Last Sunday we had a blackout – or a whiteout, depending on where you were. The winds began around midnight and continued blowing throughout the night, gathering strength. Early in the morning a wall of snow blew past the house, completely blocking sight beyond the porch. Then the snow cleared and the sun broke through the clouds. But still the winds blew.
First the wind came from the North-west, up the pasture, to hit the house at the back porch, rattling the sunblinds where they were rolled up against the windows. Then the wind changed direction and it came from the East, smacking the awning against the house. Every loose flap and board on the house flew up and slammed back down, making quite a ruckus. The sheepdog started barking and the cats went into hiding.
Then, shortly after noon, the power went out. The sun was still shining, so we stoked the fire in the woodstove and settled in with the last of the hot coffee and our oft-neglected paperbacks on the couch. I thought, this is my way to spend a Sunday. As the hours went on, it became increasingly apparent that we would not be able to properly clean the house and prepare a full meal for our dozen-or-so Sunday dinner guests. I picked up the cell phone and called to cancel our guests driving out from Ottawa. “Oh don’t worry; we aren’t coming!” said my father-in-law, who informed me that a blizzard had completely overtaken Ottawa. News briefs on my Blackberry from Ottawa Police reported road closures on the west, south and east of the city due to poor visibility, ice and numerous collisions. They even closed the 417. At our house, the sun shone, and the wind stopped. But the power was out. So we cancelled Sunday dinner. We never cancel Sunday dinner.
The afternoon stretched ahead of us. What to do? I took advantage of the sunshine to sweep and Swiffer the floors, and the Farmer put a pot of bottled water on the woodstove for tea. I nibbled on bean salad, bell peppers and hummus for lunch. And I made a salami-and-cheese sandwich on rye for my husband. We were quite comfy in front of the wood stove, and tucked back into our books.
It occurred to me that we need a radio that runs on batteries for times like these. I would have liked to hear the news. But when she finally woke up from her long winter’s nap, our daughter created a wi-fi hotspot with her cell phone and plugged it into her laptop so we could check out the Hydro One site. Power outages were marked all over Eastern and Southern Ontario, in scattered pockets. Merrickville was on, but Kemptville and Oxford Mills were out. Oxford Station was on, but Spencerville was out. Our skies were clear, but Kemptville was in white out and Ottawa residents were being advised not to venture out onto the roads at all.
I settled back into the easy chair in the corner between two windows and tucked back into my book. Paulina went upstairs and got a pile of books and her guitar. I haven’t spent that much time with my youngest child in ages. Of course, she was also nursing a head cold so she wasn’t energetic enough to do much besides loll around in front of the fire.
At about 4pm, the lights, television and radio came back on. But I had finished my book, spent the afternoon in front of the fire with my husband and daughter, and felt very relaxed indeed. I made a simple dinner of salad, soup and open-faced Reuben sandwiches, and we watched two movies in a row.
“What a productive day this has been!” the teenager announced, before finally going off to bed. The power can go out any weekend as far as I’m concerned.
Author’s footnote: thoughts and prayers go out to the family and friends of the late Marg Rupert, who was killed in a fire at her home on Sunday. Hold your loved ones close, for we never know how long we will have with them. Email: dianafisher1@gmail.com.
Thursday, January 24, 2013
To Anastasia on her 21st birthday
Those last two snowfalls of 2012 left the barn buried and packed in ice. The Farmer spent most of one day clearing our long driveway, then he started creating pathways to the shed and outbuildings with the snowblower. When he got around to the far side of the barn, he got a big surprise. Just in front of him in the pure white snow, a little black head popped up and bobbed around before weakly settling back down. A new calf had been abandoned in the snow by its mother.
The dark brown calf had been licked clean, and any sign of the birthplace had been covered by the freshly fallen snow. Still, there was no telling how long it had been lying there alone in the cold, so my husband and son-in-law carried it to the lambing room of the barn. They set it up with a heat lamp and gave it a rub-down with a towel. Then they went out to search for its mother.
All of our cows were standing at the hay feeder, chowing down. Mocha and Ginger had already had their calves; this one belonged to Betty, Julie or the first-timer, Oreo. Everyone munched and stared as they were examined by the Farmer. He decided Oreo, who wouldn’t let him anywhere near her, was the culprit, as her sides appeared decidedly less inflated than in weeks past. I imagine he spoke to her for a moment about her calf and, still in shock by the event of her first birth, she just kept eating.
