No more excuses. Look for the light.

Excuses are just words.  But when they just run through your head, they are only thoughts. Wish I had managed to get at least some of them spelled out in the last 6 months. But here we are. Groundhog Day, 2014. Maybe it wouldn't be a bad thing to run it through a few times before moving on. Would it give me some time to catch up?

Seriously though, we have been busy. Ewes and Us. County fairs to judge, a daughters Masters Degree, offspring selling and buying and building houses. Miles (the grandson) along the path of life. Life unpredictable, unplanned, unexplained sometimes, but never unappreciated. Just sometimes a little late in documentation.

I truly have had a blog post in mind. Intended for Thanksgiving. Then Christmas. Then to herald the New Year. Will settle for Ground Hog Day. For although the bright sunny day gives predictions of shadows seen, and 6 more weeks of winter, my subject is quite fitting.

I took this picture weeks ago.

Yeah, its a plant. But look closer, and think about it.

Its just a plant in my living room. Sadly, badly neglected. It started out with two stems. I gave it a new pot long ago. It gets watered - maybe once a month or so. It has a way of calling out for help when it gets really dry.  REALLY dry. Its poor leaves sag as it closes its pores in a desperate state of conservation of moisture. And then I notice it. The experiencing and recovering from drought has left a scar not soon forgotten, and I can share its pain. But then I noticed one day this simple Croton had much more to tell than its personal wish for water. I noticed it was reaching for the light.

I knew enough I should move it to the sun room, to join the other plants on the table flooded with sun every sun-lit day. But I didn't. I waited, and watched, and tried a little harder to remember to water. And this is what I heard it say.

It started out as not one, but two. Blocked from the meager fall light by a curtain, one stem withered and died. The other thrived. Why? Same plant.Same soil. Same water.

After watching the colorful chlorophyll life and death drama  for weeks, the universal truth took root in me. It was about choice. The choice we all make.

Both stems experienced the same suffering. Deprived of life giving water and light, I had watched as one slowly wilted, withered, and died. There is nothing enlightening in that. The inspiration came from the other stem. I noticed it bend. I felt the strain as it literally reached for the light. Over the course of the weeks of fall, it grew. It reached around the darkness until it reached the full light. And so can we.

We are presented with the choices, both great and small, every day. Many aspects of our lives are constrained  by the circumstances of our rooting, and we may be justified in our resentment of being dependent on the care and keeping by forces beyond our influence. But we have a choice. To choose to live. For a plant, that means to reach for the light. And so it is for Us.

Every day now, the light lengthens. The New Year has begun, and the activity of a new season awaits. Here at the farm, the box of garden seed potting soil are ready. The wool shelves are being cleared, and weather forecasts are watched for a break in the cold. There is shearing to be done. By the time the extended winter ends, it will be lambs that are forecast.

The light of Ground Hog Day is clearly casting long shadows as I write. It does not trouble me. Because I rest in the darkness of night. And, like winter, the darkness is dispelled by the light.

Whatever you perceive to be your light, I hope you reach for it. It's your choice. Your life.

Give Thanks. Merry Christmas. Happy New Year.  Happy Groundhog's Day.  Oh - and Whatever Super bowl Sunday for those who may care.

Do check back in the weeks to come. I really plan to do better. Ewe's depending on me.

Hay- on the 4th of July

So its already the Fourth of July.  My Mother used to remind us that meant the summer was half over. So yesterday, I took time for a quick look back at the first half.

That is, after taking care of the picking and washing of produce, as we held the Farmers Market in spite of the Holiday. Mid wash, Don announced that if I was ready, he would put up my washing station. So we did. Pictures and more on that later.

Our celebration was pretty common day. We went to Market, and a few customers showed up, so it wasn't a total bust. Then we got a sandwich, and drove around town to check out the activity. There wasn't any. At least outside of a few garage-grilling groups of friends and family. So we resigned ourselves to an ice cream cone treat, and went home. There we watched 2 fireworks shows on TV, (much quieter than live), and then a smaller live show courtesy of several neighbors from the front porch.

The significant entertainment came from the hay. The season of grass this year has been quiet opposite of last, thankfully. The grass was tall from all the timely rains.

Yes, it was 5 foot high and rising. So tall and thick in places it was difficult to mow, and harder to get to dry.

So it was raked into windrows, and some turned once, some twice.

How good it is to see how well it has taken hold, considering the drought of last year.

In the early afternoon, we walked out to check on the drying windrows.




It was, indeed, heavy and still slightly wet underneath, especially in the sheltered spots. We rolled some of it over, glancing again at the sky. We escaped the serious rain of earlier this week, and were not looking to welcome more.

