Baby Daze

June 29, 2018

My son Jon sent me this photo of Amanda and my granddaughter Ami. I love it.

Ami looks just like Amanda at the same age; she’s Amanda’s “mini-me.” However, Ami’s height is her father’s (who is 6’4″) — she’s in the 96th percentile. She won’t be mini very long!

No date yet has been confirmed for her lung surgery. We will all be glad to have it over.


Getting Ready to Work

June 28, 2018

Over the last few days I have been putting hours into “getting ready” to work on the future garden under Allen’s wall.  The area is scattered with rocks of two different sizes: small (from egg to melon size) which threaten the mower and must be removed, and large (18 inches and up) which I am collecting to make a garden retaining wall.

The small rocks number in the hundreds, which would mean dozens of trips to the pond area with the I-Haul. Instead I hitched up my wagon. There is something about using an old wooden wagon that makes me quietly happy.

Damon had brought me a jack for this wagon four years ago. However, given my lack of spatial sense, I could not figure out how to install the random pieces without instructions or a diagram. I’d put it aside “for later.” The bolts and flanges floated around my truck for a few years and when the truck was hauled away for scrap, they landed in various boxes in the garage. Now I was determined to conquer the problem. On Tuesday I rummaged through cartons and after four hours managed to install the jack. Once I figured out how the pieces fit together, it was embarrassingly simple and took five minutes. Yay! Wagon done!

Next I had to think about moving the big rocks. My friend Larry from school had built a small stone boat last winter for skidding items over snow. He said I was welcome to use it. I moved a couple of rocks with the help of my lawnmower [top photo] but I felt uneasy. The base to the little stone boat is 1/2″ plywood — fine for skidding light loads over snow or grass, but I was sure it would rip to pieces bringing big stones up the rocky driveway.

I retrieved the steel head of my old stone boat from the pond, removed the shreds of rotten wood, and with difficulty unfastened the rusty bolts. The stone boat had made by the Amish and I was interested to see from the different size bolt holes that this would not be the first time its boards had been replaced.

I knew I should invest in 2.5″-thick hickory boards, like the originals, but I didn’t have the cash to spare. Besides, as Allen would be the first to remind me, “We ain’t buildin’ a church.” I didn’t need the Rolls Royce of stone boats. I just need to move some rocks this summer.

Three years ago the school had ripped out a deck and a half dozen treated boards had been up for grabs. They were 20 years old and not in perfect shape, but I’d removed the screws, stacked them in the bunkhouse, and figured they would come in handy someday. Now I cut them down to the length of the shortest board, for a new stone boat.

After screwing the cross-boards together, I followed up with nails for strength. My bad elbow protested loudly. (Oh dear, I can barely drive 8-penny nails! How will it feel driving 16-pennies in a couple of weeks? Oh well, I’ll worry about it later.) Then I drilled holes and refastened all the rusty bolts with their square, rusty nuts. I wondered idly if the Amish had Vise-Grips and crescent wrenches.

The new stone boat was done.

I realized after I bolted it together that I should have run the wood further up the steel head plate, so the bolts weren’t so close to the ends of the boards. I comfort myself that I’ll fix that detail the next time I have to replace the wood. This iteration of the stone boat cost me nothing but a couple of hours and two dozen nails. My fingers are crossed that it will last the summer.

Next I had to move twenty rotting bags of autumn leaves. Yes, for the last two Novembers in a row I have picked up bags of leaves from a woman in her 80s in the village who had no way to get rid of them. I had figured I would use her leaves as mulch in my garden. (Yes, yes, I know I had no garden yet! But she called me, she needed them gone, I had a truck and… stockpiling!) So yesterday I carefully moved the bags to a safe spot out of the way.

Then I pulled off three of the twenty-foot long stretches of black plastic. I was pleased. The black plastic plan had worked almost perfectly to keep those sections clean, except for one small piece that had a ghostly white super-weed growing in seven months of complete darkness.

Unfortunately the last section of black plastic had rotted in the sun and disintegrated. I don’t know why this one was different (the other three rolls could be used again) but this one broke down into tiny curls of black plastic that blew all over the farm. I’ve picked them up everywhere. And of course, in its absence the weeds had come back.

I spent three hours picking rocks. I got most of the small ones from alongside the garden.

However, by the end of the day I was limping badly. I didn’t have steam left to start the other side near the (unpainted) house.

Every inch here needs picking.

I know I’ll get to it eventually. It’s the garden I want to work on now. This is the year it will happen.

But today it is raining and I’m working on inside chores.


