This afternoon was the first this autumn that the trees showed any color that was in any way to be admired on my hill. Nature has not been kind this year. But for a few moments, today, she was.
HOPES, DREAMS, AND WISHES
SHEARING OCCURRED HERE three days ago. Late this year. Last year’s was late as well, but shearing in October is not the same as shearing in November. Nor are either months even remotely the same as the typical April or May event. The spring discloses sheep who have been nursing lambs all winter, are on hay, and maybe grain. The autumn tells a pasture story. How good was the summer grazing, and was there any decent grass in the early autumn? The sheep proved to be, to my intense gratification, quite sleek this year, moving into winter. Only two of the 75 shorn, and the 26 unborn remaining combination of escapees, summer lambs, and market lambs, were on the thin side. No one, however, was bagging yet but it is six weeks before I expect to start lambing. They still have quite a bit of time. Some are heavy bellied. Twins, perhaps. Others are not. But without their fleeces I shall best be able to ascertain who is due to freshen and possibly when.
There are a number of advantages to autumn shearing. The newborn lamb can find its mother’s udder far more easily than having to dig through a summer and early fall’s growth of matted, burdock filled, thick fleece. While the dam might possibly experience a little cold, the heat loss from her body will warm the baby lamb lying next to her. Some fleece shall regrow in the six weeks to two and a half months between now and lambing which shall add a measure of comfort to the sheep. With the exception of last winter, I have kept the barn, for several years, in a most comfortable 30 to 40 degree range. Quite a bit warmer than in the past when the thermometer in a corner could easily register 20°. This year it shall more likely than not be somewhat better. The mow is now filled with hay as well as the room next to it, which has a fairly thick pack above where they shall live this winter. The pack is an excellent insulator. I may be able to put a double wall in the north side, and there shall be shutters as well as new glass in all of the windows to keep out the cold. There is enough old straw to provide bedding to make the lambing room comfortable as well.
The barn is about to undergo some renovations that inevitably shall make my work life easier. I had converted, 21 years ago, an old style stanchion cow barn into a sheep and possibly goat barn. Much of that has been torn out when I had the barn skid steered out last winter. And yet, the things I had built over the years were salvaged. These things can be reused in a very nice way to make the barn a more beautifully efficient work place for me and, I hope, a better place in which the livestock can live.
Much of my life in the winter is spent in the barn. The quality of that life depends a great deal upon how well the barn functions. The rest depends on how well the life here in the house functions. On that front, I appear to be gaining. Catching up and moving forward. There is a tiny almost room in my house that is referred to as the “home art center.” It has a window in its one exterior door; however, it has never been designated as a room. Nonetheless, I clean it as a room. Therefore its floor has been stenciled with a leaf design, its walls painted and the charming service door with its built-in tray and lift through which food was passed from the kitchen into my living room, the long ago dining room of the house, has been stenciled with orange poppies and dark green leaves. My daughter painted the charming face of a chef peering out of the closed “pass-through” to the kitchen, plate in hand, as well as a cat walking along a wall that is so very life-like that cats of mine have tried to attack it. And so it was with a great sense of purpose that I scrubbed the smoke-tinged walls, cupboard, and three interior walls down to its original butterscotch paint, stenciled windows of the fourth door which leads into the landing of the very neat wood room, farm office, and two-seater john room in addition to the well-worn floor. The floor now sports two coats of floor polish, gleaming like beeswax polish on an English farmhouse floor. And so, when I was at a loss as to where to serve the shearing dinner (the kitchen is uninhabitable, the dining room would have been bitterly cold, and there was not room on the living room table for all that I customarily serve), it suddenly occurred to me to set up a table in the home art center. I did! Complete with a linen table cloth. I put some framed prints on the walls and on a door, of sheep, of course, to honor my shearers. It was so pretty, I haven’t removed it.
My poor, once-lovely living room, now looking like London in the Blitz, begged me to restore whatever could be possible, even if my pretty wall of French doors and sidelights had to wait for the incomparable roofers to put them back. (Don’t ask me why they need to be put back or when the roofers will do it.) And so I addressed the desk where all of my most important papers were piled when the ceiling above it fell down and the floor which I had washed twice, by hand, on my knees, a system inspired by Home Comforts which advocates the method, leaving streaks of red clay in its wake as well as countless buckets of muddy water to be emptied onto the driveway. The desk is now partially visible for the first time in ages, and the floor responded, at last, to a third scrubbing followed by a thorough waxing. I’ve done a number of things in the room, washing windows and mirrors is always a morale booster. And knowing that only Christmas wrappings are behind the great wooden shepherd’s chair, rather than a disquieting conglomeration of curtain rods and old shoes, is certainly an encouragement. There is very little left to get the room to the next stage. For winter, of course. With any luck the roofers will repair the wall before the snow flies and I can hang the drapes I made a long time ago, once again.
