The Improbable Shepherd

by Sylvia Jorrin

  The sheep broke out the other day. I should have expected it and didn’t. About 20 of them. Adelaide Merriman and I have had an agreement. I call “Adelaide Merriman. Now!” and she sometimes saunters, but usually walks quickly to my front porch, jumps onto the window seat where a box of grain sits. I then sit down and milk her. Of late, if there isn’t extra corn in it she will knock over the last in her grain box and leave as I get the 300th squirt into the milking pail. The errant sheep took only about as long as it takes to race up to the porch and devour every last grain of sweet feed, leaving behind a miserable mess of ground in droppings on the stone steps. That meant no more milking on the porch if I couldn’t get the sheep back in. I couldn’t. None of the gates are in working order. Eventually I got 20 or so back where they needed to be, or where I wanted them to be. Three ewes and two each of their twins remained upstairs in the barn where the baleage is. My worst sheep, or perhaps she is the most interesting, is the one surviving Horned Dorset. She, alone, got into the living room the first day the sheep got out by knowing how to use her horns. Her most perfect replacement ram lamb, that also has the ugliest face, got separated from her and was in the barnyard without his mother for all of a day and a half. She wandered about, seemingly not to look for him but rather to find extras to eat, such as laying mash. Suddenly I saw him upstairs in my barn. He found her. He may be as intelligent as she. I hope not. He is certainly staying. I hope he won’t be the kind of sheep she is. His confirmation is perfect for this breed. A Horned Dorset dam and a Friesian-Dorset sire.

  There are two bottle lambs in the barn and they found themselves upstairs as well. One is marked to match her mother. The other lost her collar but has a black spot on her rump. They spend time together and race to me, blatting like crazy when I appear anywhere in the barn. They have mothers. Need a supplement or two each day, but in all other ways look as unalike as could be. There are in the barn several left of the Old Chatham flock of lambs I bought eight years or so ago. One was on the upper level of the barn, lying somewhat languidly near the round bales. Sometimes she would come to me to be petted. Sometimes she seems too peaceful and content to bother. And so it was with absolute amazement that I saw her stand, stretch, and call out. The two, completely different-looking bottle lambs ran over to her and dove in to nurse! They were both chosen to stay. I had thought the lamb with the black spot belonged to a Friesian ewe but, after the first day or two I didn’t know which one. And so, the lambs that are to stay to replace my winter losses are beginning to be sorted out. The twins of ewe number three who is also living in the lap of luxury upstairs in the barn also shall stay. I hope I can catch them to put the same color collar on them to distinguish them from the others. Choosing, for the most part the ones with the very thick curly fleeces because, if it is an inheritable trait, it means their lambs will have a chance to be warmer if born in the winter. Nine in all to date, have been chosen. Names have not begun to come to me with any permanency; that is, with any luck. If I get my part of the kitchen floors, now primed, painted, I’ll be able to go down to the barn and begin to choose replacements. The lambs seem to be fond of racing madly around the barn when their mothers are outside eating. More room. They circle and circle and then leap into the air, do a spin and toss their bodies in full circle, only to repeat the performance again.

  Goats are different. They are more mischievous at a much younger age and were far more impossible to stand those few days they were in the house. Two of my youngest goats do not seem to be broadening at all although they have been running with a buck for a very long time. Even Cameron who should be bred doesn’t look very big. Rebecca, Saanen-Sable cross, does lounge around a bit more than usual. She is big as is Belinda, the beautiful disappointment. I think the Saanens are the biggest of the goats. The Sables are derived from the Saanens, they are brown Saanens, all opposed to the white ones. Rebecca, Belinda, and Mungo are my biggest goats. Four more goats should be bred giving me the possibility of four to eight more kids for the lambing pen. But it remains to be seen. They will all be out of Mungo Penhaligan, beautiful mahogany buck from the Holy Myrrhbearers Monastery in Otego. April should be an interesting month.

  Life here has assumed a sharp edge that was unexpected. Spring is a short time away. Formally, that is. I don’t know what shall happen. It is to be expected that life will soften a little. But I am not sure.

