The Chronicles of Newman (and other farm stories)

The really great thing about farming is that it brings up stuff in a way you do not ordinarily encounter in everyday, post-industrialist society.

Today I’m contemplating the issue of hairy legs. This is rather a big deal on farms. For instance, speaking from a sheep shearer’s perspective: one of the first evaluations I make before setting to work is the leg factor. Sheep who have very thickly wooled legs are far more difficult to shear; the wool and hair get caked with dried mud, bits of manure, stick closely to the bony legs (yes, it’s sad but true - most sheep do not have particularly shapely calves), and it takes time, skill, and machine- and muscle-power to get that stuff off. I’ve seriously contemplated adding a hairy-leg surcharge to my fees. On the other hand, you have the hair on alpaca legs - damned if the alpaca owners don’t want the hair to stay ON the legs, but fashioned and shaped in the best dog grooming salon fashion. I used to, admittedly judgmentally, think that this supercilious ’stovepipe’ fashion was a supreme waste of time (OK, I kind of am still there) but in fact I’ve learned since my early upstart shearing days that both llamas and alpacas are tormented by flies in the summer, and having wisps (or poofs) of hair on their legs aids in keeping the bugs at bay.

The other day I was on a boat and I was observing the legs of my sailing companions. Admittedly, I was observing them because I was supremely self conscious about the fact that I had not addressed the hirsute state of my own limbs. At one point, lying on the deck, I saw a pair of dark, curly-haired man legs go by. Thinking they belonged to my male companion, I almost reached out to fondly grab an ankle but fortunately, and just in the nick of time, realized these legs belonged to someone else. Slightly troubled that I had misidentified body parts, I looked around. I looked hard. And I realized that the four men riding on this boat had IDENTICAL curly-haired legs. Their heads were varied: blonde, bald, grey, and black haired - yet on their legs: all dark curlicues. What is up with male leg hair? It doesn’t go bald or turn grey? Frankly, as an American woman who was taught very early on that leg hair is The Enemy, it blows my mind that these men are not curled up in a fetal position in some corner worried about waxing.

It’s summer. It’s hot. While leg hair does not, contrary to popular belief, make us hotter, if you are a woman and you have hairy legs (and women, let me hear you say “hell yeah”), you are more uncomfortable than if you were wearing underpants 2 sizes too small. This is not the case in parts of Europe. Many years ago in a German swimming pool’s shower room, I whipped out a razor and there was audible whisper of shock amongst the German women; I seriously believe they thought I was about to do myself in. But back here and stateside, a woman with hairy legs in summer is NOT a woman you want to mess with. She is in a seriously bad mood and until she has had proper time and space to shave, wax and pluck…  gentlemen … I suggest you steer clear. [Note: this may save some of you some significant money in couples therapy - feel free to send a thank you check in the mail.]

Today, with baby-smooth, stubble-free legs, I, personally, am ready to conquer the world. Or at least go shopping with shorts on. Ladies, may the hot wax be with you.

Till next time,

Farmer Anne
Star Gazing Farm 501(c)3
A haven for retired farm animals and wayward goats http://www.stargazingfarm.org
tel: (301) 349-0802

Today was Easter Sunday. It was also the day I fell in love with Tony.

I’ll be the first to admit that Tony is a little young for me (he’s 4); and there’s a slight complication in that he lives too many hours away for us to be able to see each other regularly. Oh, and there’s the minor matter that he’s a sheep.

Nevertheless, the signs of love at first sight were all there today - that certain twinkle in his eye, the way he followed me everywhere I went, the way he let me run my hands all over his full 350 pounds of muscle (OK, actually they were my sheep clippers, but my hands were always in the general vicinity - that counts, right?), the way he kissed me on the arm when I cleaned off his man parts (he really did and boy, that was a new one for me!), and the way his deep, soulful eyes met mine at every possible juncture - I want to break into song, “no, no they can’t take that away from me”.

Now, while Tony is one special dude, I’m also pretty sure that he is a ladies man. The word on the street is, too, that he likes his beer and I saw him make a break for the open feed room door and have to be hauled out (apparently a regular deal). But none of this fazes me - I’ve always had a distinct penchant for bad (or should I say baaaa-d) boys, and having all that charm wrapped up in so much brawn - combined with long flowing hair, a clear intelligence, and farmboy know-how to boot - well sir, what female sheep shearer wouldn’t lose her head!

