Sorting and 'turn out' day, Oct 24, 2014

Well, after a hectic summer of constant activity, fall came. And here it is, that eventful day in October.

It started out with a lovely sunrise.

But its Oct 24. A nice round number, and marked on the calendar as 'Turn the Bucks out' day.

So Don set up the sorting  chute - for the first time. It has been here awhile, but being not sure where to set it up, it remained leaving against the shed. This year, he decided there had to be a better way to sort all those ewes than catching them all by hand.

So it got a trial run in a temporary location. And it worked. The girls even walked right through to the gate. 

Here it is in use. The metal structure just beyond the black ewe is the actual sorting gate. The panels on each side swing to the center, leaving a path for the sheep to go straight forward, to the left, or to the right. The addition of the wood panel just past adds a fourth destination. Which means by simply adjusting the gate positions, each ewe is directed to one of four pens.

 Ewe numbers were already sorted into breeding pens, thank heavens. The girls filed in without much fuss.

And after lunch, each pen got moved to more comfortable accommodations.

And the boys came out.

 Grandpa got his group in the lambing shed.

Sonny and his girls.  (well, this is with the 3 that were interested in him today. There are many more.)

Jean Claude was assigned to the group in the East lot.

And 140 has a group too.

So it all worked well. And all the rams are already at work. A total of 90 ewes will begin having lambs come next March. (usually the first is born on March 19th, regardless of the day the rams go out).

And I managed to get a blog post done. Finally.

I have so many subjects, and so little time. Maybe the colder weather will help settle me in at the computer. Maybe.

# makin' lambies.  Go Rams.   Thanks to Alex for the 'trade'.

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.

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.

Listen closely

I woke suddenly this morning. The birds were already heralding the dawn. Don groaned briefly, and bolted out of bed. It was already after 5:00. That in itself was unusual, as was the short conversation that followed; options for getting rid of some of the abundance of cherry tomatoes left over from yesterdays market.  As he softly tread downstairs, I rolled over, and wondered what had woke me. And it hit me again - the breeze from the open north window beside me. I was COLD!  It was refreshing, to be sure, but I pulled up the blanket anyway, enjoying its comfort at long last. Oh blanket, how I have missed you.

It didn't last long. Not able to sleep any longer, I got up. The coolness had stirred brain cells gone dormant with the heat. While the coffee brewed, I flung open the windows. My cup was especially good this morning, with feet carefully tucked behind the couch cushion, with the only breaking of silence bird song. I love September mornings........  brrrrrrrrrpt. - wait a minute.... but its still early August! 

I've always been a believer that animals talk to us. Nonverbal language perhaps, but effective enough communication for a few wise enough to take time and care enough to listen. My favorite book from early childhood? "Charlotte's Web", but of course.

Many I've talked with recently have noticed the signs. The 'old wives tales' and Indian lore that supposedly fortels the coming seasons. I first noticed the morning fogs of May. Others have heard them too. The cicadas too early in June. Both indications of frost, and coinciding in early or mid September.

Still in the midst of unusual heat and drought of the summer, its hard to grasp. Until you look at the crops. And hear the talk of silage and early harvest. And there was the brome that headed out in early June, as if it knew the rains would soon cease. Maybe the earth has been whispering all the while.

"Hind sight is always 2020" the  old saying goes. But also "Mother Nature  always knows". Most had poor lamb crops this spring, the Ewes and Us included. The mild winter was blamed. Or did the flock know the grass would be short by the time the lambs were grown; that this was not a year more mouths would be as welcome.

I made good progress in the coolness this morning. Out door to-do's finally got done. And the forecast is even encouraging.  Maybe. Lows tomorrow in the 50's! More September mornings. Hmmm.

Outside chore list nearing the end, I finally went to tackle the kitchen. While washing the pile of pans from yesterdays baking, I noticed it. Back again. The pesky spiders have invaded. The webs brushed aside are replaced in hours.  They do this every fall. ....... it's as if it were September.  Charlotte speaks to us in a webby whisper....

Is anybody out there listening?

We fall down, we get up......

Well, we do. Or at least we always have so far. But not if you are a leaf. And the leaves are falling. Down, for the most part. Except for the occasional passing corn leaf. The windy days of late have heralded the coming of the harvest season now in full swing. The corn stalks that seemed to turn white over night this year have shed their leaves, and now stand naked except for the sagging heavy ears, shivering in the foggy chill or the morning. The leaves blanket the ground now. Except for now and then in the afternoon breeze, when, dried by the weakening sun, a current picks a stray leaf and hurls it toward an unknown foe. I see them pass my window, sometimes arrow straight, sometimes curling and whirling, tumbling in the driving wind. And later I retrieve them from the shrubs and fence, limp and heavy with dew once again come morning. And time marks off yet another day, and week, and month.


We have begun the preparations. The garden is done, the harvest sorted, stacked, and stored. A good size stack of wood now darkens part of the view out my window. Chimney checked? Check. The wagon is filled with corn, and the hay bales stand in covered rows like giant sausages.
I looked up this morning, and it was October. 16th. (sigh). The almost-too-warm days are over. The 'F' word has been heard in the forecast. (freeze). But that's ok. I guess. The second blanket was pulled up without hesitation last night, and savored.

