All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth, so I can wish you Merry Cwithmath!
Christmas came a little early for me this year, when Dr. Raj Sandhu of Dentistry @ Kemptville gave me an implant and with it, a reason to smile.
They say you lose a tooth with each pregnancy. Not so in my case. My teeth and nails were strong and my hair was shiny throughout my three pregnancies. But living in Taiwan for three years left me with a big gap in my grin.
I drank mostly bottled water when I was in Taipei, because the tap water wasn’t the safest. Every year they get a breakout of hand-and-mouth disease or some such thing, and I wasn’t going to risk it. Neither the tap water nor the bottled water in Taiwan contains an adequate amount of fluoride, so tooth decay is a common problem. Most of the toothpastes are little more than baking soda, and they don’t contain fluoride either.
Going to the dentist in Taiwan is an experience for sure, but it isn’t an expensive one. I think I paid about $300NT or $12 CDN per visit. The hygienists at the clinic around the corner from my apartment wore skimpy uniforms that were so short and tight, they had me wondering if they were working for tips. The front wall of the dental office was open to the street like a garage, and passersby would often stop to take a curious look inside the mouth of the patient being treated. It didn’t look like the most sanitary of environments in which to be performing medical procedures, and I decided to avoid it at all costs.
When I took a trip home, I returned with a suitcase full of all of the drugstore items that one had difficulty finding in Taiwan, including fluoride toothpaste. I brushed my teeth three times a day and flossed when I remembered to, about twice a week. But the liquid invert sugar that is squeezed into every edible or drinkable substance on this island eventually caught up with me. I began waking up in the middle of the night with pain in my mouth. It was time to give in and see the dentist.
The dentist seemed competent, and his English was perfect. But when he told me I would need a root canal to repair my infected tooth, I balked. I was not about to have dental surgery done in a room that is open to all the sounds, smells and pollution of Taipei.
So I let him seal the tooth and prescribe painkillers to tide me over until I returned to Canada. Thankfully, my leaving date was only a few months away.
Back on Canadian soil, my dentist confirmed that I did indeed require a root canal, followed immediately by a crown. I spoke to my insurance company, and was told that the crown was not covered. A few months later I switched to another insurance company, and tried again. Again I was denied. Finally, I decided to go ahead with the root canal and hold off on the crown until I could afford the $3600. But it was too late. My tooth cracked in half and had to be removed.
Now, I don’t think I’m a truly vain person, but losing a tooth, even one on the side of your mouth, certainly changes the way you smile. I found myself shielding that side of my face with my hand when I spoke or laughed, and my smile changed to a diminished, closed-mouth version of my usually wide, toothy grin. I became very self-conscious of getting my photo taken, and even resorted to photo shopping my missing tooth back into my portrait before printing or posting.
Then, one day, some clever advertising caught my attention. A new dentist office was opening and they specialized in implants. I decided to go in and talk to them, to see exactly what was involved and how much it would cost. Maybe I could pay it off in installments.
One week later I had an appointment. We did a claim and learned that $1600 of the $3600 cost for the implant and crown would be covered by insurance. I was advised to apply to a credit company to pay off the rest, in interest-free monthly installments.
Two weeks after being approved, I had a bolt installed where my missing tooth used to be. I felt a bit like Frankenstein and certainly resembled him when I smiled, so I tried not to do so with an open mouth very often. Three months later, the bone had healed and it was time to get my specially-made crown for which I was paying $200 per month.
When I looked in the mirror that the dentist held up in front of me and he told me to “smile big”, it was easy to do just that. And I’ve been smiling ever since.
Thank you Dr. Sandhu and the staff of Dentistry @ Kemptville, for your conscientious efforts to keep your patients calm, comfortable and smiling.
-30-
Friday, December 18, 2009
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Gearing up for Christmas
One or two of our ewes are “bagging up”, as the Farmer says. That is a rather indelicate way to explain that they are developing an udder. Apparently they were impregnated by Rambo back in July, before we had a chance to lock him up. In any case, all signs point to at least two of our ewes giving birth before Christmas.
The snow has arrived, and no one likes to be born into a snowdrift so we wrestled (correction: the Farmer wrestled) the expectant ewes into the lambing pen. They look pretty comfortable in there; the Farmer just finished stapling plastic up over the open windows yesterday.
I’m happy to see the udders because it means the ewes will have milk and I won’t have to worry about staggering out to the barn in the middle of the night with a heated baby bottle full of milk replacer. Not that I mind feeding new lambs. I’m just not very fond of it in lieu of sleep.
Of course, when there are lambs in the barn I am always running out there to see what they are up to. The lambs get themselves stuck in the feeders, they fall into water buckets, they squeeze out of the pens through gaps in the wall and then can’t find their way back to their mothers. They are constantly getting into trouble. A friend of mine suggested that we put a video camera in the barn so that we can watch sheep TV. But I can see myself getting obsessed with that. I’d be checking out the monitor every few minutes and panicking when one of the little ones moves out of camera range.
Someone else suggested I use a baby monitor, but unless the sheep are trying to communicate with me directly, I probably won’t be able to figure out what they are talking about. Besides, I gave away my baby monitor back in 1993 when it started picking up conversations in other homes. I felt too much like a voyeur. And I’m sure our neighbours with monitors would really appreciate having the sounds of a hundred sheep cutting in on their frequency.
While we wait for the sheep, we prepare for Christmas. Even those of us who are militant about not falling under the commercial spell of fuss and expense have things to do to get ready.
You would think that our 200 acres would yield at least one good Christmas tree. Well it didn’t. The Farmer and I rode the ATV to the back of the pasture where the spruce grows. None of the trees were suitable candidates for our symbol of Christmas, but we thought we might lob the top off one of them to make a tree for our daughter’s apartment. My dear husband hauled himself up into one of the trees, face full of snow and branches, in an attempt to saw the top off of it. It wasn’t until I picked my way through thorn brush and deep snow that I saw the other side of the “tree”. It was completely bare of branches. He finished sawing and it fell to the ground. I watched his (snow-covered) face as he walked around to examine the back of it. “It’s not a Christmas tree. It only has one side. If we give her this she will think we don’t like her anymore.”