While Don continued rolling over the grass, I was checking out the Mulberries.  There are several trees along the north fork of the creek, but the winds have not been kind to the 'berry lover. There were some left, and of course I sampled them all, but found none good enough to inspire me to retrieve the buckets and stained sheets.  Sigh. Maybe next year.

Today, the baler came back, and now 12 more rolls dot the hillside.

With 8 from the smaller field, and the 20 bought en ones in the yard, and a possible 2 yet to dry, that makes a total of 42, plus the 100 small squares of alfalfa in the barn, even the prospect of an early frost doesn't seem threatening.

Just to be sure, I checked last Julys posts before I started this one. How bleak it seemed, compared to now.  Still rain chances for the days ahead. But, then, the garden has begun to beg for water. Only time will tell. The days of July and August have proved to be cruel.

But other things are progressing. The older ewes have been sorted off, and may soon be looking for a new home, and possibly a few more productive years in other folds. Today, we sorted the lambs, now divided into Keepers and Feeders. I winced when I counted the Keepers. Can we really support that many sheep?  Well, we'll figure it out as we go. We made it through the last year.

The old timers had a saying they used to apply to the aged, weak, or run down livestock during the cold last of winter. "Gotta be tough, and hang in there. You'll be ok if you can make it to grass."

It's been a tough year on all of us. But here in the hollow surrounded by fields of corn ever taller, I hold on to the hope that we've made it to grass.

Keep thinking green everyone. And make hay while the sun shines - even on the Fourth of July.

And then.......

So it's now late October. The golden sun and leaves of my last post are gone. Literally - in the 50 mph wind we had last week. But other colors paint the landscape.

We cleared off the garden. Then we cleaned out the garage. The last of the green was gone from the creek, and the garden as well. The ewes relished the last seasonal treats of the immature squash and gourds. The broccoli plants were crunched with great enthusiasm, and the red and green tomatoes eagerly gobbled. We sighed a bit, and unwrapped yet another of the precious few bales.

And then...... it rained.

With a soft distant rumble of thunder, it began with a gentle patter on the window. It continued for much of the morning, each drop disappearing as soon as it hit the ground. It didn't seem like much, so I was surprised when the telltale sign of the glistening puddle appeared at the end of the drive - had it really reached the half inch mark?  Yes, indeed.

By then, the faint rhythmic pulse of the rain was accompaniment to the chorus of the green. If you listened carefully, you could almost hear the turnips singing. Maybe it was just my imagination, but  I think the trees were humming along.

To witness and be moved by such a simple act of nature is a wonder-ous and humbling thing. It brought back memories. Of my Dad, leaning against the frame of the porch screen door, watching the water pouring out of the bent downspout, covering  the lawn in a miniature flood plain, his face almost aglow in a grin. My mother's retelling of a neighbors claim "'Makes me want to break out a chorus of the Doxology when it rains like this', according to  Edith Stone". Was that the refrain I heard?

The 3/4 in we got that day was welcome beyond words. And there were still showers predicted that night. Sleep came easily for the first time in weeks. Brief pelting of drops off and on during the night were but more music to my ears.

The ground seemed unusually wet the next morning when I fetched Dolly from the kennel. Even a hint of mud. But it wasn't until later that day I understood why. "Did you empty the gauge last night?" I asked when Don came home. He went out  to check it, neither of us not sure if we could believe it. An inch .6 total.

And it didn't stop then. Again, today, it rained. Another inch. We can't explain why we continue to get considerably more than our neighbors (well, except in Omaha). Not going to question it.

So the ewes got a few days grazing on the last grass on the west fork. The mixed greens patch is fluffing up, but still not enough to graze. If the weather holds up, and its above normal temps as predicted, there may be some greens of a different sort come Christmas.

Meanwhile, the days pass by, and the usual seasonal activity with them. The girls were sorted by  familial groups, and the bucks turned out. New lambs will be the next crop hoped for. The cycles and circles of life spiral on. I noticed the other day, that the colors of the landscape had shifted. Before, the trees provided a backdrop of dry green over the tanning of the grass. Today, the gray-brown bare branches reach up from pools of green. The world once more has been turned up-side-down. Or has it been righted by rain? It matters not, I suppose.

Oh - it rained all right. But the drought is far from over. There will be many nights spent pondering copeing methods of dry, hopeful minds  emotionally enlightened and physically warmed by the orange glow of a friendly fire. There's one burning now.

And I hear it calling. Or maybe its speaking softly to the still alive trees outside, joining them in the soft melody of an ancient song. I think I'll join them. I'm sorry you can't hear us via blog. I'm humming the old hymn along with them.  It goes "Praise God, from whom all blessings flow, Praise Him all creatures here below."

Rambling on the Island of Dry

So here we are. October is nearly half over, and the seasons have quietly shifted. The trees, stressed for much of the summer, were graying with age as the leaves dried out. So I couldn't help but be startled by the bright yellow glow on the ash tree outside the bathroom window.