I was summoned to make a bottle from the bag of Mocha’s colostrum in the freezer. I dumped the cloudy yellow contents of the baggie into the blender and mixed it with some bottled water. Then I poured the mixture into a measuring cup and gently warmed it in the microwave before pouring it into the calf bottle and fitting on the large rubber nipple. Pulling on snowpants, boots and barn jacket, I trudged out through the snow to the lambing room.
I found the calf, curled up in the corner of the pen, its head at an awkwardly uncomfortable angle. I climbed into the pen and sat down beside the animal, which was about the size of my daughter’s Labrador Retriever. The Farmer pried its clamped jaw open with his fingers. So much about farming is about being gentle and strong at the same time. “It’s cold,” he announced. We pushed the nipple of the bottle into the calf’s mouth, and I stroked the newborn’s throat. After a minute or two he started making little chewing movements but no sucking was happening. I pulled the bottle out and saw the nipple was blocked. The Farmer took it from me and emptied half of it into a bowl before filling a large plastic syringe. Again he pried the animal’s jaw open, this time to fit the syringe in before pushing the plunger. I heard and saw swallowing. Yay.
Fill syringe, open mouth, repeat.
When the calf had a pint of the warm liquid gold in its belly, we let it rest. Already we could hear his mother bawling outside the door. Suddenly she remembered she had left something in the snow over by the gate…
A little while later the Farmer went back out to the barn and the calf was on its feet. My husband carried the calf outside and reunited it with its mother. The new little family wandered over to the sheltered area of the barn, and the calf started suckling.
I said we should call the calf “Lucky” but the Farmer has decided his name is “Snowball”. Oreo was our only heifer this year so hopefully the last cows-in-waiting won’t have any surprises for us.
Farming is more about crisis management and problem solving than planning, I’ve found, as any plans you make can be laughed away by a drought or a rainy season. Hopefully 2013 will be more temperate than 2012, with enough hay for every animal and less stress for every farmer.
To reach the Farmwife, email Dianafisher1@gmail.com.
The dark brown calf had been licked clean, and any sign of the birthplace had been covered by the freshly fallen snow. Still, there was no telling how long it had been lying there alone in the cold, so my husband and son-in-law carried it to the lambing room of the barn. They set it up with a heat lamp and gave it a rub-down with a towel. Then they went out to search for its mother.
All of our cows were standing at the hay feeder, chowing down. Mocha and Ginger had already had their calves; this one belonged to Betty, Julie or the first-timer, Oreo. Everyone munched and stared as they were examined by the Farmer. He decided Oreo, who wouldn’t let him anywhere near her, was the culprit, as her sides appeared decidedly less inflated than in weeks past. I imagine he spoke to her for a moment about her calf and, still in shock by the event of her first birth, she just kept eating.
I was summoned to make a bottle from the bag of Mocha’s colostrum in the freezer. I dumped the cloudy yellow contents of the baggie into the blender and mixed it with some bottled water. Then I poured the mixture into a measuring cup and gently warmed it in the microwave before pouring it into the calf bottle and fitting on the large rubber nipple. Pulling on snowpants, boots and barn jacket, I trudged out through the snow to the lambing room.
I found the calf, curled up in the corner of the pen, its head at an awkwardly uncomfortable angle. I climbed into the pen and sat down beside the animal, which was about the size of my daughter’s Labrador Retriever. The Farmer pried its clamped jaw open with his fingers. So much about farming is about being gentle and strong at the same time. “It’s cold,” he announced. We pushed the nipple of the bottle into the calf’s mouth, and I stroked the newborn’s throat. After a minute or two he started making little chewing movements but no sucking was happening. I pulled the bottle out and saw the nipple was blocked. The Farmer took it from me and emptied half of it into a bowl before filling a large plastic syringe. Again he pried the animal’s jaw open, this time to fit the syringe in before pushing the plunger. I heard and saw swallowing. Yay.
Fill syringe, open mouth, repeat.
When the calf had a pint of the warm liquid gold in its belly, we let it rest. Already we could hear his mother bawling outside the door. Suddenly she remembered she had left something in the snow over by the gate…
A little while later the Farmer went back out to the barn and the calf was on its feet. My husband carried the calf outside and reunited it with its mother. The new little family wandered over to the sheltered area of the barn, and the calf started suckling.