And so we came back to the house soaking wet and empty-handed. It’s a good thing too, because when the offspring arrived for Sunday dinner, she announced that maybe she didn’t really want a tree after all. Sigh. She’s such a city girl. I gave her some extra garland and a package of gold balls and told her to have fun decorating. I’m glad she wasn’t too disappointed.
After dinner, I gave the girls the job of decorating our tree (a beautiful 7-foot model, purchased at the Johnson Brothers farm on Townline Road). As they untangled garlands of beads and hung ornaments in strategic places all over the tree, they chatted and laughed. I took pictures. Poured some rum into my eggnog and put my favourite Christmas CD on in the kitchen.
“You know it’s Christmas when Mom breaks out the Celine Dion,” my eldest declared.
Happiness is watching my girls together, laughing, teasing each other, and reliving memories of Christmases past.
As always, but especially during special occasions, the ghost of Dad is in the room, laughing along with us, and reveling in the joy that is family.
-30-
The snow has arrived, and no one likes to be born into a snowdrift so we wrestled (correction: the Farmer wrestled) the expectant ewes into the lambing pen. They look pretty comfortable in there; the Farmer just finished stapling plastic up over the open windows yesterday.
I’m happy to see the udders because it means the ewes will have milk and I won’t have to worry about staggering out to the barn in the middle of the night with a heated baby bottle full of milk replacer. Not that I mind feeding new lambs. I’m just not very fond of it in lieu of sleep.
Of course, when there are lambs in the barn I am always running out there to see what they are up to. The lambs get themselves stuck in the feeders, they fall into water buckets, they squeeze out of the pens through gaps in the wall and then can’t find their way back to their mothers. They are constantly getting into trouble. A friend of mine suggested that we put a video camera in the barn so that we can watch sheep TV. But I can see myself getting obsessed with that. I’d be checking out the monitor every few minutes and panicking when one of the little ones moves out of camera range.
Someone else suggested I use a baby monitor, but unless the sheep are trying to communicate with me directly, I probably won’t be able to figure out what they are talking about. Besides, I gave away my baby monitor back in 1993 when it started picking up conversations in other homes. I felt too much like a voyeur. And I’m sure our neighbours with monitors would really appreciate having the sounds of a hundred sheep cutting in on their frequency.
While we wait for the sheep, we prepare for Christmas. Even those of us who are militant about not falling under the commercial spell of fuss and expense have things to do to get ready.
You would think that our 200 acres would yield at least one good Christmas tree. Well it didn’t. The Farmer and I rode the ATV to the back of the pasture where the spruce grows. None of the trees were suitable candidates for our symbol of Christmas, but we thought we might lob the top off one of them to make a tree for our daughter’s apartment. My dear husband hauled himself up into one of the trees, face full of snow and branches, in an attempt to saw the top off of it. It wasn’t until I picked my way through thorn brush and deep snow that I saw the other side of the “tree”. It was completely bare of branches. He finished sawing and it fell to the ground. I watched his (snow-covered) face as he walked around to examine the back of it. “It’s not a Christmas tree. It only has one side. If we give her this she will think we don’t like her anymore.”
And so we came back to the house soaking wet and empty-handed. It’s a good thing too, because when the offspring arrived for Sunday dinner, she announced that maybe she didn’t really want a tree after all. Sigh. She’s such a city girl. I gave her some extra garland and a package of gold balls and told her to have fun decorating. I’m glad she wasn’t too disappointed.
After dinner, I gave the girls the job of decorating our tree (a beautiful 7-foot model, purchased at the Johnson Brothers farm on Townline Road). As they untangled garlands of beads and hung ornaments in strategic places all over the tree, they chatted and laughed. I took pictures. Poured some rum into my eggnog and put my favourite Christmas CD on in the kitchen.
“You know it’s Christmas when Mom breaks out the Celine Dion,” my eldest declared.
Happiness is watching my girls together, laughing, teasing each other, and reliving memories of Christmases past.
As always, but especially during special occasions, the ghost of Dad is in the room, laughing along with us, and reveling in the joy that is family.
-30-
Hooray Hooray we're into the hay
It’s a sunny Saturday but the wind is blowing a gale and it’s absolutely freezing. I tiptoe out onto the porch and tap the thermometer, which I believe is stuck at 5 degrees Celsius. We spent the morning working on the farm – I mucked out the horse stalls and the Farmer cleaned the geese he got yesterday, then we boarded up the back porch where we will stack the winter wood for the stove. The Farmer stood on the tractor and lifted the lawn furniture that I handed him up into the stable loft. I chased the cows out into the pasture and pulled the page wire fence across the opening so that we could move the first of the precious bales of hay out of storage and into the feeders that we will use all winter. The cows watched us carefully from the other side of the fence. Betty sniffed at the sweet hay wafting toward her on the wind and mooed at me. Mocha licked the rubber strap that held the fence in place. They are hungry.
My job is to keep the animals at bay while the Farmer moves hay into feeders with his tractor. We don’t want another incident like last year when Ginger nearly became a beef-kabob on the end of the tractor fork.
Finally it is safe to open the fence and let the cows in to feed. Betty moos when she passes me on her way to the feeder as if to say, “It’s about time!”
Mocha has grown so much, her collar is growing tight. She licks at my hand and tries to shake me away as I loosen the strap. All the while she keeps eating the tender hay. Julie the First is covered in soft black curls now. She skips away and gives a little donkey kick when I try to touch her. I need some sweet feed. I want to train her as I have with the others, to come for the sticky molasses-laced grain. That is the gentlest way I know how to lure the animals into a stall or a head gate.
The Farmer rests a round bale in another feeder in the barn yard for the sheep and horses. The Belgians are the first to discover it, and they spend the rest of the morning there, grazing in the warm sun. They watch us working in the stable, me throwing manure into a wheelbarrow and the Farmer stirring up clouds of feathers as he plucks. The horses have soft, downy auras of winter hair emerging. They prefer to be outside, but we try to get them in at night so that we can check them over. Ashley is favouring her hind leg on the right. I will coax her to lift it later. Although that isn’t the difficult part – it’s keeping the heavy hoof up for examination and cleaning when she wants to put it back down. The farrier is due for a return engagement in December and I want the girls to be good for him – so we had better do some more training. I give the horses a hug around the neck and they kiss me on top of the head, rubbing remnants of corn into my hair. Nice. Must remember to shampoo later.