I have been distracted, to be sure, these last few weeks. But not sorry. It's mostly been good. A Sunday afternoon art show, complete with modest sales and mystified lookers. Educational, both ways. I enjoy answering the questions (you have sheep!), and talking with the crowd gives me insight to the perspective of the non sheepish. And of course there is always much work to be done. Fencing and feed, fleece and seed.

I'm done with summer. The thin ice on the tank was almost welcome. A friendly fire for the evening and a warm wool blanket for the bed at night still comfort a modern shepherd. But, alas, something is still missing - the gently patter of rain.

Thats right. We are still stuck here in an island of dry. Oh, its rained all right.  Rained to the north. Showers to the South. Even a decent amount to the East, which only adds to a farmers frustrations. It would seem that our urban neighbors still just don't get it. An inch of rain on their lawns, and they believe hard times are over. Ha.  Maybe next year, when they got to the store, they will remember the warnings. But probably not.  Uh-oh, I'm already starting to sound a little cynical, and I really don't want to. Whining is still a waist of time and effort, and none of us have any to spare. After all, things will get better. It will rain again. Somewhere. Meanwhile, I finally broke down and watered the lawn, hoping for a brief return of green relief to ensure its survival of winter.

I suppose I was in a sort of mood like this when I went for a walk the other night. The leaves were in the first yellow blaze, and the sun was already beginning its set when I grabbed my camera and set out the back lane for the meadow.... pasture.... creek.   Gosh, I'm still not sure what to call it. The Grass, maybe.

Dolly, of course, was close behind... out front... all over. She clearly loves having more room to roam. Come, walk with us.

                                       The sun was setting on the trees along the lane to the north.

                         The leaves hung limply in the still evening air, turning golden like ripening fruit.

 The shadows had already reached the trees by the time I approached the far hill. Too late for good pictures, but beautiful and refreshing all the same. I watched the darkness creep across the field, and noticed the darker green line in the grass. Don noticed it the next day, while we worked on the fence. "Why is the grass taller there, and there".... he pointed to along the tree line. I gave my answer, having pondered before. "It's the shade line. Morning..... afternoon..."  The difference was profound.

 The chill was noticeable, and with the light fading fast, I started back. I passed a milk weed just opening its pod. Frail fluffy white beauty in the moment, to be hated next spring.

 Golden green and orange brown drifts of leaves were collecting in the safe harbor of the gully under the cottonwood tree.  And then, if my soul had not yet been refreshed enough, I found this....

 It was weeks ago that we planted the fall pasture. Seeds of rye and rape and radish and turnip scattered into dust. The forecast of rain was forgone, and dust it remained. And yet, it grew. And weeks later, though it should have been thigh high and grazed short again by now, the tiny seedlings remain. The tenacity and resilience of nature continues to inspire me.

 I passed by the lambs, just to say, "Good evening".

With the summer we've had, the fall color may be short lived. But for now, at least it makes for pleasant,  peaceful chores.


Thanks for coming with me. I feel better again. The stress of coping with the drought has more than me a little short on patience and enthusiasm. I just keep reminding myself of those tiny little sprouts soaking up dew and waiting. Waiting for more.  While I, on the other hand, already have much.  Much more, this week.

Namely, little Maxwell Simon McClure, who joined the family on Oct. 2. A healthy little potential helper at 9 lb 12 oz, our 4th grandchild, and the first male of the generation born to carry the McClure family name.

So at least we are not alone on the isle of dry. And the wool and the radishes comfort me. I will wait a little longer for the rain. While I watch the oak trees take their turn with color. Already the ashes have dropped their leaves into pools of yellow at their feet.

Enough words for today. There is a fire glowing in the stove, its warmth softly calling. And a forecast with mention of rain come weekend. Only chances, but I will wait.

I'll believe it when I hear it. On the roof.

Promises, promises

The forecasters are trying to be hopeful. They try to make rain chances of 20 and 30% sound good. But I'm good enough at math to understand that even a 30% chance of rain - showers rather- means its a 70% chance of nothing. Still, when the sky appears like this, you have to hold out hope.

Pretty huh.   Makes me remember things.

The last couple of weeks have been full of remembering. 

Shortly after my last post, (and possibly partly because of it) I had a visit from Grant, from NPR. They are doing a series on 'My Farming Roots' in conjuncture with Harvest Public Media, and wanted an interview. Of course I said yes. As it often turns out, I was the party that benefited the most.

Grant was a likeable young man, and asked the appropriate questions. Of them, for me at least, the most thought provoking was a simple one.  "Do you ever think of them - your great and grandmothers - while you are going about your everyday work?" he asked.  Pause.  "Well, yeah, I guess I do."