I said we should call the calf “Lucky” but the Farmer has decided his name is “Snowball”. Oreo was our only heifer this year so hopefully the last cows-in-waiting won’t have any surprises for us.
Farming is more about crisis management and problem solving than planning, I’ve found, as any plans you make can be laughed away by a drought or a rainy season. Hopefully 2013 will be more temperate than 2012, with enough hay for every animal and less stress for every farmer.
To reach the Farmwife, email Dianafisher1@gmail.com.
A very lucky snowball indeed.
Those last two snowfalls of 2012 left the barn buried and packed in ice. The Farmer spent most of one day clearing our long driveway, then he started creating pathways to the shed and outbuildings with the snowblower. When he got around to the far side of the barn, he got a big surprise. Just in front of him in the pure white snow, a little black head popped up and bobbed around before weakly settling back down. A new calf had been abandoned in the snow by its mother.
The dark brown calf had been licked clean, and any sign of the birthplace had been covered by the freshly fallen snow. Still, there was no telling how long it had been lying there alone in the cold, so my husband and son-in-law carried it to the lambing room of the barn. They set it up with a heat lamp and gave it a rub-down with a towel. Then they went out to search for its mother.
All of our cows were standing at the hay feeder, chowing down. Mocha and Ginger had already had their calves; this one belonged to Betty, Julie or the first-timer, Oreo. Everyone munched and stared as they were examined by the Farmer. He decided Oreo, who wouldn’t let him anywhere near her, was the culprit, as her sides appeared decidedly less inflated than in weeks past. I imagine he spoke to her for a moment about her calf and, still in shock by the event of her first birth, she just kept eating.
I was summoned to make a bottle from the bag of Mocha’s colostrum in the freezer. I dumped the cloudy yellow contents of the baggie into the blender and mixed it with some bottled water. Then I poured the mixture into a measuring cup and gently warmed it in the microwave before pouring it into the calf bottle and fitting on the large rubber nipple. Pulling on snowpants, boots and barn jacket, I trudged out through the snow to the lambing room.
I found the calf, curled up in the corner of the pen, its head at an awkwardly uncomfortable angle. I climbed into the pen and sat down beside the animal, which was about the size of my daughter’s Labrador Retriever. The Farmer pried its clamped jaw open with his fingers. So much about farming is about being gentle and strong at the same time. “It’s cold,” he announced. We pushed the nipple of the bottle into the calf’s mouth, and I stroked the newborn’s throat. After a minute or two he started making little chewing movements but no sucking was happening. I pulled the bottle out and saw the nipple was blocked. The Farmer took it from me and emptied half of it into a bowl before filling a large plastic syringe. Again he pried the animal’s jaw open, this time to fit the syringe in before pushing the plunger. I heard and saw swallowing. Yay.
Fill syringe, open mouth, repeat.
When the calf had a pint of the warm liquid gold in its belly, we let it rest. Already we could hear his mother bawling outside the door. Suddenly she remembered she had left something in the snow over by the gate…
A little while later the Farmer went back out to the barn and the calf was on its feet. My husband carried the calf outside and reunited it with its mother. The new little family wandered over to the sheltered area of the barn, and the calf started suckling.
I said we should call the calf “Lucky” but the Farmer has decided his name is “Snowball”. Oreo was our only heifer this year so hopefully the last cows-in-waiting won’t have any surprises for us.
Farming is more about crisis management and problem solving than planning, I’ve found, as any plans you make can be laughed away by a drought or a rainy season. Hopefully 2013 will be more temperate than 2012, with enough hay for every animal and less stress for every farmer.
To reach the Farmwife, email Dianafisher1@gmail.com.
The dark brown calf had been licked clean, and any sign of the birthplace had been covered by the freshly fallen snow. Still, there was no telling how long it had been lying there alone in the cold, so my husband and son-in-law carried it to the lambing room of the barn. They set it up with a heat lamp and gave it a rub-down with a towel. Then they went out to search for its mother.
