Megan and the Butter Hound

Introducing the Center of the Universe. At least in her mind. If we forget, she does her best to remind us. Megan. Not a year old yet. Currently (read: at this very moment) making warp speed circles through the house in an attempt to get SallyDog to notice her and play. Meg is a rescue pup, so her parentage is unclear-she was found with her sister alongside a highway. But she's pretty much ALL border collie if you ask me. I had put out the word that I wanted a sheep herding dog. Meg was more than most people were willing to handle, and she herded everything, so I was the lucky one that was allowed to adopt her. She started on the sheep well, all the right tendencies. But my ewe, Dolce, decided she would just HAVE to murder the pup. After several attempts, Meg was watching her back so much that I decided to just give her a long break from sheep until she was older.

Enter the chickens. The last week of school the boys brought home six chicks from my nephew's kindergarten science class. Once they had feathered out we let them roam the yard. But we like to lock them in a large rabbit cage at night to keep them safe. Clancy started using Meg to herd the chickens in every evening. They wanted to roost in the cage anyway, so as long as Meg didn't rush, the chickens would stay headed in the right direction. She is excellent on her hold, down, and keeping the chickens between her and Clancy. And you can just see her grin when the cage door is closed and she knows she did her job. What a good girl! I figure she can work on her skills with the chickens, and this fall I will put her on the yearling ewes that she is already friendly with. We'll just keep the old ewes out of her way until she has a lot more confidence.

That is the plan anyway. It's clear to me that I would love Meg just as much if she turned out to be useless at the herding sheep thing. She's a gem. A true little love. Smart as a whip. A great family dog, and very well behaved considering her enormous energy level.

Speaking of well-behaved...one of our dogs ISN'T! Greta Grub. She has discovered I usually leave the butter dish on the table after meals and she helps herself now. I chased her out of the house twice yesterday for that offense. And this morning when I made my toast she heard the clink of the knife on the dish and perked up her ears. I gave her the evil eye..."Don't even think it."

Our Rams

These photos don't really show off the great qualities of the rams that are standing here at Boston Lake Farm. But I wanted to introduce them anyway. The moorit standing with only one horn is Kimberwood Kavan. The moorit ram in the grass is Kavan's sire, Bramble Allister. The white yearling ram is Windswept Unicorn. His fleece has the most incredible softness, lustre, and crimp. Kavan and Allister have very uniform fleece. I am hoping to produce lambs eventually that have the best qualities of both lines.

Breeding plans for this fall are constantly reorginized. I am certain of a few matches though. Sheepy Hollow Rachel, (the grey ewe out on pasture in the last post) will be paired to Allister. I can't wait to see those lambs. I'm determined to keep Rachel's ewe lambs, and I'm anxious to keep a ram lamb out of her as well. I would like to put one of her sons over some of my other ewes since I love everything about Rachel.

I think Windswept Northwind will be put to Kavan again this fall. I'd like to repeat this breeding to see if I can get a super soft moorit EWE next time. Kavan also improved Northwind's weaknesses in both her 07 lambs. This is the kind of consistency I like to see.

Unicorn will probably get Sheltering Pines Dolce and her two yearling daughters, Boston Lake Delyth and Dova. They have double coats and I am hoping to improve the softness and get a more intermediate coat type. The lambs will probably all be white, but that will be a new color around here so I don't mind.

Boston Lake Sian, Rachel's 06 daughter, is the ewe I am really undecided about. I am leaning heavily toward putting her to Allister. This would be linebreeding granddaughter to grandsire. The hope that I could lock in some of the best features I see in her is the motive. She is an incredibly soft, crimpy black. Allister is also getting older. I'd like to try this linebreeding before I lose my chance. I calculate that there is plenty of time to put Sian to other rams.

Of course, I can't predict the future. Things go wrong...the unexpected always seems to happen. But I am trying to go with my hunch. I'm not sure I would care one way or the other if I missed my chance to breed her to Unicorn, but I would regret not doing the linebreeding with her at least the one time.

