The Improbable Shepherd

by Sylvia Jorrin

  BECAUSE OF ROSE BRICKMAN

  MY MOTHER’S VOICE rings in my ears, “Don’t put it in writing!” And so I hesitated sending this story to my typist. Is it too forceful? Too opinionated? Perhaps a bit controversial? It has sat in my notebook for a couple of weeks. I read a piece written about me for inclusion in a book the other evening. In it I was described as a “writer” who moved up here and who wrote my “autobiography.” I have a quick temper that rises, rarely, but more or less occasionally, in flames. What to do? I’m still wrestling with myself to find a way to correct the erroneous information the writer had managed to construe from the telephone interview. There were several other misunderstandings as well. I’d prefer to be referred to as a laundress and a farmer. It would be more honest. It is more accurate, if describing something I “do” to an occupation that takes more time. Doing laundry certainly takes more of my time than I spend scribbling with blue ink on white paper. Before I came here I was, and still am, a mother and a homemaker, and supported my family in whatever miscellaneous ways turned up. I am now a farmer, which takes up most of my life and combines the best attributes of being a mother and a homemaker. So, here is the story my mother would tell me not to tell.

  I have, on occasion, been referred to as a writer and a farmer. Or, as a farmer and a writer. When I was growing up, possibly because I was a voracious reader, the people in my life would say “She will be a writah.” No one, including myself, ever imagined I’d become a farmer. It always rubs me the wrong way when I am referred to as a writer. I am a farmer. My 24th anniversary as one was a few days ago. I always rebelled at the suggestion when I was in school that I become a writer. It seemed too pretentious an ambition. Too egotistical. Unseemly. Immodest. It felt, and still does, like a presumptuous demand that absolute strangers read my writing. On the other hand, it is not a demand but, rather a necessity to expect people to eat food, without which the human race would rapidly become extinct. Therefore it is a most honorable profession to be a farmer.

  When I first started farming, and began a year or two later to write about it for The Delaware County Times, it struck me that the reason I was called a writer was that in people’s minds writing was a special thing to do, and farming didn’t have any cachet. Now that perception has become somewhat reversed. All kinds of people now call themselves farmers, including some who have a backyard garden or three or four chickens. It has become a fashionable thing to call oneself. “Know where your food comes from” is the hue and cry of today’s politically correct and fashion conscious people. “My eggs today came from Buleah, the black-and-white hen over there on my patio.”

  On rare occasions, a customer will buy a lamb from me saying they’re glad to know where it comes from. Most of my customers are Southern or Eastern Europeans who have been raised on farms and are experienced with the slaughtering of animals whom they are about to eat. They would never think to say they are glad to know I’ve raised their lamb or kid goat. I’ve never had the courage to ask the questioner, usually a woman, accompanied by a boyfriend or husband, why they are “glad” that their dinner is coming out of my farm. While their assumption, correctly or not, is that said lamb has had a nicer life living here and therefore shall taste better than one bought in a gourmet butcher shop, they have no way of truly knowing what kind of life I’ve given that animal. Another frequently asked question from the want-to-know-where-their-food-comes-from crowd is, and then only from the women, “Do you eat your own lamb?” I now look them straight in the eye and say “No, I can’t afford it.” The 18- or 20-pound dressed weight lamb they have bought from me at about a $150 to serve their friends at a barbecue not only is not in my food budget, but I can’t afford to take that money away from my hay payment.

  We can now move on to eggs. I rarely eat those either. I am paying five dollars a week more for laying mash that gives me 30 percent more eggs than the cheaper grain, adding some oats and corn for scratch. The store I sell eggs to can’t up their price any, so I make it up in volume like an industrial farm but only eat eggs when a box of a dozen isn’t complete or when there is an occasional 25th egg in a day. Oh, they pay their feed bill now. But I have to buy some replacements this week, chick starter, and feed the new non-layers over the winter. No eggs then.