All of our cows were standing at the hay feeder, chowing down. Mocha and Ginger had already had their calves; this one belonged to Betty, Julie or the first-timer, Oreo. Everyone munched and stared as they were examined by the Farmer. He decided Oreo, who wouldn’t let him anywhere near her, was the culprit, as her sides appeared decidedly less inflated than in weeks past. I imagine he spoke to her for a moment about her calf and, still in shock by the event of her first birth, she just kept eating.
I was summoned to make a bottle from the bag of Mocha’s colostrum in the freezer. I dumped the cloudy yellow contents of the baggie into the blender and mixed it with some bottled water. Then I poured the mixture into a measuring cup and gently warmed it in the microwave before pouring it into the calf bottle and fitting on the large rubber nipple. Pulling on snowpants, boots and barn jacket, I trudged out through the snow to the lambing room.
I found the calf, curled up in the corner of the pen, its head at an awkwardly uncomfortable angle. I climbed into the pen and sat down beside the animal, which was about the size of my daughter’s Labrador Retriever. The Farmer pried its clamped jaw open with his fingers. So much about farming is about being gentle and strong at the same time. “It’s cold,” he announced. We pushed the nipple of the bottle into the calf’s mouth, and I stroked the newborn’s throat. After a minute or two he started making little chewing movements but no sucking was happening. I pulled the bottle out and saw the nipple was blocked. The Farmer took it from me and emptied half of it into a bowl before filling a large plastic syringe. Again he pried the animal’s jaw open, this time to fit the syringe in before pushing the plunger. I heard and saw swallowing. Yay.
Fill syringe, open mouth, repeat.
When the calf had a pint of the warm liquid gold in its belly, we let it rest. Already we could hear his mother bawling outside the door. Suddenly she remembered she had left something in the snow over by the gate…
A little while later the Farmer went back out to the barn and the calf was on its feet. My husband carried the calf outside and reunited it with its mother. The new little family wandered over to the sheltered area of the barn, and the calf started suckling.
I said we should call the calf “Lucky” but the Farmer has decided his name is “Snowball”. Oreo was our only heifer this year so hopefully the last cows-in-waiting won’t have any surprises for us.
Farming is more about crisis management and problem solving than planning, I’ve found, as any plans you make can be laughed away by a drought or a rainy season. Hopefully 2013 will be more temperate than 2012, with enough hay for every animal and less stress for every farmer.
To reach the Farmwife, email Dianafisher1@gmail.com.
2012 was a very good year.
Whether it was ‘annus horribilis’ or not, it’s important to sit back as the year wraps up, and take stock of your situation. On the Fisher Farm, 2012 was a pretty good year. We had calves born on schedule in winter, and although I had to keep one of them alive with a bottle because it wouldn’t suckle from its mama, they all thrived through the summer and fall until it was time to go to market. We had lambs born in spring, which is when I like them to be born; not in winter when you are constantly battling ice. Ice takes over the water buckets in the lambing room before the ewes have had their fill. Ice freezes the barn doors shut so we can’t get in to feed in the morning. Ice freezes the water hose so we can’t refill the water troughs when they are empty. Spring is better for lambing, to be sure.
We only lost one lamb to a coyote that we are aware of this year, and we only had four kittens born on the farm. That’s a pretty good reduction from last year, when we had 40. Operation spay/neuter was a success.
As the grass greened all around us and the farm animals began taking care of themselves, it became time to shift our attention to weddings. Our daughter’s, and my sister’s. One in January and one in September. First came Anastasia. She planned the whole thing pretty much on her own, on a shoestring budget, and it was impressive. I planted flowers in containers that could be easily shifted to the wedding site, and invitations were sent out for an important date three months into the future.
We managed to buy and put away some hay in early summer, and that was a good thing. You never know what the season holds, but this year it didn’t hold much rain. Our land is low and a creek runs through it so we didn’t suffer much but hay was pretty scarce all the same. Some farmers in Renfrew County are counting on the generosity of strangers out West for the hay that will get their animals through this winter. A winter that is shaping up to be a nasty one indeed. I would have been pretty sad to see the Farmer sell all our animals for lack of hay to feed them. Many farmers in Eastern Ontario had to do just that. I wonder if we sold all our animals if we would start over again?
We saw a terrible accident take the life of a beloved high school teacher, friend and coach in June. The funeral for Ted Cooper became a celebration of life. It brought so many old friends together to say goodbye to the old North Grenville District High School for the last time.