Lunchtime is soup, sandwich and tea, to warm the insides for more work. But I won’t be going back outside today. I have a column to write and a manuscript to work on, emails from the office to answer and – oh yeah – a house to clean. I wake up the teenager who will be my assistant and she is not appreciative.
I take my tea to the computer and look out the picture window at my husband, who has just cleaned his gun. It is muzzle loader season next week and he wants to be ready. The deer have eluded him so far this year. I watch as he aims his gun at the boulder that mysteriously split in two last summer. The shot makes my heart jump. I see the horses, several acres away, take off in the opposite direction. The Farmer notices me watching and smiles, giving me the thumbs up sign.
Ten minutes later the curious horses are up sniffing the boulder that the Farmer was using as a target. I watch as he tries calling them away from his range of fire. When they won’t come to his call, he tries shooing them away. Eventually the horses grow bored of this game and wander away. The Hunter’s next shot sends them galloping down the field to the open pasture below. I decide to stick my head out the patio door to scold him for scaring my horses. As I step out of the den, however, my heart jumps again. A skunk and coyote are lying on the floor of the family room. The Farmer has proudly brought his carefully preserved pelts into the house to show me. Just then I hear the truck driving away, so I don’t have the opportunity to ask where he intends to display these treasures. The wall of the stable, over his tool bench, sounds like a good place to me. Surely he doesn’t plan to adorn our walls with these furs?
And he thought my Gustav Klimt print was offensive.
I step outside and watch as the sheep, which have recently discovered the bale of hay, tear it apart chunk by chunk. The bale is disappearing fast. We probably need about 100 to get us through the winter, and we have 80. Hopefully the winter will not be a long one.
-30-
My job is to keep the animals at bay while the Farmer moves hay into feeders with his tractor. We don’t want another incident like last year when Ginger nearly became a beef-kabob on the end of the tractor fork.
Finally it is safe to open the fence and let the cows in to feed. Betty moos when she passes me on her way to the feeder as if to say, “It’s about time!”
Mocha has grown so much, her collar is growing tight. She licks at my hand and tries to shake me away as I loosen the strap. All the while she keeps eating the tender hay. Julie the First is covered in soft black curls now. She skips away and gives a little donkey kick when I try to touch her. I need some sweet feed. I want to train her as I have with the others, to come for the sticky molasses-laced grain. That is the gentlest way I know how to lure the animals into a stall or a head gate.
The Farmer rests a round bale in another feeder in the barn yard for the sheep and horses. The Belgians are the first to discover it, and they spend the rest of the morning there, grazing in the warm sun. They watch us working in the stable, me throwing manure into a wheelbarrow and the Farmer stirring up clouds of feathers as he plucks. The horses have soft, downy auras of winter hair emerging. They prefer to be outside, but we try to get them in at night so that we can check them over. Ashley is favouring her hind leg on the right. I will coax her to lift it later. Although that isn’t the difficult part – it’s keeping the heavy hoof up for examination and cleaning when she wants to put it back down. The farrier is due for a return engagement in December and I want the girls to be good for him – so we had better do some more training. I give the horses a hug around the neck and they kiss me on top of the head, rubbing remnants of corn into my hair. Nice. Must remember to shampoo later.
Lunchtime is soup, sandwich and tea, to warm the insides for more work. But I won’t be going back outside today. I have a column to write and a manuscript to work on, emails from the office to answer and – oh yeah – a house to clean. I wake up the teenager who will be my assistant and she is not appreciative.
I take my tea to the computer and look out the picture window at my husband, who has just cleaned his gun. It is muzzle loader season next week and he wants to be ready. The deer have eluded him so far this year. I watch as he aims his gun at the boulder that mysteriously split in two last summer. The shot makes my heart jump. I see the horses, several acres away, take off in the opposite direction. The Farmer notices me watching and smiles, giving me the thumbs up sign.
Ten minutes later the curious horses are up sniffing the boulder that the Farmer was using as a target. I watch as he tries calling them away from his range of fire. When they won’t come to his call, he tries shooing them away. Eventually the horses grow bored of this game and wander away. The Hunter’s next shot sends them galloping down the field to the open pasture below. I decide to stick my head out the patio door to scold him for scaring my horses. As I step out of the den, however, my heart jumps again. A skunk and coyote are lying on the floor of the family room. The Farmer has proudly brought his carefully preserved pelts into the house to show me. Just then I hear the truck driving away, so I don’t have the opportunity to ask where he intends to display these treasures. The wall of the stable, over his tool bench, sounds like a good place to me. Surely he doesn’t plan to adorn our walls with these furs?
And he thought my Gustav Klimt print was offensive.
I step outside and watch as the sheep, which have recently discovered the bale of hay, tear it apart chunk by chunk. The bale is disappearing fast. We probably need about 100 to get us through the winter, and we have 80. Hopefully the winter will not be a long one.
-30-
Friday, November 27, 2009
Turn me loose; I gotta do it my way...
We had planned to keep the boys in the pen-itentiary ‘til Christmas but it was such a nice, mild, fresh-air weekend that the Farmer took pity on them.
“I’m going to turn one of the rams out. Which one do you want me to release?” he asked, as we cruised down Pattersons’ Corners Road in the F150.
“Why don’t we give Rambi a chance?” I suggested.
“Rambi doesn’t know what the hell he’s doin’. I’m letting Rambo out,” he said.
“Hon...why did you even ask me?”
“I’m sittin’ here wonderin’ the same thing, darlin’.”
The Farmer likes to make me feel involved in the farming decisions. But the fact that he had adopted my habit of calling the animals by name was not lost on me.
When we returned to the farm we went our separate ways, doing our favourite weekend things. I took Cody the noble farm dog on a quick hike, and the Farmer sent smoke signals with his burn barrel.
Later I caught up with him in the lambing pen where the rams had been happily ensconced for close to four months. He had just released the senior ram, Rambo, minutes earlier. The ram was already on the job, his nose crinkled in a perma-sniff. The females circled around him, awaiting their turn. Even the ewe lambs seemed to catch on to the routine. Ram sniffs ewe’s tail, ram sidles up and licks ewe behind the ear, and if she stands stock still, he mounts her for about ten seconds. The red chalk box he has strapped to his chest leaves a telltale marking on her rump. If the ewe refuses to stand still, however, the ram stamps his foot in disapproval, grunts at her and moves on to the next candidate.