Starting the Driveway

June 27, 2018

Damon’s small Bobcat excavator has been parked at the farm for a week, waiting for good weather. On Monday we began work on the driveway.

The first chore was to cut channels for run-off water along the flat entry section (an elbow of the old main highway). Currently water sits in big puddles in this area … and the puddles inevitably turn into craters.

At the top of the property the driveway then turns right and falls downhill all the way to the barn. Here’s the driveway in the summer of 2006. Jon took the photo while standing on the hayloft floor as we were building the barn. [Double-click to enlarge.]

Even at that time I was nostalgic, writing, “I love that little road… it’s hard to explain but I remember when this land was all impenetrable woods. First it was logged. Then it was stumped. And then one day I trotted down the hill and showed Allen and Damon where I wanted the road to go, and the next… there it was, snaking along as if it had always been there!”

Since then, “we” have worked on the road dozens of times over the years. (Of course it was Allen and Damon who did all the work. I merely fetched and carried and took photographs.) Here is Allen in 2009 at the top of the driveway.

And here he is the same year, smoothing one of the driveway bends. I’d had no sense when I threaded that curvy path through the birches in 2006. It has been a trial for large trucks and trailers ever since.

But the biggest problem of the driveway has been its lack of a hard base. In 2006 Allen and Damon had trucked and spread load after load of gravel they excavated from the pond area (saving me thousands of dollars). Then I’d spent money I didn’t have for two tandem loads of crushed stone. When it rained it all disappeared into mud.

Sometimes deep mud.

As I had a little money and the men had time, we’d tackle the worst areas bit by bit. Here’s Damon in 2011 pulling rocks and spreading a single load of crusher mix at the foot of the driveway.

Our great coup came in 2013, when the town ripped up a long road and sold some of the ground-up macadam inexpensively to locals. Damon brought me a dozen truckloads.

This tarry gravel immediately helped harden the surface.

Both Damon and Allen spread it in odd hours with my tractor.

The driveway was much improved, but the two men, who’ve built hundreds of miles of road, knew it still wasn’t great. Allen always repeated what he’d first said in 2006: “Get your husband to let you have some money and we can build you a real road!”

Now, twelve years later, the day has finally come, and sadly Allen isn’t here to see it.

Last fall Damon was in and out of hospitals, so I interviewed other operators for the project. One contractor gave me a sky-high bid and even at that price he was dubious. He could not see a way to divert water from flowing down the road and ripping out the gravel. (The driveway is gullied after every summer storm). Water bars would not work because they would, in turn, be ripped out by winter plows. Moreover the pasture on the downhill side is in many places higher than the road.

The next contractor submitted a bid of slightly more than half the original. After listening to the dire warnings of the first contractor, I was rather worried by the second’s insouciant confidence, but I accepted his bid. However, as he never returned to do the job, my concern was moot.

Now Damon is healthy again and he and I are doing the work, at a far lower cost altogether. Our goal is to divert some of the water from flowing over the driveway by putting in two sets of culverts. We’re not sure it will work, but we’re going to try.

It’s fun to work with Damon again, fun to hear the roar of the big machine, fun to be with someone whose memory of this land is almost as long as mine.

We put the first culvert where sixty years ago, the previous landowner had laid down a 2″ iron pipe for the same purpose.

Ours was 8″ plastic, twenty feet long.

I shoveled dirt around the pipe to hold it in place…

and Damon buried it with the bucket.

He instructed me to find some rocks to place around each end of the culvert for stability. I drove back with the I-Haul and on my return lugged a 18″ stone, puffing, into place.

“You couldn’t find a big one?” growled Damon.

“This one isn’t big enough?” I asked, crestfallen. I was at the limit of my strength.

Damon snorted and his mouth twisted in a smile. He doesn’t have the easy laugh of his father but he has the same love of teasing. “It’s fine.”

We realized our second culvert wasn’t long enough to reach entirely across the diagonal from the house, so we are waiting for the delivery of one more pipe and hope to finish the ditching Friday. Then we will order stone and crusher mix from the quarry.

After smoothing out the first culvert we had a half dozen bucket-loads of extra dirt and I asked Damon to leave them in a pile. I explained that I could use it to fill pasture holes.

He did as I asked but observed loudly enough for me to hear, “Yup, and in three years they’ll still be sittin’ there, covered with weeds!”

Starting Again on the Big Garden

June 23, 2018

Back in April of 2009, my friend Allen and I were putting in the foundation of the garage for the future house. The land sloped and I asked Allen if he could terrace it so water wouldn’t run into the someday house and I could have a flat backyard. Dragging a stick in the dirt, I paced out a wide curve and Allen began digging. All of the boulders he turned up, plus those from the garage excavation, became part of a long retaining wall.