  Martin Harris, whose opinion column in Farming: The Journal of Northeast Agriculture I read immediately upon receiving, wrote about the recent proliferation of hobby farms, ones that don’t require a profit to stay in business. Some farmers worry that the hobby farmers who seem to be proliferating up here will drive down prices. I worry about that a little bit, particularly this year when I’ve gotten more requests for starter flocks than in the past 10 years. There were one or two years, a long time ago, when hobby farmers sold lambs at Easter for a considerably lower price than the rest of us and my business was hurt. Fortunately, that year, some year-round lamb eaters turned up, and I did sell all of my ram lambs. I’ve never been stuck with any livestock by the year end. However, the four people to whom I sold starter flocks will be my competitors. One already is. While price fixing is a no-no, and I did have lambs to sell to one of his customers, this is presenting a problem. The idea that having more lambs available will draw more customers holds no reassurances for me. I did turn away requests for a large number of meat lambs this past year. So demand is up. But will prices go down? My costs have gone up as I have given myself the luxury of paying someone to, as in today, help me sort lambs to bring to the south pasture. The grass is better there and I can feed them in the holding pen, worm there, and tame the ones who shall remain in my flock to my liking. And so I feel that expense and know because of such luxuries I shall lose even more money this year than last. I am raising my price for Memorial Day five dollars and, if I have any left for Labor Day, another five dollars. That will probably net me about $50 in my income column this year. The new chicks will cost $110 for 25 Golden Comets plus the starter grain at $16.50 a bag, plus what a grower ration will cost to feed them until they start to lay.

  There was a time when voices discouraging me from farming were loudly suggesting I write a mystery book (because I read them) and give up the farm. They only wanted to be helpful. The next question is obviously, why do I do this? Buy chicks, feed them, and go without eggs. It is a bit more than because I love it. Although that is what most people assume about me. It is a bit more than love. It is because I am deeply proud to be a farmer. To me, aside from being a mother or parenting, it is the most heroic, courageous, respect-worthy occupation of all. Those of us who day in and day out put one foot in front of the other to raise food for the rest of us has taken on a life that is increasingly without rewards and has even become controversial in a negative way. The scale is being tipped again, however slightly. The new balance occurs in part from our perceived detriment to the environment. But a tinge of romance has followed us, the vanishing breed of farmers, and the pet chicken owners and backyard gardeners are beginning to refer to themselves as farmers, too. There was an article in the New York Times about several “retirement homes” that have sprung up recently for chickens that urban chicken raisers no longer want. Great idea. It is unlikely that Buleah or Sadie will end up in a pot. Who wants to eat a pet chicken? Someone will begin to make money on said retirement facilities. No axes or chopping blocks on city terraces.

  In other words, as blue ink crosses this lined page, and I am in the process of telling this story, it isn’t the telling it with which I want to be identified but the doing of it that matters to me. The doing of it. Because I am a farmer.

  THE COUSINS

  GRANDPA WAS OUR first love. Oh, our fathers were wonderful men in their own right, and we loved them deeply as well. But it was Grandpa who had that sparkle, that little extra something that I, for one, have looked for ever since. My father was a deep and quiet man. Someone who made me feel an unshakable sense of security that went to the bottom of my heart. He loved me. And I felt it. But it was Grandpa, bent on one knee, arms outstretched to c
atch me as I ran to greet him on the farm, that added a touch of enchantment to the feeling of being loved that I can never forget.

  Of the seven of Grandpa and Grandma’s children, only 10 grandchildren were born. One was the mysterious red-headed son of Uncle Herman, who was only a rumor in our lives. My older sister, Berenice, died before I arrived, leaving only three little girl cousins. And the three of us each agree, so many years later, that it was Grandpa whom we have always loved. I know that starburst wrinkles around the eyes mean laughter and joy and would never dream of associating them with age. Only joy. I boast proudly to my cousins, I have Grandpa’s starburst eyes. But it was Grandpa who wore them so well.