Watching Rambo in action, I thought, “is that it?” I mean, the women had been waiting for months to see him. I’m sure some feared the worst. They thought he had been given a ticket for the eternal holiday. When he finally emerged from his jail cell / man cave, there must have been rejoicing among the ewes.
After they have been mated, the marked ewes follow closely behind Rambo like his own personal fan club. He sneaks up on unsuspecting females now, growing ever more wily at his game. The ewes stand in a row as they feed on the pasture. Rambo moves along behind them, silently going about his work. After one of the ewes is mounted, she turns to her neighbour and says, “That’s odd. Louise, did you feel something? My goodness. Mosquitoes at this time of year.” Looking behind her, she sees nothing. So she returns to eating, the red mark of truth emblazoned on her backside.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Rambi is panicking. If there is one thing sheep hate, it’s being alone. As the Farmer approaches, the junior ram tries to launch himself out of the window.
“Tell me again the reason behind separating them?” I ask my husband.
“If I don’t, they just might kill each other,” the Farmer explained.
“Well he doesn’t like being alone.”
“I know. That’s why you’re going to bring your ewe lambs in here to keep him company.”
“Ok. But only if he promises to be gentle. It’s their first time.”
That’s when the Farmer gave me his look. The look that lets me know he is growing tired of indulging me.
“I don’t know how you’re going to get them in here,” he said.
I looked at him, amazed at how he underestimates my shepherding abilities. I opened the gate and looked at my 12 lambs, who were gathered around the door in the hopes of getting some hay or corn tossed to them. No matter how “dumb” people say sheep are, they do have a memory.
I knickered and clucked, made kissing noises, and called, “here Chicken, here, chick, chick, chick.” I heard something like a snort behind me. I wheeled around to face my husband as the 12 sheep nervously scuttled into the aisle. We put 5 in with Rambi, and the other 7 were put in a neighbouring pen, with instructions to watch and learn.
Poor Rambi. I think the only way he is going to get lucky is if one of his Sheilas gets her head stuck in the feeder. He spent the rest of the afternoon chasing the girls in circles, I’m sure. We’ll have to watch he doesn’t lose too much weight from all of this exercise.
We let Rambo out on November 22nd, so the lambs are due the 22nd of April. This is my first winter as a farmwife where I will be able to stay inside, curled up by the fire reading a book instead of trudging out in the snow to bottle-feed newborn lambs.
I’m sure I’ll find plenty of other things to keep me busy over the next few months. I’m supposed to be putting a book together from all of these columns, for one thing. It keeps getting pushed aside but in the dead of winter there won’t be many excuses.
You can send the Farmwife a note at: dianafisher1@gmail.com.
“I’m going to turn one of the rams out. Which one do you want me to release?” he asked, as we cruised down Pattersons’ Corners Road in the F150.
“Why don’t we give Rambi a chance?” I suggested.
“Rambi doesn’t know what the hell he’s doin’. I’m letting Rambo out,” he said.
“Hon...why did you even ask me?”
“I’m sittin’ here wonderin’ the same thing, darlin’.”
The Farmer likes to make me feel involved in the farming decisions. But the fact that he had adopted my habit of calling the animals by name was not lost on me.
When we returned to the farm we went our separate ways, doing our favourite weekend things. I took Cody the noble farm dog on a quick hike, and the Farmer sent smoke signals with his burn barrel.
Later I caught up with him in the lambing pen where the rams had been happily ensconced for close to four months. He had just released the senior ram, Rambo, minutes earlier. The ram was already on the job, his nose crinkled in a perma-sniff. The females circled around him, awaiting their turn. Even the ewe lambs seemed to catch on to the routine. Ram sniffs ewe’s tail, ram sidles up and licks ewe behind the ear, and if she stands stock still, he mounts her for about ten seconds. The red chalk box he has strapped to his chest leaves a telltale marking on her rump. If the ewe refuses to stand still, however, the ram stamps his foot in disapproval, grunts at her and moves on to the next candidate.
Watching Rambo in action, I thought, “is that it?” I mean, the women had been waiting for months to see him. I’m sure some feared the worst. They thought he had been given a ticket for the eternal holiday. When he finally emerged from his jail cell / man cave, there must have been rejoicing among the ewes.
After they have been mated, the marked ewes follow closely behind Rambo like his own personal fan club. He sneaks up on unsuspecting females now, growing ever more wily at his game. The ewes stand in a row as they feed on the pasture. Rambo moves along behind them, silently going about his work. After one of the ewes is mounted, she turns to her neighbour and says, “That’s odd. Louise, did you feel something? My goodness. Mosquitoes at this time of year.” Looking behind her, she sees nothing. So she returns to eating, the red mark of truth emblazoned on her backside.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Rambi is panicking. If there is one thing sheep hate, it’s being alone. As the Farmer approaches, the junior ram tries to launch himself out of the window.
“Tell me again the reason behind separating them?” I ask my husband.
“If I don’t, they just might kill each other,” the Farmer explained.
“Well he doesn’t like being alone.”
“I know. That’s why you’re going to bring your ewe lambs in here to keep him company.”
“Ok. But only if he promises to be gentle. It’s their first time.”
That’s when the Farmer gave me his look. The look that lets me know he is growing tired of indulging me.
“I don’t know how you’re going to get them in here,” he said.
I looked at him, amazed at how he underestimates my shepherding abilities. I opened the gate and looked at my 12 lambs, who were gathered around the door in the hopes of getting some hay or corn tossed to them. No matter how “dumb” people say sheep are, they do have a memory.
I knickered and clucked, made kissing noises, and called, “here Chicken, here, chick, chick, chick.” I heard something like a snort behind me. I wheeled around to face my husband as the 12 sheep nervously scuttled into the aisle. We put 5 in with Rambi, and the other 7 were put in a neighbouring pen, with instructions to watch and learn.
Poor Rambi. I think the only way he is going to get lucky is if one of his Sheilas gets her head stuck in the feeder. He spent the rest of the afternoon chasing the girls in circles, I’m sure. We’ll have to watch he doesn’t lose too much weight from all of this exercise.
We let Rambo out on November 22nd, so the lambs are due the 22nd of April. This is my first winter as a farmwife where I will be able to stay inside, curled up by the fire reading a book instead of trudging out in the snow to bottle-feed newborn lambs.