  THE KIDS

  THERE IS SOMETHING enchanting about this latest batch of kid goats. They had been bottled from the time they were 48 hours old, and lived together with nine lambs in a pen in the cellar. They were subsequently moved to a horse stall in the carriage house and weaned, gradually, but with a touch of haste near the end of it. Nonetheless, while in the stall they developed the habit of calling out to me the moment they heard the door to the carriage house being opened. And, furthermore, continued their clamor until I petted each one and fed them. It would start all over again the moment the grain was finished. They became particularly vociferous while I milked their mothers. A yearling doe, full sister to two of the twins, half sister to the rest, lived with them as well, and joined in vehemently with the others. They were moved into the carriage house loft a few days ago where they have free choice hay, water, and are grained twice a day. They run and leap around in the space. And sit at the loft door looking down at me when they hear my front door close as I leave the house.

  Today I decided to spend some “quality” time with them. I needed to braid lead cords to use with the new goats that I bought, and decided to bring the snaps, baling twine, and scissors upstairs to the loft to be able to sit with the goats rather than my dogs on the side porch. They surrounded me like puppies, putting their little faces up to me to be stroked and to have the place behind their ears scratched. They all took turns rubbing their faces against mine. The year-old doeling, last year’s Petunia, sat on the bale next to me, chewing her cud nicely after having been reprimanded severely for putting her front feet on my shoulders. One of the little goats sat next to my feet while the others stood at my knees looking up into my face. They are still small enough for me to be able to pet two with each hand, leaving one with which to rub faces. I am fortunate having these five plus one, four doelings plus one buck, and the yearling because they may be the last kid goats that I shall keep. Adelaide Merriman, grand lady doe, is at least 9 years old, if not 10. She ultimately needs to be replaced; however, she still is my best milker. Her twin doelings, this year, are outstanding. They, unfortunately for me, have the cream markings of the Toggenburg; however, one is a perfect pitch black, the other is a rich chocolate brown. Three new goats have arrived. Big goats. They are Sables, an offshoot breed of Saanens. Just as large. One is cinnamon colored. Her milk is abundant. She may do best being milked three times a day for a while. Her twin sister is a shiny espresso coffee in color. She, too, has a great deal of milk. Both have been nursing twins and have extra milk for the house. They shall be a joy to me.

  A surprise has been Sherlock. Not part of the original plan but a very nice addition, indeed. I’ve struggled with the name and am highly reluctant to change his first name. The last name of Witherspoon (one of my choices) has not stuck. MacGillicuddy has always been fun for me, but he is a bit too dignified, charming, and artistic to be saddled with MacGillicuddy as a last name. Then Lawton Pearsall Smythe turned up. It seems like a perfect fit. It shall be Pearsall for short. I don’t know how to tell his former owner that he is no longer Sherlock, at least here; however, I shall have to.

  I am breeding for brown goats, with no other color or markings. I don’t care which of the many shades of brown from cinnamon to black coffee they manifest. They just need to be brown. Sienna. Mahogany. The goal for me is to have a herd of solid color brown goats.

  Cameron is a multi-colored doe that has lived here for her whole life. About four years. She is shades of tan and brown and butterscotch, with the fly-away ears of her Nubian grandmother. One of her twin doelings strangled herself in my fireplace between one
of the andirons and the brick wall. A black kid with white facial markings. The second one, a tricolor, has been sold. Cameron shall stay as she was an early addition to the flock. Born and raised on this farm. However, she is not part of my breeding program. She shall probably be bred to Pearsall and I shall not keep her kids. Five goats to hand milk are quite enough. Too many for that matter.

  I’ve come across a remarkable cheese recipe. It may possibly be an ancient one. Since the normal temperature for a sheep or a goat is around 103°F, it stands to reason that their milk, immediately after being drawn, is about that temperature. The recipe calls for “warming” the milk to 89° (presumably it is a lot colder coming straight out of the fridge). One is to add ½ cup of cultured buttermilk, store-bought will do (I add one cup), and ½ teaspoon liquid rennet (I add one teaspoon). It is to set for 8 to 12 hours at room temperature. It is then drained, salted, and weighed down. The resulting cheese is similar in texture to a ricotta without the graininess. Smooth and creamy. I’m going to use it in a recipe I’ve read in The Country Kitchen and roll it into balls, drying them for two days and then putting them into a jar, covering them in olive oil. That shall be made of today’s milk.

