satisfy here. I’m not known for my ability to live well with almosts. I tried
McKenzie. But that name is already possessed by a sheep, and a little girl I know. Fitzsimmons has been done here as well.
I went to bed, Fly curled up next to my shoulder, thinking Fly McKenzie would be the name of choice. Got up in the morning, dissatisfied with my choice. Put him on my lap and in that moment got it. He is Fly Flannagan. Fly Flannagan. Across pasture and meadow. Hill and brook. Fly. Fly Flannagan.
New animals bring hope to a farm. The heifer calf, born of one’s second best cow. The triplets out of the old lady ewe. Even a new pair of marmalade cats for the barn. And new chicks, of course. They are the well-spring of the farmer’s eternal faith that life shall bring life and all shall therefore grow and prosper.
Adam Smith wrote a great deal about farming in The Wealth of Nations. True wealth, he maintained, generates more wealth. Nature’s laws of increase. Service industries do not. Should one employ a cook, the value of that service is gone the moment the food is eaten. Should a farmer plant a seed, income and wealth shall be created with the help of nature because of the plant that did not exist only a short time before. If it grows, that is.
We are increasingly becoming a society drained by our needs for services. Services that require a payment but produce nothing of lasting value. The phrase “sustainable agriculture” has always confounded me. I’ve never understood how a farm dependent on gasoline could consider itself to be sustainable. Farms run with horses create another horse from time to time. A foal to sell or a foal to replace its dam or sire. I use no machinery myself but am dependent on those who do to cut and deliver hay, and so would never dream of calling my farm sustainable. Except, of course, in matters of the heart. And then it is totally and absolutely sustainable.
The Improbable Shepherd Page 2