But it was later that it hit me. I began connecting with my roots much more in the last few years. The stories of my Great-great grandmother amazed me. I remember a bit about my Great grandmother. But suddenly, I got it.  Maybe its the atmosphere. The effects of the deepening drought and my awareness of it has provided the perfect setups.

As we stood discussing the fate of the new seeded grass, and the decision to be made - to hay, to graze, or do nothing as a least harm effect - I thought of my Great-great grandmother Sarah, a widow homesteader with 15 children. I could almost feel her standing there behind me in the tall grass.

The other evening when the shadows covered the garden, I went to pick the tomatoes. At least something in the garden is doing well. I filled the first bucket, moped the sweat from my eyes, and went into the vines again. And again. And the sight of the row of 5 gallon buckets heaped with large red rounds made me remember the photo of my great grandmother seated among the heaping bushel baskets so long ago.

Last week, the buzz in the news became the drought. Record number of cattle being sold.  Record corn prices. Hay shortages. Yesterday, the neighbor came to mow the hay. You do what you think is best. Or what you have to do. This morning I walked a letter to the mailbox, and got a closer look at the sparse dry grass lying dusty and gray on the stubble along the road ditch. And I remembered the stories my Mother told of herding the family milk cows along the dusty roadsides in the 30's, because it was the only feed they had. And how one day the government came, and 'bought' the cows, including Rosie, her favorite, and took them out to the edge of a large pit they had dug, and shot them. And with them died the small cream check, their only dependable income. And I got it.  I think I finally understand why my mother never milked a cow again, and why she secretly hated being a farmers wife.

I realize now that my roots go way deeper than I ever imagined. Thanks to Peggy and HPM, and Grant and NPR. I know that even the new seeded grass holds onto the promise. On the surface, we are all dry and brown and gray. Some won't make it. We may have to re-seed come spring. We will if we have to. But some roots run deep, and they'll make it through. Its a promise.

A small oasis of green

Well here it is.  'It' has arrived. I'm not sure if it is a real drought, or just a normal dry spell, but it can no longer be ignored.

It crept in on us quietly, as all dry spells do. The signs were there all along, but just last week I began to notice the serious ones. The small clouds of dust rising around boot and paw with a mere walk across the yard as Don and Dolly on their way to get the ewes in for the night.

The heat has been oppressive, but we managed one more post hole. The heavy auger only 10 days before had easily bored through sod and soil, now groaned and slipped, slicing slowly through the hard clay, and it took several drops to reach the required depth. The sight of the small pile of dusty ground surrounding the black hole raised eyebrows, and an exchange of looks. Not even enough dirt to set the post.

So when the opportunity arose to take a painting job, I did. Hard work, but in air conditioning. And cash to buy more hay. So the last week or so has been on a time schedule. Work, water, home, move the water. Rescue the wilting. Keep the tanks full. Do what you have to do.

I admit I dislike these discouraging times. Times when the balance of sun and wind and water gets all out of wack, and with it the spirits and resolve of the people who must live with and in it. But to whine is a waste of time.

If you choose to live on and off the land, as farmers do, you must come to both expect and respect it. It's just a cycle, like all of life. We humans tend to like schedules and predictability. Mother Earth prefers spontaneity and surprise.

Then this morning, I went to get water for coffee. And in the view from the kitchen sink, this is what I saw. An island oasis of green surrounded by a sea of dry grass.

 The garden. A remnant of Eden reserved for the nourishment and comfort of mankind. Thanks to the water.
 

 A closer inspection is more telling of the true abundance. Tomatoes, 6 feet tall and rising, and heavy with clusters of fruit (but resisting the turning to red). Peppers and eggplant dripping with tentacles of yellow and purplish black. Beans challenge the neighboring zinnias in a contest of bloom and beauty. Thanks to the water.

So to keep on the positive side, in this season of dryness, I choose gratitude. Thanks to the well men who came when called, and laid needed new pipe and hydrants. Thankfulness for the water deep under the dust.

I appreciate that water. Perhaps more than most. Because I grew up on the edge of the sand hills, and early learned of its silent life-giving presence beneath. And now the threats to that water are growing  by pipelines, pollution, and politics.  And whether it comes from above or below, it is essential to all of us.

As my Mother often said, quoting my grandmother no doubt, 'This to shall pass.' In but a few short months it is now predicted, we may be lamenting the cold and snow. Because we are human, and it is our very nature to go against our 'Mother.

Pray for rain, if you are so moved. Your prayers will be answered in time. I will lift my glass, now filled to the brim, with clear, cold, water, in gratitude. And the AC. While I watch the western skies with hope, and humbly wait for the rain. Because I am a farmer.

May the rain soon fall softly on your fields, and replenish your hearts.