Returning home in the glow of Tony’s parting glance and the setting sun of Easter on soft, green fields, I thought about how just a few months back the animals and I despaired in the mounds of snow that buried us for so long in dreary isolation. With renewed energy, I hauled water troughs, unloaded two round bales, cleaned buckets, moved the steers to a new pasture, and re-assessed snow damage, prepared to wage war on the mess. Much can be done during sunset that can’t happen in the brightness of midday. It’s a contemplative time, a time for returning home - the chickens settle in their roosts, even the silliest of ducks make their way back to their pen, and the sheep wander back up to the barn. The stars start to peek out, the frogs sing, insects trill, and it seems to be a time for gathering, in general. Having turned 50 a few months ago, I resonate with sunset - though some of you more mature folks may poo poo this and tell me firmly that I’m still in the mid-afternoon years, I resist that (mostly because I loathe mid afternoon as a time of day, just on principle).

Sunset is a time of mystery, too, when objects move about, animals shift shapes, and tricks are played on farmers who don’t have their wits about them. Tonight my car mysteriously moved 15 feet out of place (though a black steer was seen in the vicinity shortly before the migration).

And sunset is a time for odd expressions of joy. Distributing dinner (joyful in and of itself, mind you), I found myself followed by a small mob up through the pasture, and suddenly the cat was dashing in front of me, sparking the horse to gallop up the hill, llama loping up beside him, with fat little Dee Dee Donkey leading the chase, squealing and kicking out behind her, thus stirring up everyone else on the other side of the fence. Sunset dancing.

Sunburned and invigorated by a day of hard shearing, I finished my chores as the last bit of light faded - and I could still feel the soft weight and smell the sweet scent of the hour-old lamb I had held earlier in the day. And I thought, no matter how old we become, no matter how hard life is, no matter what storms we have to weather — lambs will still be born. That seems to put life on some pretty firm footing. Not to mention the fact that maybe, just maybe, some of them might get named Tony.

Till next time,

Farmer Anne
Star Gazing Farm 501(c)3
A haven for retired farm animals and wayward goats http://www.stargazingfarm.org
tel: (301) 349-0802

I think it’s fair to say that most of us living in the mid-Atlantic region right now [who have had 3 feet of snow in less than a week] are experiencing some version of “cabin fever”.

It’s at such times that I truly lament the fact that I am single.

Oh, it’s true, I could really use a bit of help with the shoveling and I would have much rather sent a hapless husband up onto the roof in the blizzard this morning… but the real reason for my complaint has little to do with needing manly muscles or shoving the bad jobs off on someone else.

I really need to have an argument.

Not a tiff, not a disagreement, but a knock-down drag-out fight with dishes flying. The animals are doing it. Ah, how I envy them their ability to butt heads, have skirmishes over food, chase, shove, bite, and growl and generally wreak havoc. They too, you know, have cabin fever. Their living and walking spaces have been reduced to a miserable fraction of what they are used to and the cramped quarters amidst the snowdrifts are icy, open-air jail cells. Fences have come down, roofs collapsed, Little Boy Goat has taken it upon himself to destroy the side of the barn, and the poor chickens have had their quarters invaded by an enormous flock of wild birds who refuse to vacate. The anxiety level of the dogs who have been housebound since Friday is so elevated that they follow on my heels if I’m only walking to the coffee machine, and I truly believe we might have had fatalities over a certain rawhide toy yesterday had I not intervened.

Oh, I’ve tried having an argument with the larger beasts who stand in the narrow barn corridor while I’m trying to shovel out pounds of manure - I shout, stamp my feet, push, and they turn their heads placidly, planting their 1500-2000 pounds firmly and saying “wha?” You just can’t have a decent argument with someone who won’t shout back.

My frustration with the tractor reached quite the fevered pitch as it repeatedly got mired in drifts, and I had to dig it out by hand while getting hammered with blasts of cold, snowy air (the crowning point being getting stuck under the mulberry tree which, as I maneuvered, dumped its entire contents of accumulated snow down my jacket). But fights with inanimate objects, in my experience, generally do not end well on the animate side.

No, the awful truth is that while we may not have another such set of storms for a while, I’ve realized the folly of living the life of Norwegian Bachelor(ette) Farmer [ref: http://norwegianbachelorfarmers.com/32.html] and may be putting out a placard soon in front of the farm gates: “Wanted: husband, any age, size or shape for regular and thorough disagreements (and occasional snow shoveling)”.