Such is the beauty and excitement of being a farmer that raises breeding stock. One has the opportunity to use intuition. My disclaimer is that I find no fault in using computer tracking methods and hard-core facts to make breeding decisions. I'd like to become stronger in my use of such. But I consider intuition a worthy tool as well. And I am the personality type that feels comfortable using it. In fact, I try to tap into it as much as possible.

For now, I am enjoying the view of my hansome gents out on pasture. Kavan is the exception; he's still in a pen so we can treat his wound easily. But he will soon get his own patch of grass, and then I'll put his 07 son in with him for weening. Kavan has done well without a buddy so far, but I don't like keeping him that way. Maybe I'll get a photo of little Tormey posted soon.

The Hay Is In

327 bales are now stacked at the edge of the hay field, and they are tarped. What a relief it is to know that is finished for the year. And not a drop of rain on any of it.

We don't have a hay barn yet. So every year we try different places and methods to store the hay. This year we decided to stack the square bales along the edge of the field, which sits right alongside the road. So getting the hay off the field went faster than usual this year. Clancy drove the Bobcat with the extra huge bucket. The boys filled it with bales, and then we all stacked the hay once it arrived at the main stack. I have to say the boys did a great job. And they maintained enthusiasm for the work. That is the part that gives me the most hope for their future. Stacking hay is hot, sweaty, itchy work. And they were willing to do it.

Maybe it was the rides across the field in the bucket. That's always fun. For some reason the wildlife is always interesting during stacking too. The boys discovered three incredibly large unique spiders. One was a gorgeous wolf spider with a color we had never seen before. Millions of baby crickets were everywhere. Our old friend, the red tailed hawk was circling above. Whenever we get machinery out in the hay field that hawk shows up to exploit the frightened mice. Along the edge of the forest we also saw a delicate yellow/greenish bird. I think it was a warbler. It flew in right next to us (we were taking a break in the shade of the forest) and I was amazed at how tiny it was. A large insect was in it's beak. The tiny bird hopped around on some foliage near the ground, chirping a bit. Then a tiny baby version, even smaller than "Dickie," hopped up onto the branch, accepted the food, and then both were gone. The baby hopped back into the thick coverage of the forest floor and the parent flew off.

When the work was done, we were fairly beat. We were going to go swimming, but it seemed too hard to get going again once we came in the house and sat down with popcicles. Clancy and I fell asleep while the boys watched a movie. We woke up around 7pm. Maybe tomorrow I'll take the boys swimming.

I did the math, though. At $2 a bale (the going rate) our hay crop could have brought us $654. And the buyers would have probably cleaned off the field for us. We used to sell our hay this way. As it is now, I keep the hay for the sheep. I'm pretty sure that in any one year I've never even come close to seeing $650 from sheep sales; wool, meat, and live animals combined. In the past I've maintained that the sheep flock is not a hobby but an investment in our farming. Now that I've crunched the numbers, it's pretty clear I have a lot of work to do to make the sheep a viable venture. Or I should cut back to a couple of fiber pets and not work so hard. Lots and lots of things to think about.....More about this later. Supper is on the table.

Little farm girl

This is one of the photos I came across in my search yesterday. The cow was a purebred Brown Swiss (named Brownie-very original). Oh, how I loved my cow. I was so proud to own such a beautiful docile creature.

The idea was that I would be fully responsible for her. I would do the milking chores, and when her calf sold each year I would put the money into my savings account.

Turned out I wasn't so great at milking. I could do it, but I remember getting in trouble because I didn't milk out each quarter completely. Brownie was our sole source of milk and butter-so it was a big deal. Dad ended up doing most of the milking. Mom took care of the milk once it reached the house. And I did the small jobs in between, like carrying the pail to the house, shaking the butter jar and so on.

