live and learn

A few weeks ago, two smiling men in faded suits with pamphlets in their pockets came to my door. In the past 25 years, whenever these folks have shown up, I have politely turned them away, always feeling a little badly about it. But on this particular day I was feeling neighborly and kind, so I sucked it up and had a chat--they were just trying to do what they thought they were supposed to do, right? What's so bad about that? The least I could do was honor their humanity and be nice. I showed them the little lamb we had in the mudroom. They told me about scary drug parties where kids grab handfuls of pills out of fishbowls. Then gave me a little leaflet and went on their merry way. 

Good for me, I thought. I AM a good neighbor. (Plus, I do love to chat). 

Well. . . . (scary music here) yesterday they came back. Of course. Doi.

Their car looked just like the car of one of my egg customers, so I ran to the door "Hooray! Egg customers!" There stood my new friends, carrying all their good intentions in a little book with illustrations from the 50's and promises of a wonderful life. Now I see the major flaw in my nice little kindness plan. How I hadn't realized this before is beyond me. I had inadvertently allowed them into my bubble.

my pretty bubble

Last night a friend said  "I never let anyone in my bubble: they might fart in there." After a good laugh, I realized that's exactly what happened with my visitors. A big cloud of stinky gas in my nice, shiny bubble.

I told the guys that I was on my way out the door (I was) and I didn't have time to talk (I didn't). Then they said they were coming back next Friday, and promised they would come back a LOT over the summer because surely I would be home more as school was letting out. I wished them luck with that one and bid them goodbye. Then I spent the next 5 hours beating myself up and composing the speech that I'll have to give when they come back yet again. It goes something like: "Stop coming over here! This is creepy! Go away!" I'll have to work on the speech a little bit more.

As I sit here spraying lavender air freshener around my bubble, I see quite clearly now that my good intentions were spectacularly misguided. Of COURSE by allowing them to perform their mission on me I was inviting them back. How did I not see this the first time! A wonderful life lesson for me in every way. 

the rock

“I would have written of me on my stone: 

I had a lover's quarrel with the world.

 -- Robert Frost

Tonight in the space between 4:30 and 7:00, we have 5 separate things on the calendar. This is typical lately. Tomorrow night, there are 3 competing events, Wednesday 3, Thursday 3, Friday night is mercifully empty. By the end of the day, I am absolutely sure more will be added. I look ahead at weeks like this and my face starts to go numb. Every day when kids come home from school with the notes that dictate the schedule of our nights and days, I struggle not to cry. The house and yard are falling apart around me as we are only home long enough to do the damage.

 

The faster and more frenetic the pace around me, the slower I seem to be able to respond to all the stuff. I become less and less motivated, less flexible, productivity takes a serious dive. And when I actually do get a free moment, I am so overwhelmed and burned out I don't take advantage of it. 

I 

am 

slowly 

turning 

to stone.

Sometimes I wonder what's wrong with me, like I'm not wired right for the pace of this nation, this time. The other people seem to do just fine. So what is going to change here? I know, as always, it will have to be me. 

i like ike

mixing up 9 bottles a day

For seven weeks now, my kitchen counter has looked like this. The whole corner of the room carries the distinct odor of milk replacer (for sheep), which smells a lot like baby formula but does not taste anything like baby formula, trust me. 

Ike's father, Ramsey, was a looker,

however, he was not to be trusted

We still have 4 lambs on the bottle. Three are to be weaned soon. The one baby we will continue to bottlefeed for awhile is named Ike. Ike is a hair sheep, Barbados by breed. These sheep have hair rather than wool, so you don't shear them. They look a lot like mountain goats or deer but not much like sheep. Full grown males have big, beautiful curling horns. Ike's father, pictured above, had fabulous horns. He was sold in the fall due to his frequent attempts to knock me down with his big head. 

our little darling, Ike

 

Ike is the friendliest, loviest little guy. On the night he was born, we found him shivering in the cold, wet mud, this weak, tiny lamb who couldn't walk. Less than two hours old, his sisters were already running around the pasture and nursing. Lambs drink their mother's milk standing up, so Ike didn't have a chance out there. We brought the little guy into the house and tried the bottle. His legs were noodly, they just didn't work at all. We consulted the vet, who thought we should give it a try, keep feeding him and see if he was able to gather up some strength. Amazingly, that's just what he did. After only 2 days he was on his feet, wibbly wobbly, but standing. Ike lived in our mudroom for well over a month, and is now in the pasture with the rest. He has been neutered for the future safety of people.

Sometimes, we put him on a leash and take  him for a walk down the road. Annika says, as if to convince herself, "This is perfectly normal, taking your sheep for a walk, perfectly normal."

fox alert

the fox in question looks a lot like this guy

I wish I had a picture of the actual fox. We've been seeing him in our yard nearly every day for the last week. He is just beautiful: a deep rich red coat, black markings and a bushy tail. I believe the fox is planning to eat all of our chickens. Due to his super-high pounce, which we witnessed from across the field on Saturday, I don't know if he can be stopped from pursuing his heart's desire.

Chuckie's shiny plumage, may he R.I.P.

Mr. Foxy Fox has already dined on one of our prized roosters, Chuckie, whose glossy feathers are pictured here. Chuckie was one of the first birds we welcomed to our place. He was gorgeous and glorious in every way. Annika cried for an hour when I reported him missing. 

Foxes have a litter of 3-8 kits around mid-March. They wean at 9 weeks and then go out to hunt with their parents. Based on this info, we should be seeing some little ones soon! That would be something to see.