My larder has some very nice things for winter. Pickled sweet and sour prunes. Sweet and sour cherries. Cherries marinated in vodka for three or four months. Pear marmalade. Pumpkin jam. Green walnut liquor. And a number of other miscellaneous things as well. There are salt capers that my grandson’s mother sends and dried Jacob’s Cattle Beans from last summer and pickled radish pods and sour cherry conserve. I’ve managed to make the larder quite neat and have, with some severe resolution and a modicum of pride, kept it that way for about two consecutive months. The new shelves in the dining room look very nice as well, with the gleaming glass jars neatly lined up filled with exquisite things to eat and drink.
The evening sky read classic November when I went to gather some of the slab wood by the carriage house to make the fire burn a little warmer. Tonight I’ve needed it. Not because the room was very cold. Nor because of the general severity of this life that can become so wearisome but because of something slightly different. Sometimes I so deeply long for things to be “all right.” I want this evening to be a comfortable and pleasant one. The simple relief of suffering no longer is enough. It does not touch me as it has in the past. It is something else that I need instead. The relentless and illusive pursuit of order brings no real sense of satisfaction any longer. Or, very little. Unless I can successfully maintain that order long enough to enjoy it. What I am now longing for is that things here be lovely. To be comfortable. To be consistent. I want to spend the evenings sometimes with people I love in a relaxed atmosphere where there are no disconcerting interruptions like wood to be brought in from a cold out-of-doors, or the sudden chill when opening a door to the next room. I’d love to read sometimes, by the fire in warm clean clothes in a warm clean room with nice little things to nibble on when the mood strikes me. I need the pretty things I own to be in repair and to hand so I can wear the long skirt I made when sitting in front of the fire, having afternoon tea instead of remembering it and wondering where it is as I tuck cold feet underneath my cold jeans. I need this new, neat, pristine notebook in which to write plans and dreams and a pen with blue ink which flows thickly, unhampered by the cold. The first thing I’d write about would be a list of names for this year’s new lamb crop, and perhaps the recipes I’m creating for Thanksgiving this year, as well as the ones for shearing dinner. Some names have been used before. There has been a Patricia Fitzpatrick. There never has been a Bessie O’Grady. But there shall be this
year. Patricia was a favorite. Can I name another by her name again? Or in her memory? Some dishes have been prepared before. I’ve made Alice B. Toklas’s Bird’s Nest Pudding with and without this year’s short cut. Nor has there been marinated Jacob’s Cattle Beans with Pomeroy mustard and red onion. This year’s daube was cooked for a day and a half on the wood stove with tangerine peel rather than orange peel. It was all I had. It is from this that great recipes are created.
It all seems so possible when I write it down on clean paper with a new pen. What I do know is that we sheared on Friday, and that shearing always is, for me, a time of evaluation. And most importantly, a new beginning mid-autumn.
THE SILENCE
I LAY ON the hay mow floor once again, accompanied by the sound of the rain on the metal roof high above my head. Two or three little birds flew through the shutters above me. They appear to have made homes for themselves in the abandoned pigeon nests that seem to be everywhere among the rafters and crossbeams. It is the sweet time. The sheep are eating the hay I’ve tossed down to them through the chute. All is wrapped in silence except for the sounds of ruminants munching their dinner. The rain. And the few little songs of those unfamiliar birds. Who are they? And how can they survive this cold? It is the sound of the rain that is familiar. How many times have I lain back here and listened to it for a while? It is simplicity in itself. The essence of simplicity. As am I for a few brief moments between the this and the that which rules my day. For now I am torn. The hay I lie on. The sheep below me. The roof above me. Those two or three birds. And the sound of the rain. It is for this that I shall never leave here.
The barn sills, at least 20 some odd feet, are now in. It was an incredible moment for me. “For” is such a tiny word that it seems almost impossible that it can hold so much meaning. It means. It means that an old sill, almost a hundred years old, rotted out from the pack of manure that had lain against it far too long. Last winter the miracle worker skid steered a two-year pack from the barn and spread it on my fields. In itself that was a miracle. The sill crumbled. The miracle worker shored up the siding on the building, making a sort of frame for it to lean against and we hoped. The concrete floor leading up to the sill was shoveled cleanly as was the stone foundation to the barn. To everyone’s amazement but mine the foundation was as perfect as the day it was set. Level. Neat. Beautiful. And to my surprise, the edge of the concrete forming a right angle to the foundation was perfect as well. Bringing the 10-inch-by-10-inch 12-foot-long sills from my barn bridge way down to the ground level and then into the barn itself took the miracle worker and his tractor as well as the help of two young men and a heavy chain. I was in awe. The final positioning, a day or two later, took four men, crow bars, chains, and once more, the expertise of the miracle worker. I applauded when the first sill dropped perfectly into place. “The other side isn’t in yet.” “No, but this one is,” I replied. And so it was. I still applauded. The siding is pretty much nailed in. The second of the two big doors on the north side is temporarily nailed in. The barn, today, was 10° warmer than it was outside. One manger is in place and already in use. I’m not remotely set up. But it is all much better than it was a year ago.