Anastasia married Andrew on a 30+ degree day in the middle of a meadow. The memories of that day are scorched on our brains as the sun scorched our skin. The new Mr. and Mrs. Wiggins went to P.E.I. for their honeymoon and caught a 1000-lb tuna fish. Too bad it was out of season and they had to throw it back for someone else to catch. It would have been worth about $10,000. In any case, I think catching a big fish is a lucky sign. And later in the year the bride was digging for driftwood when she found a diamond ring on a beach along the St. Lawrence River. I’m hoping the lottery ticket she bought me is just as lucky as she is.
We wrapped up the summer of 2012 with our annual Fisher Farm party, and this year it fell right on our fifth anniversary. A perfect celebration of a commitment I would make all over again, in a heartbeat.
My sister married her sweetheart and we celebrated as the power went out on September 8th. Dad was there in spirit, in the form of a double rainbow during the wedding reception. You bet your sweet Aunt Bippy we got pictures.
We have so much to be thankful for, as the seasons go whizzing by. Daughters graduating, finding their way in life, one little success at a time. It’s time to look ahead to 2013, for its challenges and surprises are still mysteries to all of us. May it be ‘annus mirabilis’, a very good year for each of you.
Email the Farmwife at: dianafisher1@gmail.com
Friday, December 28, 2012
In which the world does not end.
Daughter #3 decided to host an End of the World party on December 20th. She did all her own appetizer shopping, and informed her friends that the dress code would be semi-formal. She asked permission to take over the whole house, rather than being restricted to the basement and back room as usual. We requested that the beer pong tables at least be restricted to the basement, and that candles be kept to a minimum. She reassured us that there would be no smoking anywhere in the house, that keys would be collected and guests that drank would be strongly encouraged to sleep over. All 25 of them.
For days she planned this party, arranging a potluck menu and creating an apocalyptic song list soundtrack.
She spent the day decorating and preparing the house for the party, i.e. hiding all of the knick knacks and family photos that she doesn't like, creating mood lighting and rearranging furniture. We got a little worried when we saw the good china coming out, and asked her to switch to stoneware instead. She frowned for a moment and then conceded to sensibility. But she insisted they weren't using plastic cutlery. This was to be a fancy party after all. I had to smile when I saw her arranging the buffet exactly the way we do for Sunday dinner. Kind of made me proud.
The Farmer and I were invited to Daughter #1's home in Barrhaven for dinner, so we reluctantly left Paulina and her friend Meghan mixing a fruit concoction in the punch bowl and looking up recipes. As I closed the door behind me, I'm pretty sure I heard something about a 'flaming B-52'. Shiver.
About four hours later we returned and every light in the house was on. You could hear the music down the drive, which was lined with vehicles. I expected to see mayhem in the kitchen but to my surprise there was a stack of freshly washed dishes on the counter and a bunch of kids sitting around the island, debating the validity of the doomsday clock.
I went downstairs to inflate the mattress in the spare room and make up the extra beds. By eleven I was tucked in bed with my new earplugs, and the last thing I remember before falling asleep was feeling the house shake as two dozen kids jumped and sang along to Kesha's "We're Gonna Die Young."
A couple of hours later I woke again to hear someone brushing their teeth in the bathroom. Part of me wanted to get up to make sure the girls were sleeping upstairs and the boys were downstairs, as requested, but then I thought nah, they're nineteen and besides, they are just going to laugh at me.
When I woke up the next morning, feeling well rested, the house was silent but some bright lights were still on. I investigated and found a young man sitting straight up in bed, still in his jeans, looking white as the sheets. He announced that he had been sick all night, after only two drinks. I stopped myself before asking if the drinks had been straight alcohol. He suspected food poisoning, not from anything at the party but something he had consumed earlier. I felt his forehead and sure enough, raging fever. I gave him gingerale, soda crackers, a fan, a dim light, a towel, a fresh bucket and some Gravol. Half an hour later I washed out the bucket again and before I left I gave him some Ibuprofen. I diagnosed the flu.
Paulina checked in on her patient, her eyes wide from lack of sleep. It amazes me how she always wants to host these shindigs, knowing the amount of work that goes into the cleanup, usually with a hangover and no sleep. But she is the hostess with the mostest. I suggested the cleanup involve copious amounts of Clorox bleach spray on doorknobs, light switches and handles. But I told her to get some sleep first.