I’m sure I’ll find plenty of other things to keep me busy over the next few months. I’m supposed to be putting a book together from all of these columns, for one thing. It keeps getting pushed aside but in the dead of winter there won’t be many excuses.
You can send the Farmwife a note at: dianafisher1@gmail.com.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Hey ladies - is it getting HOT in here?
Every morning I go out to the barn to feed the rams-in-waiting. On my way to their pen, I stop to watch the cows in the front pasture.
The animals are often still lounging on a pile of hay in the first rays of sun when I arrive. Sometimes they are already out in the pasture, munching on the last tufts of green grass. Julie the 1st – our Black Angus who was born on Canada Day - is sometimes suckling on her mother. It may be time to wean her. Perhaps then Ginger will go into heat.
I don’t know why Ginger won’t come into season. Last year, she and Betty were alternating taking the lead in a convoluted mating dance even though they were both still nursing their young.
Betty and Mocha were artificially inseminated earlier in the year. Maybe that is why Ginger isn’t going into heat. Her friends are already pregnant. There is no one to dance with.
The Farmer and I have discussed infinite possibilities as to why our nice, fat Hereford is not showing any signs that she is once again ready to bred.
I think I have the reason. Ginger is holding out. She wants a real man. She is tired of these mail-order males that arrive in the form of a test tube administered by a technician wearing latex gloves. Ginger wants to be courted the old fashioned way. She wants a bull.
We may have missed our window of opportunity this season, now that it is getting colder and snow is just around the corner. But in the spring, Ginger just might get her wish. If we bring a bull in here, he will let us know when our cow is in heat. And that’s a good thing, because we obviously don’t have a clue.
Our skills at determining the seasons of our animals are equally weak when it comes to our horses. Ashley and Misty have had days throughout the summer when they appeared to be acting quite strangely – agitated and bitchy, nipping at each other - but I am not convinced I can determine when they are actually in heat. In any case, my hunch is not confident enough to merit loading the girls onto a trailer and hauling them over to a neighbouring stud farm to be bred. With my luck we would go to all that trouble only to discover, after introductions are made, that our horsey-girls are absolutely not in the mood.
Perhaps springtime will be our lucky season. The animals will get caught up in spring fever, and we will be that much more accustomed to reading their signs.
On another note, Christmas is coming. I noticed a few lights going up this week, so I think it’s finally time to pitch the dried out chrysanthemums and shriveled pumpkins that are scattered around the front porch. It’s a beautiful, mild autumn Sunday so I might take the dog for a walk around the back 40, wave at the Farmer ploughing his field, and collect some decorative grapevines and cedar boughs for the urn planters.
The Christmas decoration situation is always a challenge at the Fisher farm. As a bachelor for several years before I arrived on the scene, the Farmer thought that tossing a single string of lights up a spindly birch tree was decoration enough. It wasn’t until our August wedding day that I realized he left those lights up all year. I don’t know how many years that string has been up there, but I think it has probably lost light in at least one bulb each year. Now they are all dead. Perhaps he will agree it is time to pull it down and begin anew.
Today would be a perfect day to pull lights out from the attic, test them, and string them along the edge of the roof. It’s mild, sunny, and only a gentle breeze is blowing. I might even hang some of my comforters and bed spreads on the line – I am still digging my way out of the laundry resulting from our dozen house guests last week. It’s odd to have such balmy weather in the middle of November – but we’ll take it. Hopefully this doesn’t mean we will pay for it later in the form of too much ice and snow.
It snowed briefly one morning last week, but winter is still only a distant threat. Having been brought up to dress warmly, grin and bear it and hop on a snowmobile when the roads are blocked, I love the winter. To me the snowy months are an excuse for curling up in front of the fire with a good book, a cup of tea and a bowl of popcorn. And if you’re dressed properly, there’s nothing like a winter morning to remind you of how beautiful and cleansing a new blanket of snow can be.
It’s time to put heaters in the water troughs, stuff the cracks around the barn doors with blankets and pour an extra scoopful of corn in the horse feeders. Winter is coming. Bring it on.
The Farmwife would like to publicly thank City of Ottawa paramedic Hilton Radfern for returning her wallet to her after she left it in a Food Basics shopping cart. Bless you.
-30-
The animals are often still lounging on a pile of hay in the first rays of sun when I arrive. Sometimes they are already out in the pasture, munching on the last tufts of green grass. Julie the 1st – our Black Angus who was born on Canada Day - is sometimes suckling on her mother. It may be time to wean her. Perhaps then Ginger will go into heat.
I don’t know why Ginger won’t come into season. Last year, she and Betty were alternating taking the lead in a convoluted mating dance even though they were both still nursing their young.
Betty and Mocha were artificially inseminated earlier in the year. Maybe that is why Ginger isn’t going into heat. Her friends are already pregnant. There is no one to dance with.
The Farmer and I have discussed infinite possibilities as to why our nice, fat Hereford is not showing any signs that she is once again ready to bred.
I think I have the reason. Ginger is holding out. She wants a real man. She is tired of these mail-order males that arrive in the form of a test tube administered by a technician wearing latex gloves. Ginger wants to be courted the old fashioned way. She wants a bull.
We may have missed our window of opportunity this season, now that it is getting colder and snow is just around the corner. But in the spring, Ginger just might get her wish. If we bring a bull in here, he will let us know when our cow is in heat. And that’s a good thing, because we obviously don’t have a clue.
Our skills at determining the seasons of our animals are equally weak when it comes to our horses. Ashley and Misty have had days throughout the summer when they appeared to be acting quite strangely – agitated and bitchy, nipping at each other - but I am not convinced I can determine when they are actually in heat. In any case, my hunch is not confident enough to merit loading the girls onto a trailer and hauling them over to a neighbouring stud farm to be bred. With my luck we would go to all that trouble only to discover, after introductions are made, that our horsey-girls are absolutely not in the mood.
Perhaps springtime will be our lucky season. The animals will get caught up in spring fever, and we will be that much more accustomed to reading their signs.
On another note, Christmas is coming. I noticed a few lights going up this week, so I think it’s finally time to pitch the dried out chrysanthemums and shriveled pumpkins that are scattered around the front porch. It’s a beautiful, mild autumn Sunday so I might take the dog for a walk around the back 40, wave at the Farmer ploughing his field, and collect some decorative grapevines and cedar boughs for the urn planters.