The sheep, most of them, have been shorn. It shall be far easier for me to see who is bagging. Certainly I shall know who is not. I shall soon start braiding collars for them. Creating a new system. Purple shall be a color in every collar that shall tell me who freshened in the first week of lambing. Red shall indicate week number two, although most collars will have other colors to best identify both mothers and lambs. The sheep look at me expectantly now when I close the big doors behind me and step inside to be with them. They mill around me, even after I feed them their hay. Do they remember the beautiful times we have had together? Do they know it has begun again? Do they know? I think they do. There are so many of them now. Some of the Horned Dorsets look good. But two that I bought last year do not. They and the ram shall be moved to the carriage house where they can be fed grain and some Red Cell without interference from the others. I don’t like the performance of that new bunch at all. At least the ones from the first farmer from whom I bought Horned Dorsets. The ones from Kate Henderson look very good, on the other hand. Although I must say, the daughter of one of them is huge and perfect. Her mother may just need to be built up a little. We’ll see. They can’t already be bred, so keeping the ram with them may see them bred for summer.
Usually the first lambs born here arrive around the first day of Christmas, although this year it may be later. No one seems to be bagging as yet. This shepherd is closer to being ready for the holiday than I have ever been in past Christmases. Some gifts have already been sent and received. Unopened, I hope. Others are sitting here ready to be wrapped. Most are bought. Tomorrow I shall begin the baking. Apricot walnut bars for my grandson’s mother, and with any luck, for my dear brother; cornmeal and golden raisin cookies for my daughter; and the famous date nut balls for my brother, my son, and the miracle worker. I’d like to make some croissants for myself. Perhaps I shall. We give a wonderful combination of both practical and fanciful gifts in this family. With great delight I’ve only just thought of the perfect gift for a dear friend who is famous for being hard on machinery, for breaking the unbreakable machinery, such as tractors. I’m going to get him a matchbox size John Deere tractor and a second one for when the first gets broken. I hope he gets the joke and understands the appreciation that shall accompany it.
When my children were young and I was in the beginnings of my seemingly usual impecunious state, I established a precedent for gift giving. All gifts are equal, I decreed. Therefore a beautifully painted brand new toy truck was equal to a package of gum and a pair of socks. The routine was, and still is, that all gifts are opened in front of everyone one at a time, oohed and aahed over appropriately no matter what the gift is. Therefore, this shepherd is as thrilled with a package of three-way pink light bulbs as a bottle of Cointreau® or a down jacket. Not to mention bar chocolate or emery boards. We are careful to try to satisfy both wishes and needs as well as tastes and try to add a touch of luxury here and there. Our gifts say to one another, I know you and think about you.
My birthday is also during Christmas. The 12th day, although the 11th night. There is something good about that. I was born when the Three Kings came bearing gifts to the child. I remember singing “We Three Kings” when I was a child, quite certain that they were Three Kings from Ory and Arre. Perhaps they were. And maybe still are.
I’ve solved a perennial problem about the Christmas tree this year. As a family we have always decorated it on Christmas Eve. But that has become increasingly impossible as the dynamics of the family have been altered and logistics have become unconquerable. Rather than becoming disappointed and upset upon finding, yes, finding boxes of ornaments hidden away rather than hung, and the tree not always quite looking the way I want it to as I cook in the kitchen and leave the tree trimming up to others, I’m getting the tree early this year and am starting the decorating, guess what!, myself. I may even make myself some hot chocolate with real whipped cream to sip while putting on the tinsel. There has been in the past few years a reasonable but slightly discordant note added to our Christmas Eve supper. By me, I might add. In other words, nothing in this meal really goes with anything else. For many years, cassoulet de Castelnaudary has been the main dish. Principally because it is loved, familiar, and cannot be overcooked. Made quite a bit in advance, it can’t be harmed by an extra half hour in the oven. What we all love, as well, and doesn’t “go” with cassoulet at all is double chocolate brownies, which are brownies (the recipe is on the chocolate box) with an added half package of semisweet chocolate chips thrown in. Now, they don’t really “go” with cassoulet, but they do “go” with decorating a Christmas tree. Complementing or enhancing that, perhaps aggrandizing is a better choice of words, is the always there hot chocolate made from scratch. With gobs and gobs of freshly whipped cream. Our stomachs may rebel at the co
mbination but tradition rules firmly here. However, added a few years ago creating a combination that would bring horror to any reasonable gourmet’s mind is baccala, (dried salt cod fish), made with potatoes and onions and peppers and and and. Now that is something that makes me laugh as it is so appalling. How this combination evolved or ever even seemed to be reasonable is beyond my comprehension. And I’m the one who created it! Nonetheless, we’ve all agreed to forego our ritual Christmas goose although I may have some ducks instead for Christmas dinner. However, a cotechino baked in a lard crust is essential and in the offing. I’ve received a gift of two of them recently, and they (two giant sausages) sit waiting in the freezer.
There is new hope and promise here on the farm of late. It slips in between the customary trivials and in between some new ones as well. However, hope and promise and a great deal of love have slipped between the cracks and are managing to fill the heart with a newfound love that grows deeper by the day.
THE THAW
The Improbable Shepherd Page 8