Now all of you go and give your loved ones a good slap upside the head!~

Till next time,

Farmer Anne
Star Gazing Farm 501(c)3
A haven for retired farm animals and wayward goats http://www.stargazingfarm.org
tel: (301) 349-0802

The original “argument” (Monty Python’s Flying Circus):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wdoGVgj1MtY

Just yesterday, while talking about his mother’s keen interest in sheep, a friend’s new boyfriend commented to me “every sheep has a distinctly different personality, doesn’t it?” If I hadn’t already approved of my friend’s choice, that clinched it for me. “Marry him!”, I wanted to shout, “seal the deal!”. You see, very few people understand (or choose to understand) the character of sheep, or any farm animal, for that matter; I think those that do are tuned into the universe in a unique way.

Now, the fact that each animal has his or her own personality should not be too surprising, at least to those who have cats or dogs. I suppose a lot of people select their adoption or purchase choices based on color, breed, coat, or something else largely visual. Some might be more tempted by puppies or kittens (not realizing the months of hell and mess ahead of them!). Then again some of us get suckered into taking animals we’ve no idea about (like my Heinz 57 wild street dog from Haiti who was in the right place at the right time, and now, 5 years later, makes me want to pull my hair out only about once a week …. as opposed to every hour on the hour). In fact, I seem to get suckered a lot. Yep, I should make it easier for everyone and just get a nice big sticker for my forehead, “EASY MARK”.

Part of the problem is running this thing called an “Animal Sanctuary”. Taking my cue from the larger and more experienced Poplar Spring Animal Sanctuary down the road, I don’t publish our physical address on our flyers or web site: perhaps the first step in the 12 Step Program to Sucker-Free-Living. Why? Because in the past those good folks at Poplar Spring have actually had animals dropped at their gate; people have shown up with boxes of chicks, saying “here”, as they shove the box forward, “we thought you’d want these”; folks have climbed their locked gates and walked the mile to the main barns, late in the evening, to try to hand off animals they didn’t know what to do with. It’s a problem we generally don’t have the facilities or resources to handle at Star Gazing Farm. While the numbers of unwanted dogs and cats far exceed that of farm animals, you’d be surprised at the number of calls and emails we get asking for help. Oddly, November was the month for unwanted and stray peacocks.

But more often it’s goats. You chuckle; you’re not surprised. In fact, you know where this is going. Because before we gained awareness into the problem of our deep-seated soft-heartedness, we agreed to take in Mr. Newman Goat. His story is well known, and his reputation of course precedes him by miles (he has girlfriends as far away as Australia). There are no regrets - oh no, Mr. Newman is well loved here, despite his proclivity for destruction of property (he’s working on opening up a window in the barn wall right now, and a few weeks back he ate a roll of 100 stamps - fortunately he left the other four rolls, as apparently stamps are not as tasty as he thought). He has personality. He has charm. He has good looks. He has no apparent sense of self-consciousness and makes no apologies for anything, including events that are distinctly his fault. This is in contrast to the sheep, who are sensitive to the feelings of others, and take care of both each other and the humans around them. But I digress. The thing about Newman is that he’s got to be in your face, especially if you are a newcomer to the farm.

Last week we had a visit from a lady and her two grandchildren - small children, little tender chickadees with little to no goat experience under their belts. Shortly after their arrival I momentarily had to step inside the house and when I emerged, the little ones were crying their eyes out, weeping relentlessly. And there was Newman. I beheld the scene of the grandmother holding the smaller child, the larger child cowering on the porch, with Mr. Newman Goat staring at them, and I burst into loud laughter. To their horror, I howled and guffawed as I grabbed onto the railing for support. Yes, I realize this was a tremendous social faux pas and even the candy canes I offered to the children later did not, apparently, put salve on the wounds of their traumatic goat experience which will probably scar their psyches for some time to come (the little girl later claimed that she would not forget this farm visit for “at least 100 years”).

This is not the first time Newman has made children cry - in fact, aside from his little buddy Sebastian (about 5 years old when he and Newman first became fast friends), Newman shows little sensitivity to the pre-school crowd. He means no harm - but he has no patience for the faint of heart, the shy, the retiring, or for those with delicate constitutions. He is who he is, and if he is in the mood to give you a kiss, he expects you to accept it. Tears are not in his vocabulary. Most people love him, if from a distance. We have a new farm sitter who helps feed on evenings I have to work late - my primary worry when she started was “how will she deal with Newman”. I learned last week that she is so crazy about him that he appears on her Facebook page. Whew.

I’m glad for the animals who have landed in my life without my really having chosen them - my little Haitian dog Ti-gba keeps me snuggly warm at night, and Mr. Newman keeps me warm inside from the laughter. I hope some day all the little girls he’s made cry will be able to laugh along with me.