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.

Leaves of green and the frugal (desperate) shepherd.

Vines of good intention still bear no fruit.


I can say that.  At the moment it's directed at politicians and those who so easily join their ill-informed chants and rants, (which I'm tempted to comment on, but I can only handle so much...) but it's not really judgmental, since I am just as guilty.  I have intended to blog several times, as things have been happening, but other things keep distracting me. I think I'm safe in blaming it on the heat.  Or because my brain is dehydrated. 

Although..... it did finally rain. We felt exceptionally blessed to get 1.3 in one damp Saturday.  Felt even better on Sunday  when we compared gauges with some neighbors, and found most got less.  And, even 10 days later, the thin layer of wet long gone, the effects are readily seen.  I'll get to that later.  First - a picture story of how a frugal shepherd deals with the drought.

Anything green here is getting hard to find. That includes feed for the sheep.  The creek patches have been picked clean, even the trees within 4 ft. of the ground. So we resorted to a trick from Brother Tim up at Camp Eat-a-lot-o-greens.  If the ewes can't reach the leaves on the trees, you reach for the chain saw. And the result-

                                       A truck load of greens.  Actually, 2 truck loads.  From where?

                          All those pesky volunteers in the fence line.  Been intending to cut them for years.

         So we hauled them into the lot, and decided while we were at it, we'd do a little taste test with the girls.  Tree branches( a variety of oak, elm, mulberry, and ash)  or corn. (very expensive corn, but they're worth it)

                                   And - they're off - looks like 50 -50 at first.....

                                  Or maybe not..... there's more coming for the corn....

                 And it's a clear choice.  Gold over green.  But the branches were stripped bare a  half  hour later.


As reported in a previous blog, the decision was made to cut the new grass to both remove the weeds and salvage as much hay as we could. We weren't sorry.

Weeks and a little rain later, I am amazed once more at the tenacity of grass. The mowing was almost painful for all of us, but short lived.  Within a few days, the field was showing green once more. New blades were cutting their way up through the tan stubble.

And the hay?  Well, there wasn't much. But the ewes are tearing through it.  Which led to the next problem.  There wasn't any to be found.

We called all the neighbors, but they had none. Some were concerned that they didn't have enough themselves. The price was going up almost daily.

So, in desperation, I went back to Craigs's list.
It wasn't pretty.  Obvious scams were going on. There was some hay out there, but the picking were slim. A couple promising leads, but it was already sold.
I started checking multiple site listings every couple hours. And after a few days of that, it wasn't much fun any more. Then, one last check for the night, and I found something - posted 30 minutes ago. It was late, but they got a call anyway. Arrangements were made to go look at it the next morning.  Finally, some better luck.

It wasn't exactly what we were hoping for, but it looked and smelled ok. And if delivered and affordable, the girls will just have to learn to like it. With a hefty check as deposit, we both have slept better since.

With a good start to the week, we hope the rain will fall along with the temperature by the weekend.  The 3.9 grand kids  will be here on Sunday.  Little feet will be trampling those tiny blades of green barely visible in the gray-brown lawn. Not worried about the grass though.

They say that stress of a dry spell makes the roots go deeper still.   Maybe that's what I've been feeling. My farm roots go deep alright.

Chance of showers tonight.  Hope some pass your way.

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?

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.

Feel'in like Rip

Yawn.  stretch.   !    Uh oh.  Where am I?  what day is it?   JULY 1 !

What happened to June?  Was I sleeping?  I'm not tripping on a beard or anything, but I do feel a little like Rip.  Rip Van Winkle that is.  But wait - its all coming back to me now.

Yeah- June was kind of like a nightmare all right. Good, but in a blurr.

There was a trip to pick up items from the show in GI. Didn't win anything, but did sell a piece.

Then packing and the trip to the Iowa Sheep and Wool Festival.  That was enjoyable as usual. Always nice to work with like minded sheep and fiber people. Ate lamb 3 times in 2 days.  Taught a class of delightful students, and all of us had a good time. No floods this year, but it was hot. Glad the whole barn remembered their fans. Sales may have been down, but the exchange of info among the vendors was great. Wish we could have come home with less rams, but that's the way it goes.  Picture won the contest again this year, so that was a bonus.

Working on a class schedule for a felted ornament family class at the Lux for December.

Garden has exploded. Tomatoes look like flowering plants, and lots of green fruit. Cucumbers and zucchini need picked every other day. Beans are on the increase. First planting of corn is tasseling. One eggplant, 2 peppers in the bag. Now if the market customers would increase the same.

We did have a first this week.  A customer came back to proclaim we had the BEST Swiss Chard he had ever eaten. I guess thats an achievement. (we tried, but appreciation of even the BEST fell short to our palates)

Fencing is commencing. Slowly though. Of course its always 100 degrees on the days Don has or takes off when we can work on it. And, as is typical for June, our absence has put us behind. The weather predictions are not encouraging.  We have resigned ourselves to a summer of sweat.

Then there was the family reunion. My family. (Well, and a short drive and a few hours with Don's brother)
As expected,' interesting ' is good word for a summation.  And Hot, windy, cramped, stuffed (food).

A few noteable quotes from the weekend:

"Spray them?  I have several times, and they're still here."

"Catch' em quick!"   (kid, chip, napkins, lawn chair, - whatever)

"One, two, three, four!" ( Braydon counting the cabins)

to assembly of ages on the grass - "Have you heard about the chiggers down here?"

yeah. It was interesting.  I passed up my 40th class reunion to be there. From what I've heard, I don't think they even missed me.

It did leave me with a renewed sense of gratitude though. And a deeper understanding everything is a choice. Not just a choice of where we choose to go, or what we do but of who we choose to be.

Whether we look forward or behind.  That its true that you can't control what happens to you, only how you react. And who you are shows in those reactions.  I know if the old debate of 'nature vs. nurture' ever comes up, I now know which team I'll be on.

And now here it is July.( But it looks and feels like August). But first, there are things to do.  Birthdays, anniversaries, more birthdays, county fairs, the Farmers Market of course, and oh dear, more fence.

Must feed my sheep.

Much more in my head that needs to be said. Soon, I hope.

May your summer be as abundant as the blessings 'round here.

No summer slumber, Rip