  We three were always attractive women. Unusual that, and even more unusual that we are still thought so in some circles. But it was Grandpa who instilled that feeling in us. Each of us, as each of his daughters, were beautiful to him. And each of his daughters believed herself to be his favorite. At least each one who confided in me thought that. It was impossible not to. Our grandfather was a remarkable man.

  Sometimes, that first summer I was here, I’d see Grandpa in my mind’s eye looking down at me, laughing with delight at the sight of his Sylvia tramping about, bow saw in hand, mercilessly cutting down a weed tree that offended her sensibility. Incongruity has always been the heart of humor, in my way of thinking. And his delight at his granddaughter in boots walking up and down the line fences, “This one shall go. That one shall stay,” was a reality to me even so many years after he was gone to this world. He, too, of all of my family and the community in which I lived, always thought of me as someone who would do something creative, with an emphasis on a long, drawn out “a” in the word, and somewhat “brainy” with my life. Never to be taxed with anything in the way of physical labor. Not that I was thought of as lazy, but rather as fragile and sensitive, with a tendency to be a bit sickly.

  Oh, how I’d love to go with him on the farm when he went to dig potatoes for dinner, and he’d let me pick up the tiny ones to play house with. “Too small to cook,” he’d say. Little did he know I’d someday search out tiny ones to boil in a stick of butter for his great-grandchildren. After I started farming it, I’d sometimes ask my brother and my cousins, “What would Grandpa say were he to see me now?” But I’d never ask that of myself. Because I’d look up into the blue Catskills sky and see him looking down at me, starburst wrinkles around his eyes. Smiling.

  THE FIRST MOON

  THE LIGHT HAS changed. The first week of August. Late afternoon. Early evening. It is beautiful. And I don’t know if I can stand it. Wood was cut this afternoon that has been waiting to be cut since last fall. About nearly a face cord of slab. It is most needed. It helps to start the fires, and fill in the cracks when there are larger pieces in the stoves and I want it to burn hot. There is something to be said for getting firewood. Especially now. Last night was chilly. Cold, actually. And I had washed the cozy comforter that has tucked me in most nights this summer. It was with great reluctance that I considered using it and didn’t.

  Peabody, cat extraordinaire, often sleeps in the white bedroom, days, and on occasion, nights, there with me. Cats are reputed to be clean. Indoor-outdoor cats can’t be. The other afternoon she left the undigested remains of a mouse on the comforter. So much for that for a while. I even made a special trip to the Laundromat with it after scraping off what was left into the wood stove. Yes, that is lit almost every day to accommodate such adventures and the occasional misadventure.

  The sun has moved across sheep meadow and now lights only the tops of the trees on Wuthering Heights. Early. It makes me sad.

  I have, in small increments, been gradually achieving a greater degree of manageability, both in the house and on the farm. It has been accomplished in subtle ways as well as more obvious and evident ways. It is always an instruction in the back of my mind, and while seemingly in random ways, there is an order in the procedure. Open a drawer and go through it. Burn, toss, sort, read, and put back what I really want to keep. Some surprises turned up. Nunzio’s Coggins as an example. His birth date was on it. He is 20 years old this year. I’ve never remembered. Thought he is about 16. He put his head under my arm yesterday when I was looking at the brook. I’ve resolved to spend more time with him. Donkey. A lovely, lovely donk. Protector of sheep and delight of visitors. He shall become more of a delight to me. I opened the lid to the window seat in the summer bedroom and found a dress I had forgotten I owned. I ironed it and wore it to town. A white-and-pink shirt dress. It was the latest thing once. And is again. I’ve found some lists from the first days here. To do. With a column for the amount of time and the amount of money each thing would cost. Some lists were 20 years old. One was 30. Needless to say I’ll save them.

