Plants and Birds and Rocks and Things

Sometimes the writer in me wants to write down every detail about this farm – but sometimes the best I got is, “There were plants and birds and rocks and things.” It’s the busiest time of the year – the garden demands water and weeding, the sheep and chickens must be moved and fed and watered and doted upon, the grass grows faster than I can mow, the raspberries and peas wilt on the branch. The smoky wildfire sun glows apocalyptic upon us all, and it feels like a desert out here. But we keep planting seeds and collecting eggs and making little wildflower bouquets, like there’s no tomorrow. La la, laaa, la, la-la-la…..

a plant

The sun does go down now and then and it’s an early June night when I move the birds from their barn coop into their new mobile coop, the Chick Shaw. This is the second Shaw I’ve built – I gave my first one away last year when I took a break from farming – and I managed to make this one for half the price and twice as nice. I move the birds at night because chickens are very easy to pluck off the roost when they are sleeping and place into their new home. The plan is to lock them up for a day or two so they “know” where they live. Then they will go to bed at dusk every night on their own. Forty-five times or so, I carry a chicken down the hill to the Shaw, then back up empty-handed for another. I’m dreading the moment I need to grab Goober the Guinea Hen – she is not a chicken and she does not sit still on the roost at night. In fact, she is in a different spot every time I grab a chicken, it seems. A hen might squawk, she might fuss, but as soon as I gently tuck her beak into my caressing arms, she calms down until I dump her into the Shaw and close the lid. A few concerned peeps and then she’s tucked into the wings of another hen and back to sleep.

Goober, however, gets louder and louder as her turn nears. I know as my pile of sleepy chickens gets smaller, Goober will be more difficult to catch, so I make a grab for her when I have about half the flock moved. She evades. She settles in a corner and I take another hen. I try again. And again. On the third attempt, I catch Goober and she flails and screams and escapes. I grab her a final time and refuse to let go. She does not care for my caress and continues to scream as I walk her down the hill, clutching her like a football I refuse to fumble. “Tell everyone!” I say. “Hey bears! Hey foxes! Hey dogs! We are right here! Come get us!” Touchdown! I spike Goober into the Shaw and continue with my task. Now and then I peek my headlamp into the overgrown pastures to check for critter activity. It wouldn’t surprise me to see something out there at this hour.

a bird

It isn’t long before I see a pair of eyes watching me. They dart away. Are you a fox? A bobcat? Not tall enough to be a bear. I start talking louder to the chickens, to remind the visitor that this is a human place. A few chickens later, I see another pair of eyes in the elderberry patch. I turn my lamp to the brightest setting and laugh: a deer is nestled in the bushes, cozy as a babe in a crib. There is another deer nearby, the tall grass pulled up like a blanket. As I finish the last birds, the deer disappear. I turn on the electric netting and leave the chickens to their new home, surrounded by six volts of predator-proof zappy fence.

‘Tis the new moon and I poke out late to peek at things. All is quiet on the nighttime farm. The stars are as bright as they’ll ever be, and the only bear I see is Ursa Major spinning its seasonal circle above the pastures at its slow, padding pace. One can almost hear it thump across the sky. The green dot of the energizer blinks its slow blink. An owl hoots from somewhere. Peaceful, distant, dark.

After two days, I let the hens run free. Goober escapes the pen four times during the day. She would typically escape the pen behind the barn once a day – she can often be seen in the front yard talking to her reflection in the basement window. The birds have a great day enjoying the grass and go back into the Shaw at dusk with little fanfare, only a few needing some direction. But Goober refuses to go into the Shaw. I chase her around for a half hour. It gets darker and darker. Finally I flap my arms at her and she flies over the fence and ventures off into the pasture. “Fine!” I tell her. “You’re a wild animal now!”

a rock

Goober spends the night on the woodpile. Soon enough she finds her spot on a fence post behind the barn, where she keeps the night watch over the farm. Every morning she flies over the fencing to get food and water and flies out to go explore the pastures and argue with the other Goober in the basement window. On occasion, I do see her inside the Shaw, maybe for some peace and quiet – and some shade – but she refuses to sleep in there. “Goodnight Goober,” I say every night after I put the chickens away. I blow a kiss to her while she broods on her fence post.

It’s easy to miss the little beautiful things during this busy time of year on the farm. I walk back and forth through fields of wildflowers – black-eyed Susans, daisies, campion, yarrow, dewberry, blackberry, wild strawberry, red and white clover, chicory, even the bindweed is beautiful when it pops off a few of its morning-glory-esque blooms – and I often miss all of them. I miss the sun shining through the leaves of young poplars and old ferns, making them glow. I miss the grass smacking my dogs’ dopey grinning faces while their tongues loll and their paws smash after a jaunt down a rabbit hole. I miss how strong and cool, earthy and fiery, a peppermint leaf tastes as I chew it slowly and let its oils and fibers fill my mouth. I miss all of it because I’m too busy staring at my boots and grumbling about whatever chore I’m doing. Then I force myself to stop and take note. And I see it all.

And I look up to the sheep, three wethers standing in the corner of their paddock, noodles of tall grass dabbling from their chewing mouths, looking to me for guidance on what’s next. Is he going to let us go inside now and get into that bucket of cracked corn? Or are we good to keep eating grass and napping in the sun? I choose the latter for now. They oblige happily and stomp and prance around, nibbling this, nibbling that. I’ve been missing how the white sheep has been filling in with black spots around his body. I see it now. It’s pretty.

a thing

Sometimes I grab the mower and choke it out over and over trying to clear little corners of the farm. The grass is just too aggressive this time of year for the push mower. The sheep don’t cut things clean, but they do fine enough. The mis-matched pasture carved up by hungry ruminants is more beautiful than the scissor-cut carpet of a perfectly mowed field. And greener, too. The sheep are starving artists and the pasture is their canvas. This farm is an art museum. I am but the curator and this has been tonight’s tour.

The grass, the flowers, the veggies, the weeds, those hungry sheep, they all just keep growing and growing. And I keep working and working – and I know in a few months, I can rest and savor the fruits (and eggs, and cuts of lamb) of my labor – freezers and pantries full of amazing food and medicine right off this very land.

Just remember, Rich, those plants and birds and rocks and things. I’ve been through the pastures with some sheep with no names – and it would feel good if it rains.

La la, laaa, la, la-la-la…..

....la-la-la, laaa, la....