The Christmas decoration situation is always a challenge at the Fisher farm. As a bachelor for several years before I arrived on the scene, the Farmer thought that tossing a single string of lights up a spindly birch tree was decoration enough. It wasn’t until our August wedding day that I realized he left those lights up all year. I don’t know how many years that string has been up there, but I think it has probably lost light in at least one bulb each year. Now they are all dead. Perhaps he will agree it is time to pull it down and begin anew.
Today would be a perfect day to pull lights out from the attic, test them, and string them along the edge of the roof. It’s mild, sunny, and only a gentle breeze is blowing. I might even hang some of my comforters and bed spreads on the line – I am still digging my way out of the laundry resulting from our dozen house guests last week. It’s odd to have such balmy weather in the middle of November – but we’ll take it. Hopefully this doesn’t mean we will pay for it later in the form of too much ice and snow.
It snowed briefly one morning last week, but winter is still only a distant threat. Having been brought up to dress warmly, grin and bear it and hop on a snowmobile when the roads are blocked, I love the winter. To me the snowy months are an excuse for curling up in front of the fire with a good book, a cup of tea and a bowl of popcorn. And if you’re dressed properly, there’s nothing like a winter morning to remind you of how beautiful and cleansing a new blanket of snow can be.
It’s time to put heaters in the water troughs, stuff the cracks around the barn doors with blankets and pour an extra scoopful of corn in the horse feeders. Winter is coming. Bring it on.
The Farmwife would like to publicly thank City of Ottawa paramedic Hilton Radfern for returning her wallet to her after she left it in a Food Basics shopping cart. Bless you.
-30-
Fisher farm turns into Cree hunt camp
Our documentary team travelled to James Bay to capture the spring goose hunt activities on film last April. While we were there, I mentioned to our hosts that the goose hunt took place in the fall in Eastern Ontario. The next thing I knew, a contingent of Cree was planning a November trip to Grenville County.
In the last weeks of summer, I attempted to organize this cross-cultural hunting expedition as I would any project, by researching, scheduling, planning and communicating. But I received very little communication from the Cree in return.
They plan their daily activities around hunting and fishing. Their work schedules are normally very accommodating for this purpose. Continuous emails from some woman in Ontario (me) attempting to coordinate a hunting trip, therefore, were going to remain unanswered until the last possible minute.
After receiving no reply to my emails from one potential guest, I decided to try his cell phone. Wireless services arrived in northern Quebec about three years ago and they have been extremely well connected ever since. It took him a while to answer, he explained, because he was busy pulling a moose out of the bush. Well, that’s an excuse you don’t hear every day.
I had suggested the second week of November for the hunt, because there are normally a fair number of geese at that time, as well as an abundance of wild turkey and deer. A letter of permission was acquired from the local Algonquin and Mohawk Indian Chiefs – more of a courtesy than a regulation – and the Ministry of Natural Resources was informed that we would have a visiting delegation of Cree coming to harvest on our property. The Cree informed me that they were only interested in hunting geese. So we planned to take them to the St. Lawrence River. They could comfortably stay at the McIntosh Inn, in Morrisburg.
As the first of November approached, I began to worry. I hadn’t received final confirmation on the number of hunters. Finally, I received an email explaining that the men of the Salt family in Waskaganish, whom I had met last April, were indeed coming to hunt. In addition, they would be bringing their wives, their elderly parents and some children. And, oh yeah – they had decided that they would like to stay at our farm instead of at the Inn.
Well, I had extended the invitation. Back when I thought it would be four or five hunters coming to join my hunter-gatherer’s party. I had been planning this event for weeks, if not months. I could hardly turn back now.
I cancelled the seven rooms I had booked at the Inn, and began hauling boat and camper mattresses out of our basement storage. I farmed all the girls out to relatives for the weekend, and set up our very own hunt camp at the farm. Who would have guessed we can sleep 15??
When I broke the news to my hunter-gatherer, he was more than accommodating. After all, he had signed up to spend the weekend hunting with people who had it in their blood. He was pretty excited.
I rushed home from work on Thursday evening, anxious to arrive home before my guests landed after their 12-hour journey. I finished up making beds and waited. And waited. Finally, by 8 pm, the extended Salt family had successfully GPS-ed their way to the Fisher farm. And they were hungry. After introductions were made I dished out some of the Farmer’s homemade mac-and-cheese and settled down to get acquainted.
Within minutes our guests were conversing enthusiastically in Cree, interspersed with the occasional English word and peals of giggles.
At 3:30 the next morning, the Farmer and I rose to prepare breakfast for the hunters. We went through 5 dozen eggs, 5 pounds of bacon, four loaves of bread and a kilo of coffee this weekend. The bannock that I made myself remained uneaten. I believe the dog is sniffing at it now, and wondering what sin he committed to receive that surprise in his bowl.
The men, including 70-something-year-old Johnny Weistche and 12-year-old Riley Salt, headed out to the St. Lawrence at 5 am. There they met up with my hunter-gatherer’s party, who were very excited to learn goose hunting from the pros.
Unfortunately, with our unseasonably warm fall thus far, the geese were not exactly abundant. The men followed tradition and allowed young Riley to take the first goose, which he did with ease. He performed a perfect goose call with his mouth that was so realistic the local men thought he was using a calling device. The elder Johnny took the second goose, and that was it for the day. The second day was even worse. As the temperature rose to a nice Cree summer day, the geese went elsewhere. But despite driving 12 hours to hunt and then coming up empty handed, we didn’t hear one word of complaint or discouragement from this group. Always positive, often giggling, they just took the day as it came. The men swapped hunting stories and compared notes. They bonded over a shore lunch cooked on an open fire.
On Saturday evening, we stood outside the barn watching the horses as a flock of geese began to approach. Riley did his call a few times, and I watched amazed as the geese made a slight change in direction to fly right over our heads. Again Sunday morning he called geese in from all directions. He is the Vienna Choir boy of goose callers; hopefully he will be able to keep that high pitch when his voice changes.
By the end of the weekend, I got over my insecurity about being a non-conventional wife who rarely cooks, doesn’t know how pluck her own goose and didn’t personally create the wood carvings that decorate my home. I got to know the Cree women fairly well during our short time together, and I admire so many things about their culture. They were very good at taking care of their elders. The families are all very close, and the men take their women, children and parents along with them to hunt camp. Everyone plays a role in the smooth operations of the hunt.