Don even took some 'vacation'. Yeah sure. Last year we actually went somewhere. This year, it was back to a working vacation. But we did get some things done, including renting a bobcat, and an attempt to clean the barn. It was only partially successful, but whats done is done. Since the grass is still growing and the crops in the field, the excavations got piled for the time being.



The lambs had a great time playing atop 'Mt. Sheepoopee' while it was there. But it was clear it was not going to last, so it got moved to the other pile. Sorry, lambs.
The whole mess will hopefully be spread on the garden, pasture, and fields before winter really sets in. (Sorry about the evil eyes. I'm blaming the lighting.)

Meanwhile, the sure sign of the season have been spotted. My mate and partner is usually quiet, often dozing in his chair. Recently however, he has been overtaken by spurts of thoughts and inspirations. His clipboard is at hand, and often I notice him flipping between pages, and making notes in margins. Why? You may wonder, as did I.

Of course - its breeding season. And one mark of a true shepherd is the careful selection of pairings of the flock. The amateur little realizes the complexity of the task. There is much to consider. Body type, condition, color, lineage, fleece and more. There must be planning before procreation.




And the sun sets sooooo much earlier these days. But its still kind of nice watching it.





And the last rose of summer literally blooms by the back gate.

But all is well. The promises of spring are hidden in the muffled shuffle of leaves underfoot, but if you pause and listen, you can hear them. The thoughts of a warm fire and wool sweaters, the gentle click of knitting needles and snow falling on yet green grass may materialize sooner than we think. But bring it on. Seasons change, and so must we. I'm up for a long winters nap. Meanwhile, I can still smell the roses.

And if by chance like the leaves we fall, we'll help each other up.

Garden update - it's in decline

There are signs of change everywhere. The predictable sequence of blooms and fruits are running their course once again. Wether more influenced by the suddenly cool of the mornings or the shortening of the days, the plant life here on the farm is signaling a seasonal change in wardrobe is soon to come.

The hydrangea continues to bloom, and the tiny butterflies continue their fluttery swarming as the blossoms are equally persistently emerge, now showing more pink and salmon, and with a fragrance that permeates the yard on a still evening.


The Broccoli is still alive and making a valiant effort. But not much yet. The Peppers show signs of blight, but are coming out of it a bit, and we will have some of all 5 kinds. Too bad they just don't seem to sell, but the daughters in law don't mind that. The eggplant is also coming around, and we have hopes of at least a few lasagnas.



The cucumbers have held up very well in this years heat, and have been our cash crop for sure. They have produced countless pounds of long green fruits, so we can't be critical of the yellow and brown spots that are beginning to dot their leaves, and even a few that have withered. The tomatoes, however, are pathetic. They are producing a few finally, but only a few, and the quality is poor at best. I have consoled myself with the facts that others have faced the same challenges of weather and blight, and willingly accepted the task of disposing of the less than perfect produce personally. The bacon is in the fridge.

The Green beans also failed this year. They seem to believe they are flowers - they bloom and bloom, but no beans. I replanted twice, and there is a bit of hope, but no promises.


The single row of zinnias stand guard in a cheery row as they have for many years. They even beat out most of the foxtail this year.

Oh - and the Ground Cherries. Our experiment of the season. The seed came as a bonus in our seed order. And the description was so promising - 'highly productive', 'drought tolerant', and 'papery skinned fruits with a strawberry flavor' made them sound like a sure market attraction. I always had heard of ground cherries, growing up in the sand hills, and had even thought those cute little lantern things that grew among the puncture vine at the cemetery could have been cherries, though I was told repeatedly to never eat them because they were poisonous. (and being a member of the nightshade family, who knows). We were told stories from those who should know about childhood memories of the wonderful fruits, and the pies and jam they produced. So we planted them along with the other seeds, and set them out when the frosts had past.


The plants, though slow growing, thrived. At least some of them. We carefully watched as the predicted blooms transformed into tiny green buds, which became papery covered fruits which looked much like their cousins tomatillos. And finally, they began to turn yellow. And we tried them. Too soon. Still green, they tasted more like really bad peas. So we watched and waited until at last they were papery dry, and pale tan. I carefully pealed back the delicate skin, and a golden yellow berry with a faint pink blush seemed promising...... and failed. I kept trying them, hoping as with many crops, the produce would improve. It didn't. Of all I sampled, (though most of the fruits were already inhabited with tiny worms - eeeew!) in only one did I detect a faint hint of strawberry. Don gave up sooner, declaring them a disgusting disappointment long before I. We took samples to our Farmers market vendor neighbors, who validated his judgment.



The papery 'lanterns' are cute all right. We finally realized that when they were truly ripe, they picked themselves, falling into neat little nests below the snakey vines. (Yes, the tangle of vines are striped in green, resembling a tangle of garter snakes. That took a little getting used to) And we sampled them again, just in case. Nope. Still nasty, but the worms seemed to love them even more. They will not be taking up garden space next year.



And so the season is beginning to show its age. Even the flowers color is bolder. The zinnias and Black eyed Susans herald the sunflowers and goldenrod and sumac soon to come into their own. The vibrant colors of fall emerge loudly, demanding their place in the sun be noticed in the fields of green fast fading to tan and brown. So goes the cycle. It's all good. And though with the passing of each year I find myself just a bit further along in the cycle myself, I have no regrets. The best of the harvest is yet to come.