Brownie lived out her long life at our farm. We kept all of her female offspring. She contributed greatly to the distinct herd that Dad eventually called his "Little Deer Cows." I did get to put some money in my savings account when Brownie would produce a bull calf. Her first calf, Twister, was a bull. He was a wonderful brindle beef cross. But he was born out in a snow bank and had to be warmed up by our stove. He was a sweet pet, and so comical. I had the job of feeding him skim milk from a bucket after Mom used the separator to take the cream. I remember the day I figured out that in order for me to get the money I had heard about, Twister would be sold and eaten someday. I was more than unreasonable about it. Twister could just live at our farm forever I exclaimed through my sobs. No deal. Dad was not about to raise an ox just for me.

Livestock farming can have some harsh realities. I never made pals with another calf after Twister. I just knew my little heart would get broken again if I did. All these years later I have learned to invest my affection in the female livestock. I make sure my ewe lambs all become lovey. I try to ignore the rams. But oh how those little boys are the sweetest. Just like Twister, they are outgoing, and funny, and adorable. Aside from the fact that one shouldn't handle ram lambs due to behavior probems down the road, it would break my heart anyway when it's time for them to go.

Home

I've been thinking about "home" the past few days:

When I pull into my driveway and climb out of the car, there is the scent of chamomile. I don't know why, but at the farm I grew up on, and this one, there is a short stubby chamomile plant that grows where we park. Chamomile is the scent of getting home, or saying goodbye to a friend you have walked out to the car.

While I was peeling sticks the other day, I had this feeling it was going to rain in a bit. The sky was blue with lovely puffy clouds drifting by. I wondered what had triggered that premonition. Then it struck me...I could smell Balm of Gilead (Balsam Popple). They grow down by the lake east of the house. The wind had changed and brought their scent toward me. It did rain later. "Bombagillian" has always been the scent of approaching rain.

Today, while I drove past "the farm" (which means my parent's farm to all of us here) I stopped a few minutes to watch a neighbor with his claw-type machine rip the roof off of the old log cabin my parents bought in 1975. This is the house I grew up in. It was built before the turn of the century and was crafted out of hand-hewn cedar logs. The sill logs rested on large flat stones placed at each corner. Tamarack poles supported the upper story. A clay dug out cellar was accessible from outside behind the house and that is where we stored our potatoes and carrots all winter long. In some ways that house was frail; it took so much work just to keep it habitable. The last few years I lived there, it seemed like a sieve. Mice, birds, bats, and garter snakes made appearances when I least expected them. I didn't appreciate that type of living. On the other hand, that old house stood on top of that clay hill and weathered so many storms. It seemed so solid.

Today the house is coming down. First the roof; then some folks are going to take the logs apart and restore them. Someday that old house is going to be lived in and loved again. I dug through my box of childhood photos when I got home and could only find four with some glimpse of the house in the background. None of them really were "of the house." None of them really conveyed what it looked like. How could something that was the shelter of my life for thirty years somehow not have been really captured on film?

What do I remember about that house?

I remember the floor sloped downward because the cellar was under only half of the house. It was like the kitchen end was uphill to the livingroom end of the main room. The boards on the walls were rough sawn 14 inch boards from Rajala's Lumber Mill. Mom put a clear finish on them so they could be washable (sortof). Two of them were very dark compared to the others. Mom and Dad were two boards short when they enclosed the staircase, so Dad pulled a couple of weathered boards off the corral fence to finish up the house. I remember how the ceilings were only 7 feet high in the highest places. The doorways between rooms were much shorter still. We were a short statured family and never noticed. A few visitors had to bend down just to stand in our kitchen though. A highschool boyfriend stopped by once. I don't know what he was expecting, but he was not impressed. He exclaimed that there wasn't one single thing in that house that was square. Being naive, I didn't know what he meant. He sat on my parent's sofa and pointed out all the different trim and boards and walls and such that did not meet at square angles. (None of them did actually) I guess if you are raised in a crooked little house you will need an outsider to point out how ridiculous the structure is. Being young, I could not fathom how my house could bother him so much. Eventually I caught on. The house was different in every way a house could be different. It's not always comfortable to be near someone or something that is different-especially when they don't appologize for it-or even notice the fact.