Back in April, I met the grandmother Clymie while she was stitching together a pair of moosehide and beaver fur slippers. This weekend I was presented with my own pair. They are so beautiful I almost don’t want to wear them.
I am looking forward to the spring, when the Salt family promises to return, and the Fisher farm turns into a hunt camp again. The introduction to this fascinating Canadian culture is worth every bit of effort.
In the last weeks of summer, I attempted to organize this cross-cultural hunting expedition as I would any project, by researching, scheduling, planning and communicating. But I received very little communication from the Cree in return.
They plan their daily activities around hunting and fishing. Their work schedules are normally very accommodating for this purpose. Continuous emails from some woman in Ontario (me) attempting to coordinate a hunting trip, therefore, were going to remain unanswered until the last possible minute.
After receiving no reply to my emails from one potential guest, I decided to try his cell phone. Wireless services arrived in northern Quebec about three years ago and they have been extremely well connected ever since. It took him a while to answer, he explained, because he was busy pulling a moose out of the bush. Well, that’s an excuse you don’t hear every day.
I had suggested the second week of November for the hunt, because there are normally a fair number of geese at that time, as well as an abundance of wild turkey and deer. A letter of permission was acquired from the local Algonquin and Mohawk Indian Chiefs – more of a courtesy than a regulation – and the Ministry of Natural Resources was informed that we would have a visiting delegation of Cree coming to harvest on our property. The Cree informed me that they were only interested in hunting geese. So we planned to take them to the St. Lawrence River. They could comfortably stay at the McIntosh Inn, in Morrisburg.
As the first of November approached, I began to worry. I hadn’t received final confirmation on the number of hunters. Finally, I received an email explaining that the men of the Salt family in Waskaganish, whom I had met last April, were indeed coming to hunt. In addition, they would be bringing their wives, their elderly parents and some children. And, oh yeah – they had decided that they would like to stay at our farm instead of at the Inn.
Well, I had extended the invitation. Back when I thought it would be four or five hunters coming to join my hunter-gatherer’s party. I had been planning this event for weeks, if not months. I could hardly turn back now.
I cancelled the seven rooms I had booked at the Inn, and began hauling boat and camper mattresses out of our basement storage. I farmed all the girls out to relatives for the weekend, and set up our very own hunt camp at the farm. Who would have guessed we can sleep 15??
When I broke the news to my hunter-gatherer, he was more than accommodating. After all, he had signed up to spend the weekend hunting with people who had it in their blood. He was pretty excited.
I rushed home from work on Thursday evening, anxious to arrive home before my guests landed after their 12-hour journey. I finished up making beds and waited. And waited. Finally, by 8 pm, the extended Salt family had successfully GPS-ed their way to the Fisher farm. And they were hungry. After introductions were made I dished out some of the Farmer’s homemade mac-and-cheese and settled down to get acquainted.
Within minutes our guests were conversing enthusiastically in Cree, interspersed with the occasional English word and peals of giggles.
At 3:30 the next morning, the Farmer and I rose to prepare breakfast for the hunters. We went through 5 dozen eggs, 5 pounds of bacon, four loaves of bread and a kilo of coffee this weekend. The bannock that I made myself remained uneaten. I believe the dog is sniffing at it now, and wondering what sin he committed to receive that surprise in his bowl.
The men, including 70-something-year-old Johnny Weistche and 12-year-old Riley Salt, headed out to the St. Lawrence at 5 am. There they met up with my hunter-gatherer’s party, who were very excited to learn goose hunting from the pros.
Unfortunately, with our unseasonably warm fall thus far, the geese were not exactly abundant. The men followed tradition and allowed young Riley to take the first goose, which he did with ease. He performed a perfect goose call with his mouth that was so realistic the local men thought he was using a calling device. The elder Johnny took the second goose, and that was it for the day. The second day was even worse. As the temperature rose to a nice Cree summer day, the geese went elsewhere. But despite driving 12 hours to hunt and then coming up empty handed, we didn’t hear one word of complaint or discouragement from this group. Always positive, often giggling, they just took the day as it came. The men swapped hunting stories and compared notes. They bonded over a shore lunch cooked on an open fire.
On Saturday evening, we stood outside the barn watching the horses as a flock of geese began to approach. Riley did his call a few times, and I watched amazed as the geese made a slight change in direction to fly right over our heads. Again Sunday morning he called geese in from all directions. He is the Vienna Choir boy of goose callers; hopefully he will be able to keep that high pitch when his voice changes.
By the end of the weekend, I got over my insecurity about being a non-conventional wife who rarely cooks, doesn’t know how pluck her own goose and didn’t personally create the wood carvings that decorate my home. I got to know the Cree women fairly well during our short time together, and I admire so many things about their culture. They were very good at taking care of their elders. The families are all very close, and the men take their women, children and parents along with them to hunt camp. Everyone plays a role in the smooth operations of the hunt.
Back in April, I met the grandmother Clymie while she was stitching together a pair of moosehide and beaver fur slippers. This weekend I was presented with my own pair. They are so beautiful I almost don’t want to wear them.
I am looking forward to the spring, when the Salt family promises to return, and the Fisher farm turns into a hunt camp again. The introduction to this fascinating Canadian culture is worth every bit of effort.
Friday, November 6, 2009
and then there were 12...
“Thirteen isn’t so lucky after all, it turns out,” the Farmer said on his way through the house to get his gun.
“Coyotes got one of your lambs.”
I moved toward the door then stopped in my tracks, and sat down on the couch. I didn’t want to go out and see which lamb it was, or whether it was dead yet, or what was going on.
My husband and defender of fat fluffy lambs stopped beside me on his way out to hunt the coyotes. He put his hand on my shoulder.
“Sorry, hon.”
A few minutes later, after firing a couple of shots he came back in and reported that he had scared the wolves away, but they would likely be back to finish their meal.
The lambs come up the field toward the barn at dusk, but they aren’t always smart enough to follow the fence down to the gate. Sometimes they just sit up in the corner, closest to the barn, and fall asleep under the tree.
That’s where the coyote got one.