I left for work just after 6:11 am, when the world had been scheduled to come crashing to a halt. It didn't - although it appeared as though a tornado had ripped through the house. There were teenagers sleeping on every flat surface.
I said a quick prayer over them as I passed, that they have a good year ahead of them, and that the flu wouldn't ruin their Christmas.
You can connect with the Farmwife at dianafisher1@gmail.com
For days she planned this party, arranging a potluck menu and creating an apocalyptic song list soundtrack.
She spent the day decorating and preparing the house for the party, i.e. hiding all of the knick knacks and family photos that she doesn't like, creating mood lighting and rearranging furniture. We got a little worried when we saw the good china coming out, and asked her to switch to stoneware instead. She frowned for a moment and then conceded to sensibility. But she insisted they weren't using plastic cutlery. This was to be a fancy party after all. I had to smile when I saw her arranging the buffet exactly the way we do for Sunday dinner. Kind of made me proud.
The Farmer and I were invited to Daughter #1's home in Barrhaven for dinner, so we reluctantly left Paulina and her friend Meghan mixing a fruit concoction in the punch bowl and looking up recipes. As I closed the door behind me, I'm pretty sure I heard something about a 'flaming B-52'. Shiver.
About four hours later we returned and every light in the house was on. You could hear the music down the drive, which was lined with vehicles. I expected to see mayhem in the kitchen but to my surprise there was a stack of freshly washed dishes on the counter and a bunch of kids sitting around the island, debating the validity of the doomsday clock.
I went downstairs to inflate the mattress in the spare room and make up the extra beds. By eleven I was tucked in bed with my new earplugs, and the last thing I remember before falling asleep was feeling the house shake as two dozen kids jumped and sang along to Kesha's "We're Gonna Die Young."
A couple of hours later I woke again to hear someone brushing their teeth in the bathroom. Part of me wanted to get up to make sure the girls were sleeping upstairs and the boys were downstairs, as requested, but then I thought nah, they're nineteen and besides, they are just going to laugh at me.
When I woke up the next morning, feeling well rested, the house was silent but some bright lights were still on. I investigated and found a young man sitting straight up in bed, still in his jeans, looking white as the sheets. He announced that he had been sick all night, after only two drinks. I stopped myself before asking if the drinks had been straight alcohol. He suspected food poisoning, not from anything at the party but something he had consumed earlier. I felt his forehead and sure enough, raging fever. I gave him gingerale, soda crackers, a fan, a dim light, a towel, a fresh bucket and some Gravol. Half an hour later I washed out the bucket again and before I left I gave him some Ibuprofen. I diagnosed the flu.
Paulina checked in on her patient, her eyes wide from lack of sleep. It amazes me how she always wants to host these shindigs, knowing the amount of work that goes into the cleanup, usually with a hangover and no sleep. But she is the hostess with the mostest. I suggested the cleanup involve copious amounts of Clorox bleach spray on doorknobs, light switches and handles. But I told her to get some sleep first.
I left for work just after 6:11 am, when the world had been scheduled to come crashing to a halt. It didn't - although it appeared as though a tornado had ripped through the house. There were teenagers sleeping on every flat surface.
I said a quick prayer over them as I passed, that they have a good year ahead of them, and that the flu wouldn't ruin their Christmas.
You can connect with the Farmwife at dianafisher1@gmail.com
And so this is Christmas...
So this is Christmas…and what have you done? Another year over…a new one just begun. ~ John Lennon
It’s a sunny, crisp morning in December. I have just returned from the barnyard, where I fed a bucket of over-ripe, fragrant apples to the cows, donkey and horse. Mocha is nursing a poor snout after a meeting with a porcupine that didn’t go the way she expected. We have had two calves born in the past few weeks and the sheep that got caught by the ram late summer will be in waiting next. We may have a lamb born over the holidays.
As I return to the house and slide open the patio door, I’m welcomed by the smells of a recently stoked wood fire, crisp bacon and strong coffee. I had pancakes made with oatmeal, cottage cheese and egg. Sounds horrible and it is but it balances my blood sugar. And I top them with unsweetened preserves and plain yogurt to make them more palatable. My weekend ritual complete, it’s time to write a column. The last one before Christmas.