There were lots of rocks to choose from. Here is Allen in front of a pile.

Allen built the wall between other chores we were working on. Here’s Allen’s wall curving around the finished garage foundation.

I told Allen that someday I would have a flower garden under that wall. But I was always too busy with too many other projects to take it on.

Six years later, in the summer of 2015, to my great grief Allen had died. His son Damon was working for me with his small Bobcat excavator, and as an afterthought I asked him to break ground for Allen’s wall garden.


Unlike his father, Damon does not approve of flowers. However in an hour he had carved the entire 200-foot bed, following a line I had spray-painted on the grass. The surface stones and sods he stacked along the edge. I figured I would haul them away slowly over the summer.

Of course, as usual life rolled over me. I did not haul the sods and stones away — I mowed, mucked deep bedding, spread manure, drove steers to the slaughterhouse, sold sheep, got Lucy off to her first year of college, moved us out of our home of sixteen years into temporary quarters, and started my own school year.

Damon left his excavator at the farm that winter and the following spring, in May of 2016, he and I spent four hours in sultry heat cleaning up the sods and stones, mixing some purchased topsoil with compost, and spreading it down the length of the future garden. Damon’s comments on the stupidity of this exercise were unprintable.

That summer, too, was very busy. I was meeting with a financial planner. I was meeting with the house company and a potential builder. I was struggling to fence the back field. I had a sick gosling I was force-feeding around the clock. I was teaching Lucy to drive and had her impacted wisdom teeth extracted. I hosted parties for DH’s work. I made plans for Jon’s wedding to Amanda. And every time I turned around, weeds were growing up in the future garden.

I put in hours of weeding but I could not seem to get on top of it.

Here is our dog Stash in a forest of lamb’s quarters.

I pulled lamb’s quarters like a machine.

The task seemed interminable. While I was working on one end of the garden, being bitten by deer flies, new weeds would be re-sprouting at the other.

At last, on July 31, I had the entire bed basically clear. What a relief!

Once again I spray-painted a line to mark the garden edge.

My plan was to clean each small section of weeds and rocks, till it with the tiny tiller Allen had given to me, and rake the surface smooth.

Then I would cover each section with newspapers and a mulch of straw. (I had also spent many hours scouring the dump for newspaper, and driving to the Champlain Valley with my horse trailer for bales of straw.)

Unfortunately, I was only able to address about twenty feet of garden before life again swept me away. After all our meetings, my potential house builder quit the day he was supposed to sign the contract. I was in shock.

I drove Lucy to college. I started my school year. I sold sheep and took steers to the slaughterhouse. I mowed the fields. I searched for a new builder. I prepared for Jon and Amanda’s wedding. And the weeds inexorably crept back.

In early October I pulled weeds for a third time and covered the bottom forty feet with black plastic with rocks on top. I had the intention (and the black plastic) to cover the rest, but … in the joy of the wedding and the excitement of the house starting with a new builder, I dropped all thought of gardens.

Zero happened on the gardening front in 2017 — the Summer of the Great Chaos, when I moved us once more, this time into a construction zone that lasted for months.

Yesterday I finally started over. Of course the future “garden” was now a jungle that looked as if it had never been touched.

Builders’ scaffolding still leaned against the boulder wall.

Where to begin? Just to lift my spirits, I dragged away the scaffolding and began with weedwhacking.

By the end of yesterday the jungle was gone and I could see the outlines of the garden again.

Colin has departed for summer camp. DH leaves tomorrow to lead a two-week alumni hiking trip in Switzerland. Lucy is in New Hampshire for another week. Amanda and Ami go with Judy, Amanda’s mother, to Vermont for vacation today and Jon will join them on Wednesday. All my chickens are happy, and for a week I will have no responsibilities to anyone!

I am hoping I can work outside every day and make lasting progress on this project. I know Allen would be smiling. Wouldn’t it be great if I could have a real garden in 2019?

It would be only ten years in the making.

At War with Goutweed

June 22, 2018

Last year, the Summer of Non-Stop Moving Chaos, I did no gardening. I had no time. All my gardens, large and small, were overtaken by weeds. In November, just after the first snow, I spent an hour cutting back the little apartment garden. The giant heap of stalks and weeds froze to the garden cart, which I emptied by turning it upside down and waiting for the January thaw.

Ten days ago I spent another hour on a spring weeding. The result was above: a rather shabby spectacle, looking even shabbier due to the weeds in the gravel walk (which I’ve since removed with the help of in the company of Colin).