The lambs that I bottle-fed are so tame, they probably thought the nice doggie was coming over to touch noses and play tag. If he was slinking toward them through the long grass they would run – I’ve seen the entire herd of sheep dash up the field away from a prowling wolf - but if he just approached them casually, they would likely keep on eating, allowing him to join their group. When the attack happened, some of them might have been startled enough to run away, but others might have just kept on grazing. I have witnessed this before. It’s very strange.
All of these thoughts went through my head as I watched the Farmer loading his gun.
“I should have been leading them up to the barn every night,” I scolded myself. But to be honest, they might have just gone back out to the field after I left them.
The ewes have Donkey to protect them. The lambs are with the cows during the day. But at night the cows are smart enough to go to the shelter of the barn.
We sell our male lambs at market, but we keep our females to build up our herd. Most of the Farmer’s original ewes are about ten years old now. The lamb that died was supposed to have her first of many babies next spring.
Sheep are pretty easy prey for a coyote – especially if the coyote brings along his friends for back up. The sheep has no defences. She will stamp her foot when provoked. Sometimes she will try to butt her head against another sheep (or shepherdess) that is annoying her. But when attacked by a wild dog, she just plays dead.
We recognize that all animals have a right to hunt and live the only way they know how. The rule on the Fisher farm is, if the coyotes stay in the back field, in the long grass, we leave them alone. We don’t go hunting them. They can eat all the mice and squirrels they want, and sleep beside a warm hay bale. But if they come up to the pasture, they are fair game. All bets are off.
After this event, now that the coyotes have taken one of my lambs that I helped to deliver, bottle feed and raise myself, I find myself wondering, “what good are coyotes anyway? What purpose do they serve?” I know we haven’t had near the amount of problems that some sheep farmers have had. And some people living in rural communities have even reported having their family pets attacked by coyotes. What’s next? An attack on a child?
I heard a few more shots. Then footsteps on the porch, and the door slid open.
“There were four. I got the big one.” After seeing how upset I was at losing my lamb, the Farmer had sat out there for the rest of the evening, waiting for his chance. Sure enough, the four coyotes came back to eat their kill. And then there were three.
The next morning I went out to see the coyote where it lay in the shed. It was a beautiful animal. Its caramel-coloured fur was lush and thick, tipped with black and white highlights. It was about half the size of the yearling lamb, but its teeth looked dangerous enough. And the stench coming off that thing would take your breath away. The Farmer made the mistake of touching the horse on the end of her nose, after carrying the coyote in his gloved hand. She pulled away and snorted at him. She was greatly offended.
I looked at the coyote and thought, it is so dog-like that I probably wouldn’t be able to shoot it myself. Unless, of course, it was attacking one of my lambs in front of me. I’m not looking forward to the day when that happens and the Farmer isn’t home.
Maybe it’s time I learned how to shoot one of those guns. Every self-respecting Farmwife knows how to handle a firearm, doesn’t she?
-30-
“Coyotes got one of your lambs.”
I moved toward the door then stopped in my tracks, and sat down on the couch. I didn’t want to go out and see which lamb it was, or whether it was dead yet, or what was going on.
My husband and defender of fat fluffy lambs stopped beside me on his way out to hunt the coyotes. He put his hand on my shoulder.
“Sorry, hon.”
A few minutes later, after firing a couple of shots he came back in and reported that he had scared the wolves away, but they would likely be back to finish their meal.
The lambs come up the field toward the barn at dusk, but they aren’t always smart enough to follow the fence down to the gate. Sometimes they just sit up in the corner, closest to the barn, and fall asleep under the tree.
That’s where the coyote got one.
The lambs that I bottle-fed are so tame, they probably thought the nice doggie was coming over to touch noses and play tag. If he was slinking toward them through the long grass they would run – I’ve seen the entire herd of sheep dash up the field away from a prowling wolf - but if he just approached them casually, they would likely keep on eating, allowing him to join their group. When the attack happened, some of them might have been startled enough to run away, but others might have just kept on grazing. I have witnessed this before. It’s very strange.
All of these thoughts went through my head as I watched the Farmer loading his gun.
“I should have been leading them up to the barn every night,” I scolded myself. But to be honest, they might have just gone back out to the field after I left them.
The ewes have Donkey to protect them. The lambs are with the cows during the day. But at night the cows are smart enough to go to the shelter of the barn.
We sell our male lambs at market, but we keep our females to build up our herd. Most of the Farmer’s original ewes are about ten years old now. The lamb that died was supposed to have her first of many babies next spring.
Sheep are pretty easy prey for a coyote – especially if the coyote brings along his friends for back up. The sheep has no defences. She will stamp her foot when provoked. Sometimes she will try to butt her head against another sheep (or shepherdess) that is annoying her. But when attacked by a wild dog, she just plays dead.
We recognize that all animals have a right to hunt and live the only way they know how. The rule on the Fisher farm is, if the coyotes stay in the back field, in the long grass, we leave them alone. We don’t go hunting them. They can eat all the mice and squirrels they want, and sleep beside a warm hay bale. But if they come up to the pasture, they are fair game. All bets are off.
After this event, now that the coyotes have taken one of my lambs that I helped to deliver, bottle feed and raise myself, I find myself wondering, “what good are coyotes anyway? What purpose do they serve?” I know we haven’t had near the amount of problems that some sheep farmers have had. And some people living in rural communities have even reported having their family pets attacked by coyotes. What’s next? An attack on a child?
I heard a few more shots. Then footsteps on the porch, and the door slid open.
“There were four. I got the big one.” After seeing how upset I was at losing my lamb, the Farmer had sat out there for the rest of the evening, waiting for his chance. Sure enough, the four coyotes came back to eat their kill. And then there were three.
The next morning I went out to see the coyote where it lay in the shed. It was a beautiful animal. Its caramel-coloured fur was lush and thick, tipped with black and white highlights. It was about half the size of the yearling lamb, but its teeth looked dangerous enough. And the stench coming off that thing would take your breath away. The Farmer made the mistake of touching the horse on the end of her nose, after carrying the coyote in his gloved hand. She pulled away and snorted at him. She was greatly offended.
I looked at the coyote and thought, it is so dog-like that I probably wouldn’t be able to shoot it myself. Unless, of course, it was attacking one of my lambs in front of me. I’m not looking forward to the day when that happens and the Farmer isn’t home.
Maybe it’s time I learned how to shoot one of those guns. Every self-respecting Farmwife knows how to handle a firearm, doesn’t she?
-30-
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