I hope we get at least a dusting of snow on the ground for Christmas morning. The holiday is going to be hard this year for a lot of people, as the economy has forced many of us into celebrations of austerity. The Farmer and I also decided to put a little more effort into choosing special gifts for each daughter, instead of just handing over a whack of cash this year. We saved quite a bit of money this way and I really enjoyed the shopping for a change, because I had wish lists to go from. Just like when they were young, when receiving My Little Pony or Tickle Me Elmo was their wish come true. Except now it’s luggage, cell phones, and gift certificates for clothing.
Christmas will be very difficult for several Connecticut families torn apart by the recent school shooting. Maybe that horrific act will remind the rest of us to put resentments and hurt feelings aside over the holidays, and just enjoy each other’s company.
I did my second shift of jingling the bells for the Salvation Army on Friday afternoon. Normally I only do one two-hour shift but this year they were short on volunteers and needed more help. As we got closer to Christmas I noticed less people were stopping to put cash in the kettle – but the ones who did were putting in larger amounts. It’s not a time to pass judgment; no need to apologize if you aren’t giving at the kettle. There are many other ways to show people you care during the holiday season.
We are constantly being reminded that not everyone celebrates Christmas. And even for those who do recognize the Christian holiday, Christmas isn’t always a happy occasion. Maybe it conjures up bad memories, or just sheds a light on the fact that you can’t afford to celebrate the way other families do.
This is supposed to be a joyful season; not a stressful one. I know as I stood jingling the bells for the Sally Ann, I got so many smiles from people that the ones I gave in return had my face aching like it was my wedding day all over again. But I did see quite a few people with pained expressions, maybe because by Friday afternoon they had just about had enough of work for one week, or maybe there was a more serious reason for their stress. One man in particular caught my eye as he dragged his young son into the store, through the produce section and half an hour later, into the photo shop. The man wasn’t smiling, and his son looked upset. They left just as I was getting up the nerve to say something.
On my way home I stopped in at the home of the Avon lady in Oxford Mills to pick up an order. My nerves were still a little jangled by the site of the mean man with his child. Heather cheered me up, though. Her cute little log cabin home was lit by the glow of the wood stove, and her huge smile. She gave me a box of homemade Christmas cookies along with my order. This is what life in a small town is supposed to be like at Christmas.
Happy Holidays everyone.
It’s a sunny, crisp morning in December. I have just returned from the barnyard, where I fed a bucket of over-ripe, fragrant apples to the cows, donkey and horse. Mocha is nursing a poor snout after a meeting with a porcupine that didn’t go the way she expected. We have had two calves born in the past few weeks and the sheep that got caught by the ram late summer will be in waiting next. We may have a lamb born over the holidays.
As I return to the house and slide open the patio door, I’m welcomed by the smells of a recently stoked wood fire, crisp bacon and strong coffee. I had pancakes made with oatmeal, cottage cheese and egg. Sounds horrible and it is but it balances my blood sugar. And I top them with unsweetened preserves and plain yogurt to make them more palatable. My weekend ritual complete, it’s time to write a column. The last one before Christmas.
I hope we get at least a dusting of snow on the ground for Christmas morning. The holiday is going to be hard this year for a lot of people, as the economy has forced many of us into celebrations of austerity. The Farmer and I also decided to put a little more effort into choosing special gifts for each daughter, instead of just handing over a whack of cash this year. We saved quite a bit of money this way and I really enjoyed the shopping for a change, because I had wish lists to go from. Just like when they were young, when receiving My Little Pony or Tickle Me Elmo was their wish come true. Except now it’s luggage, cell phones, and gift certificates for clothing.
Christmas will be very difficult for several Connecticut families torn apart by the recent school shooting. Maybe that horrific act will remind the rest of us to put resentments and hurt feelings aside over the holidays, and just enjoy each other’s company.
I did my second shift of jingling the bells for the Salvation Army on Friday afternoon. Normally I only do one two-hour shift but this year they were short on volunteers and needed more help. As we got closer to Christmas I noticed less people were stopping to put cash in the kettle – but the ones who did were putting in larger amounts. It’s not a time to pass judgment; no need to apologize if you aren’t giving at the kettle. There are many other ways to show people you care during the holiday season.