  The summers seem to be taken up with the goats, of late. Autumn and winter belong to the sheep. The goats, sheep, and chickens take up the spring. The chickens are the most time-consuming of all. Trip after trip to the portable coop, and trip after trip to the indoor coop. The 10 indoor pullets give an egg a piece a day including two or three double yolkers a week. A bonus 11th egg occurs a couple of times a week, as well. The outdoor chickens give 10 to 14 eggs a day. Considering one is lame and can’t make the nesting box, one is molting, and one is ancient, it is a goodly number for the 15 of them.

  The chickens lose money for me, of course. They need to be fed. Laying mash and oyster shells and scratch feed. They are doing a lot better eating their grain when the oats and corn of the scratch are added. Of course, they are laying about 12 dozen eggs a week and eating about $14 in feed. However, those that go to my table are supposed to be counted as earnings. One is expected to charge oneself. I can’t afford such fancy eggs and have been known to buy supermarket eggs for baking. I do make cheese for the table and were I to charge myself the going rate for a pound, it probably would represent a profit. I also sell kid goats, the bucks, for meat and others for breeding stock or lawn mowers. So it may be said the goats are income producing. In moderation. Lambs no longer are. The feed costs are too high. My hay price was not raised. This year. A miracle. But grain shall be.

  I’ve heard many expressions of late to describe the farms in this area. Hobby farm is one. Lifestyle farm is another. Those farm names were not in the common parlance when I started 23 years ago. I did, and had reason to expect, earn some money farming it. And I did. I no longer do. However, I have made a commitment to my livestock to keep them going, and have honored that for near enough to 25 years to say almost 25 years. Every time I have set a date to start to phase down, and gain a year or two into it, it suddenly becomes too close, and I back away. How could I possibly say the week-old lamb running around with her mother, a wild little thing, shall be the last I shall keep? She could live eight to 12 more years. Will I keep none of next year’s lambs who would live 8 to 12 more years? Would I ever be able to restrain my hand from keeping the newest most perfect ram lamb? This year’s two are each magnificent in his own way. One a huge Horned Dorset, almost, at four months, as big as his mother, and certainly bigger than some of my yearlings. And the Horned Friesian I chose for his fleece is an absolutely beautiful creature. How could I resist seeing what lambs they throw? And keeping the ewes out of them? I can’t.

  THE TRAGEDY

  THERE HAS BEEN a tragedy here of some consequence. I heard the sound of wood hitting wood somewhere in or near the house. While the sound of something banging is not terribly unusual, it was startling to say the least. I didn’t look to see from where it came. A short time later I brought a bunch of my favorite orange day lilies into the dining room. There on the floor was a square board and, next to it, a familiar pile of twigs. I picked up the pigeon nest and turned it over. One baby pigeon was dead. A bleeding mess. The other, the larger of the two, a fat little thing, picked up its head and breathed its last. I had seen the mother pigeon fly through a missing piece of glass in the dining room window, twigs in its beak, building a nest on a piece of wood someone had nailed a long time ago, to a cross beam near the peak of the roof that comprised the ceiling. Everyone told me to get rid of it. “Screen in the windows. Do something. Anything.” I couldn’t bring myself to destroy the nest. “The last thing you need is more pigeons.” That was obvious. But I still couldn’t bring myself to block off the bird’s access. Of late, I hadn’t seen her sitting on the nest. Perhaps, I thought, she’d changed her mind. Or the eggs weren’t fertile. So be it. Until the sound of the board hitting the floor 15 feet below.

  The pigeon now flies through the open window. Looks at me and flies away. Once she flew over my head onto the rafter where the board had been nailed and looked all around her. I had gotten rid of the dead baby birds and moved the nest to the side of the room. I couldn’t bring myself to burn it. I shall. But not yet.