  The living room door was repaired today. It functions for the first time in months. I celebrated by buying a chair. Next to the door was the only intact chair in the living room. Recently the seat began to rip. The new chair is needlepoint. All of the colors in the living room. I also cleared a part of an old mess in the room, inspired by the new door as well, and rearranged some art on the walls. The living room was repainted recently, two coats of “Shell Pink.” I sat in it for the first time in months. While I found a picture or two a half inch off of the correct angle and moved them, I was able to ignore the final small mess on the floor. Or at least managed to ignore it and was able to see what is lovely in that room. The afternoon light through the French doors is enchanting. It makes the walls glow a soft, subtle shell pink. People look good in rooms of that color. It imparts gentleness to faces. That is why it was chosen. The curious and interesting thing about paint is how color changes with the variation of light. Mornings that room can almost be called a neutral no-color kind of color. Late afternoon it becomes transformed. Even at that, different walls or different parts of the room each take on their own differentiation. While not in complete order yet, I was able to appreciate all that it is. It is easy to forget in the pressing need to survive, how much some things mean to me. And how they help me to find the will to proceed. I don’t pressure myself to do anything that isn’t entirely important of late. It seems best to let the day unfold. And slowly, bit by bit, improvements occur. Some permanent, some temporary. However, I am beginning to realize how far it has all come.

  The sheep are afraid to graze across the brook where there is plenty of grass, although it is interspersed with the dreaded June grass. It annoys them, gets in their eyes, and tickles their faces. It is my favorite grass for hay, however. No waste. They did decide to venture forth late morning, today. They can be seen from my dining room window, clustered in one end of the field. Some of them like the spiney heads of the thistle that dot my pasture. I thank them for removing the seeds. Less down for the gold finches who use it to line their nests this time of year. But fewer new thistles for my fields.

  I’ll never forget the first one I ever saw up there. On the side hill. Magenta. There was a time when I’d hoe them and when they first appeared an inch or two above the ground. It took a while to realize that clover grew at their bases. The sheep ate that, September, when the main stem of the thistle went by. It was then that I stopped hoeing them out. I learn gradually. That has its unfortunate aspects. Sometimes it is too late. Sometimes it is just too slow. And sometimes I am glad.

  Today is a rich and full one. Ivomec has arrived. I’ll worm the young stock when they come in this evening.

  It is a joy to work with the young stock. The lambs from this winter who shall be wormed tonight are tame to me having lived in the south pasture and been grained in their little holding pen. They surround me at times and look hopefully at my face. Will there be grain today? No. They had to be moved in with the adult sheep when the drought burned up all of the grass in their paddock, and it became a brown-colored field with nothing green in evidence. I cannot grain everyone, summers. It is bad enough that I am feeding out hay. The winter’s hay. The grain for the chicks has risen 20 percent already in two mont
hs. Corn has gone up 25 percent in less time than that. Because the young stock is so tame, in the day they will be easy to catch and drench.

  Every moment counts in August. I used to make jams throughout the month. Enough for an army. And knit sweaters. And start buying Christmas gifts. This week I bought peaches and picked sumac. Sumac makes a lovely drink, akin to pink lemonade. I’ve always wanted to make jelly from it as well. Perhaps this week I shall. The peaches are started for peach preserve. I let an equal weight of sliced fruit set overnight in the same amount of sugar. By morning, enough juice is extracted to provide enough liquid in which to cook the sugared fruit. I use an unlined copper pan in which to make the jam. It is from France and sat on my lap once on an airplane across the ocean. It is impossible to decide which of the many preserves is my favorite. Sometimes I’ll say it is tomato. Sometimes it is pumpkin. And sometimes the delicate flavor of pears. In this house jam is often served with yogurt. The Boston brown bread I’ve been making of late (oh for a metal coffee can to bake it in) calls for the more flavorful ones. Today’s loaf shall be the milder white bread. A Shaker Daily Loaf. I’ve some pear preserve left that will go nicely with it.

  Remembrances of things past are affecting those days of sudden and renewed hope, intertwined with a touch of sadness and longing. The little voice in my mind that cautioned me to prepare for change was right. Change has begun. I hold to its simplicity.

  NEW YEAR’S DAY

  THERE ARE MOMENTS on a farm that exceed perfection. Words fail to describe them. Imagination defies itself to reproduce them. They are about happiness in its simplest form. And are always accompanied by silence. Today contained such a moment.