The garden’s problem is goutweed, also known as bishop’s weed or Snow on the Mountain (it has white flowers). The Latin name is Aegopodium podagraria. Looking for photographs for this blog, I found it listed under “Most Hated Plants.” One was labeled “Goutweed Running Amok.”

The plant looks deceptively mild and inoffensive.

It is a thug.

Years ago I accidentally brought goutweed into my school garden when I was given perennials from a neighbor. The cultivar with white-edged leaves is a very pretty ground cover. Unfortunately, once established goutweed can revert to the wild form and rampage through your garden like something from Jurassic Park. It is extremely invasive and fast-growing, and as it is rhyzomatous, every speck of root left in the ground will grow a new plant. Goutweed will grow up and through other plants, its spreading colonies smothering them and marching on.

I was foolish in my early skirmishes with goutweed. In a fit of parsimony and sentimentality, I moved plants from my school garden to the farm. Of course I did not bring goutweed. Sadly, however, I did bring goutweed roots in the soil. So now three of my gardens: the apartment garden, the iris garden, and Allen’s tiny boulder garden, are infected with this pest.

When Allen died in 2015, I had moved some bee balm in front of his boulder at the barn. Here’s the bee balm in July of 2016. At the lower right corner of the shot, you can see tiny sprouts of goutweed. Today the area is overrun with goutweed and there are perhaps two remaining stalks of bee balm. Meanwhile, the goutweed has escaped and is rolling on toward the garden shed.

Goutweed has also sprouted and spread at the top of the south pasture, where I made the mistake of starting a compost pile of pulled weeds. It turns out that pulling goutweed barely weakens the plant. Sites recommend poisoning it with Round-Up, baking the roots in sunshine for over week, or smothering it with black plastic — anything to starve it of its ability to photosynthesize. Outside the gardens I am fighting back with my weedwhacker and mowers. Inside the gardens my plan is to use cardboard and mulch to weaken its stranglehold and even the odds. (My experience with black plastic has not been good.)

Yesterday I flattened liquor boxes and laid them out between the plants in the apartment garden.

Then I covered them with cedar mulch. Yes, I bought bags of bark — something I’ve never done before. Normally I’ve acquired wood chips from loggers, and they’ve arrived by the dump-truck load. But I need the mulch now, not weeks from now when I can find it.

I’m at war with goutweed on four fronts and must use every weapon at hand.

Update on the Mudroom

June 21, 2018

Over the past eight months, between other chores and projects, I have been working on our mudroom. Slowly I got each wall paneled. (The work was slow because many of the boards were warped, the walls are not plumb, and the floor and ceiling are not level. It was, of course, a crazy idea to put straight lines on this room.)

Nevertheless, I persevered, wall by wall.

Last summer — when I actually started this mudroom project — my friend Tom and I had begun staining some of the boards “Ipswich Pine” before I thought better of it. I now decided to use those stained boards on a single wall. The other option was to buy new boards, and I couldn’t spare the cash. “It will be an accent wall,” I told myself hopefully. In mid-February Nick came in and over several days laid the floor. On seeing the terra cotta tile (bought on deep sale the year before) against the Ipswich Pine wall, I was extremely glad I had stopped staining the paneling. The effect was very orange.

In early April the paneling was basically done and I asked Tom if he would be willing to help me finish trimming the room. I knew I had to rip the last boards near the ceiling and I was nervous at the prospect of using my table saw, a creaking behemoth. I also had no idea how to trim the windows or door frames.

Tom kindly agreed to help, and suggested I should pick up some sawhorses for the job. I planned to go to the nearby city to the big box store, but we had a snowstorm. Instead I found a plan for a pair of quick and dirty stackable sawhorses and cut up the pieces on my chop saw.

When Tom arrived we screwed together the sawhorses in about five minutes.

Total cost, $25. I immediately loved those sawhorses.

Tom also oiled my old table saw and fitted it with a sharp new blade. “It’s a nice saw,” he said kindly. Tom is a very encouraging person. (And as you can see, we were working in a tight space with stacked clutter everywhere. He never complained.)

We started to trim the doors, beginning with the back door. This door had been poorly installed by Dean back in 2009 and the only way to keep it from blowing open was to keep it locked at all times. Not only was the frame slightly racked but the strike plate was in the wrong place. Naturally, Tom fixed it.