We are constantly being reminded that not everyone celebrates Christmas. And even for those who do recognize the Christian holiday, Christmas isn’t always a happy occasion. Maybe it conjures up bad memories, or just sheds a light on the fact that you can’t afford to celebrate the way other families do.
This is supposed to be a joyful season; not a stressful one. I know as I stood jingling the bells for the Sally Ann, I got so many smiles from people that the ones I gave in return had my face aching like it was my wedding day all over again. But I did see quite a few people with pained expressions, maybe because by Friday afternoon they had just about had enough of work for one week, or maybe there was a more serious reason for their stress. One man in particular caught my eye as he dragged his young son into the store, through the produce section and half an hour later, into the photo shop. The man wasn’t smiling, and his son looked upset. They left just as I was getting up the nerve to say something.
On my way home I stopped in at the home of the Avon lady in Oxford Mills to pick up an order. My nerves were still a little jangled by the site of the mean man with his child. Heather cheered me up, though. Her cute little log cabin home was lit by the glow of the wood stove, and her huge smile. She gave me a box of homemade Christmas cookies along with my order. This is what life in a small town is supposed to be like at Christmas.
Happy Holidays everyone.
Strange Animal Behaviour
I think there is some truth to the idea that the bigger an animal is, the more nervous and cowardly it is. Look at the elephant and the mouse. Misty, our big Belgian horse, is a case in point.
The Farmer was planning to practice his coyote aim so he got some old metal barrel lids and propped them up in the pasture. The horse and donkey came out of the barn, stopped as they always did to survey their kingdom and…what the heck is that?! As soon as they spotted the barrel lids they got nervous. Those weren’t there when they went into the barn last night. What could they be?
The Farmer and I heard the snorting and hoof beats from the house. Donkey and Misty were alternating between running in circles and stopping short to stare in the direction of the threatening barrel lids. They both snorted as if to dare the lids to make a move.
“Your Donkey is an idiot,” said the Farmer.
“Well your horse is a big chicken,” I responded. I spent the next few minutes talking to the animals, telling them the lids wouldn’t hurt them. They decided it would be safer to go back into the barn for a while. Give the lids a chance to retreat.
A few hours later I looked out the kitchen window to see Donkey tentatively sniffing the lid and jumping when his nose made contact with the cold metal. Misty watched in fear from the hedgerow. My brave, beautiful beasts.
The barn kittens come into the house every morning and go straight down to the basement to eat and drink. Then they come upstairs and wind around my legs while I’m trying to do yoga. This is a learned behavior, called ‘be as annoying as possible and she will give you a cat treat before kicking you back outside’. I don’t want the cats chasing each other all over the house, crashing into things, and the only way you can get them back outside is to lure them by shaking the bag of Temptations cat treats. So we go through this routine every morning.
At least the kittens are braver than the horse. I’m pretty sure there are claw marks in the hardwood where Junior kitten dug in to stop himself when he was tearing through the living room and suddenly came upon the lit Christmas tree. But it only took him about ten seconds for curiosity to overcome fear. He sniffed the tree, stuck his paw in the water pail, batted two of the ornaments onto the floor and now he is asleep underneath it. Wilderness in the house. The best of both worlds.
Ginger had her calf a couple of weeks ago. Since then I have been going out to visit, trying to get safely between mama and calf so I can lay hands on the young one and get her used to my smell. It’s much easier to care for a cow if you start when they are young. Ginger will have nothing of it. She has eyes in the back of her head. Every time I take a step in the direction of her young one, she reels around and tosses her head threateningly at me. I saw how she tried to crush the Farmer against the wall last year so I’m taking her threat seriously. But I’m not giving up either. Maybe in a few weeks I can introduce the little one to sweet feed.
Mocha, my tame cow, had her calf yesterday. She allows me to pet and scratch her little one, while she calmly stands beside us and eats. She even let me feel her udder, which I think is a little hard. We will have to watch to ensure the little one is suckling. I’m heading out to the barn later with some apples for the new mother. They are her favourite food.
Cody has been trying to tell me something lately. At 14 years of age, it could be any number of things. He gets glucosamine for his aching joints but I think it’s stomach related. For some reason he thinks this ailment means he should lie on the couch. He has never attempted this before. I keep putting him back on the floor on his fleece and when I turn around, there he is again, on the couch.
I really do wish the animals could talk and understand, some days. It would make life much easier.
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