I found a lot of childhood photos of the inside of the house in my search today. My sister and I look happy in them. We are laughing, celebrating birthdays and holidays, playing with kittens, doing homework... Since Mom and Dad decided to tear the place down we've talked quite a bit about our lives there. It's nice to have someone who remembers where the creaks in the floor were. We are pretty sure we were lucky to grow up in such and interesting old building. It was home. In a few more weeks, it will not exist at the farm anymore. In my heart and memory, that old house will always be the place I learned about what it was to "be home."

Humidity...

It rained last night. We needed it, things were getting dusty. Compared to last summer, though, this year is like a tropical rain forest. You won't find me complaining about rain unless my house gets flooded-and we built on piers.

The only thing I really don't appreciate about a delicious overnight thunderstorm is the swelter of heavy humidity the next day if it turns out to be a hot one. I wilt. I really do. My paternal grandmother couldn't tolerate humidity either and I swear I'm just like her.

As I mentioned yesterday, today I had a lot of outdoor work to do. Thank goodness for shade! And pop ice. I ate way too many, even though I think the food coloring is bad stuff.

Technically, I filled the order for aspen sticks. My house looks like a bamboo forest. But Clancy (my husband) found a nice grove that is peeling well so I'm going to keep working. I want to pick the best 50 out of maybe 80 to fill this order. The surplus is not inferior-it just doesn't match exactly the specs the client ordered. I'll have extra for folks that just want to order a few sticks with more character or diameter.

Today's photo is of the ewe flock. They were camped out under a tree, stomping off flies, feeling generally miserable in the heat. My sister took this picture last week during our heatwave, but today felt about the same as then. Selena got a new digital camera and I told her to take pictures of the farm for me. She wandered about for an hour and came back in the house to announce that the sheep were suspicious and wouldn't pose, and the chickens were just plain absent. Apparently if I want more flattering photos of my sheep I have to borrow the camera and take them myself. They won't give Selena anything other than "the glare." But maybe it was just the humidity.

Long Day

A fellow from Texas ordered 50+ peeled aspen sticks a while back. No problem. And all of a sudden it's the first of July. Aspen gets pretty hard to peel about now. It's hit and miss. Some sticks peel like a dream, others you chip away at and get 6 feet done in an hour. The past two days I've peeled sticks from sun up to sun down. And I am tired.

I think I'll be able to finish up by tomorrow. Hopefully one more full day will do the trick. As peeling goes-this has been a very hard job. It's just that time of year. And it's my own fault that I let time get away from me. But in some ways it beats easier jobs I've had. I get to sit outside in the shade under a tree, barefoot. The photo shows the view I face all day. I can see the trumpeter swans out on the lake...hear the riot of birds that live in the forest. Meg-my border collie pup-drops her toy at my feet for me to throw. The young chickens drift by, sure that the pile of peelings I'm sitting on are fruit based nutrition. Sorry chickies. They get mighty disappointed by the curls of bark. But everytime I shift positions they come running to see if I might have a treat.

I feel pretty good about this type of work: The aspen grows like quack grass around here. (in fact, if you observe how it grows, it is the Minnesota version of bamboo-more like grass than like tree-my opinion) Thinning out some of the aspen groves is something that needs to be done anyway. Or it can be harvested where it is crowding in on the driveway or the hay field. Since we are harvesting so close to the farm, we bring the whole young tree home instead of processing it out in the woods. All of the branches with leaves get fed to the sheep. They love this treat. The trunk itself is cut to lengths needed, then peeled. When all that is done, there is a huge pile of bark, some stripped branches in the sheep pens, and some short pieces of small diameter wood that had significant flaws. The bark and the branches go into the fire pit. Every once in a while we light it up and cook something. The larger pieces get piled for this winter's firewood. Every part of every tree we cut down gets used for something. We've even used the bark as chicken coop bedding before. It feels good when my financial endeavors are in harmony with nature to this degree.