  Two pigeons flew in and out over the next couple of days. I repaired the quarter round window that had been their original door; however, glass is slipping out occasionally, of the other windows, begging me to replace them. One missing pane afforded the pair a way in from the box gutter in the roof where some of the flock had made their home. I watched them as they frantically flew out the moment they caught sight of one. It was a couple of days before I saw a new nest being made. So be it for the moment.

  This story has many levels. One level is high above my head where a pigeon has made her nest again in the dining room. This room is a beautiful one. To my eye. It is two stories high within a peaked roof. Eight windows plus two quarter rounds. The farm surrounds me here. The walls here are of cedar wainscoting. The 10-foot-long table is covered in a white cloth. The dishes are all white with a touch of gold here and there. The only color comes from the flower garden outside of the windows that cover one wall or that I sometimes arrange in clear glass pitchers. I’ve designed one last thing here. At the peak of the ceiling is an unfinished space that Dave Goldberg, master roofer, shall help me create. He shall cut a triangle of wood for me to stain and paint. On it I shall paint in it in a gold moon and stars and perhaps a Capricorn and even a Sagittarius. Benjamin Moore makes a gold paint that looks like gold leaf which I shall use for the moon and stars.

  Last evening I gave myself a moment or two to lie on the chaise in front of the wall of windows and watch the sheep wend their way into the barn. A flash of white caught my eye from a small ledge high above me on the far wall of the dining room. I looked up. It was a pigeon. She had grown bored sitting interminably on her nest and had taken a little walk to a place with another aspect of the room in view. I clicked my tongue hoping to get her attention. Instead, the dogs rushed in. She looked at them and then turned her head to me. This morning she is sitting, 6:47, as the sun breaks over the hill surrounding the house, back on her nest. Waiting. I don’t want pigeons in here. But I can’t bring myself to block her way in and out. Not now.

  I have started the winter’s food preparation here. Pickled sweet and sour cherries to go with the pig I had butchered. Peach marmalade. Black currant liquor. Brandied sour cherries. And today I shall pickle some magenta chard stems. Oh, I pickled some prunes as well, sweet and sour. I’m trying to make rillettes, however I ruined one batch by cooking it on the top of the stove rather than in the oven. The fat that the pork was simmering in didn’t quite cover the meat, and in the end some of it fried rather than melted. Today, if there is more real time than illusion, I shall try once more. Some of the pork I had had butchered came back to me in mysterious forms. No shape or cut of which I’d ever heard. None the less, one form seems to lend itself to the making of the shredded pressured pork called rill
ettes. With any luck, my second attempt shall not be in vain.

  The wild thyme is coming in with abundance this year. It is now on the near as well as the far side of the brook. I love the stuff. Some I dried last summer is almost as good as it was initially. My daughter uses it in her restaurant and says it is unmistakable in the croutons they make for salads.

  It rains once again. I, who don’t believe in requesting of God or Nature any variation on what the weather might be, found myself cursing the rain. The thunder and lightning cursed back at me just now. “How dare you criticize us? We know what we are doing!” they called out in unison. However, I cannot stand the despair in the hearts of the men who still have hay on the ground. The sky has become white. The leaks in the dining room roof clatter into the pans I have beneath them.

  To my horror the newly created leaks in the living room (for some reason the roofers never seem to believe it will rain and do not tarp properly what they have started and left unfinished, they tend to disappear if there are hay making days), have flooded the room. My new roof leaks where it has never leaked before. Only this time in spades. Or should I say in rain. The one area that has leaked, apparently forever, no longer does. It is brand new places that have been created, a work in progress, that I find disconcerting.

  The view from the dining room windows now includes the phlox that bear the name cerise as their color. I had a dress that color when I was eight. With tiny green-glass buttons down the front. My mother chose the best colors for her little, dark-eyed daughter. There is a child who has been visiting here lately. Her favorite color is pink. Last time I taught her to distinguish between pink and magenta. Next time I shall teach her about cerise.