It took us the entire morning to trim that one problematic door. One morning the following weekend, we finished the other three. (Our work sessions were generally only a few hours. Tom typically works six days a week, so it was extremely generous on his part to give me so much of his free time, week after week.) The next time we met, we cut and put up simple ceiling moulding and baseboard all the way around the room. A couple of weekends after that, we started on the windows.

These windows had been a mess of insulation, house wrap, and cobwebs for nearly nine years.

I was happy to see it all disappear under fresh clean trim.

At one point this spring Tom and I drove over to the bed and breakfast lodge belonging to our friends Tony and Nancy, to inspect their mudroom lockers. Like us, Tony has a long experience with our school, and in renovating the lodge he had copied the student lockers, while upgrading them (not only are his lockers wider, for middle-aged bottoms, but the seat is higher, for middle-aged knees). For many years, I have coveted Tony’s lockers. Now Tom and I would copy his design.

May was so busy for both of us that we were only able to spare a single morning to frame the locker bench seat. Another month flew by with all its attendant chores. This past Friday I managed to get a friendly electrician to stop in and hook up the two outlets under the lockers before they became inaccessible under the finished bench.  And yesterday Tom and I got the lockers framed.

It’s important to understand that Tom is the brains of our work partnership. I am merely his assistant. He measures to the nearest millimeter and runs the saws. I steady and catch the boards and use the nail gun. Here is Tom, ripping slats for the bench seat (in the usual disaster of the garage).

Tom showed me how to use a router to round off all the edges. I held the boards.

I nailed down the slats and slowly the bench grew.

Now we had to cut the plywood for the locker walls. Tom’s Makita is a lot nicer than my Skilsaw, so he made the cuts.

Tom is a great person to work with. He is extremely talented, quiet, kind, and patient — and so determined that it is easy to forget that he is 75 years old.

We cut the locker sidewalls, notched them, and toenailed each one to the wall.

By the end of the day the frame was in place — and Tom had to head out to his real job.

It may be another week or two before Tom can come back, but I have a list of chores to finish before then anyway (sanding, wood-puttying, putting up the rear coat hooks).

This mudroom has been a long project, and the end is not yet, but it is deeply satisfying to see it begin to come together.

Thank you, Tom!

Farewell, Stone Boat

June 20, 2018

It’s a challenge to think up chores that I can do with Colin. He has no work ethic and shrinks from sweat or dirty hands. Novelty and “cool factor” are always a help. Thus yesterday I decided we would try to lever out some of the big rocks under the pasture apple tree that make it impossible to mow. This would involve neat tools like rock bars, shovels, chains, the truck, and the stone boat.

Some years ago I was given a stone boat made of thick hickory planks. Damon’s father-in-law had no further use for it and loaded it into Damon’s truck as a gift. Though I’ve found it extremely helpful for moving large stones, during last summer’s move it sat idle… and rotting.

“It has mushrooms growing on it,” Colin observed with distaste. He allowed me to hitch up the chains while he stood to the side and directed. We drove to the pasture. I had thought Colin might be horrified to scramble onto a truck seat prickly with hay chaff but the excitement of sitting up high momentarily outweighed all other considerations.

We worked for a pleasant half hour prying out medium-sized rocks, rolling them onto the stone boat, and dragging them down the driveway to the rough edge of the pond.

Next we tackled a larger stone buried up to its neck. I showed Colin how we could remove the sod around it and, working together, use both rock bars to lever the stone high enough to wrap it with chains.

Colin was unhappy to get his hands grimy but was distracted by the challenge of the task. After our third try with the truck and chains, we had the heavy rock out of the hole, and with our bars we forced it onto the stone boat. Colin posed in triumph.

“What are you doing with your hand?” I asked. He had been so disturbed by touching the dirt I thought he might be hiding his hands in his fleece.

“I’m being Napoleon!” he exclaimed. Napoleon the conqueror! I was Colin’s history teacher, and this made me smile.

We climbed back into the truck and slowly headed down the driveway, towing the heavy rock. On the previous trip we had both watched in the rear view mirrors to make sure the stones did not tumble off the stone boat. On this trip, it was different. The stone boat itself began to disintegrate under the weight of the big rock.

“Oh, dear,” I said, on seeing a six-foot plank break off and appear in my rear view.

“There’s another one!” cried Colin as a rotten chunk fell off the other side.

“Weren’t we clever to put the giant rock in the front in the middle?” I watched the mirror. “C’mon, stone boat, just make it to the pond!”

The stone boat made it few feet over the edge of the driveway to the pond site, where it fell into pieces.

At some point I will use the hardware to build another stone boat, but that was the end of moving rocks for the day. We put our tools into the truck and I decided we would break for water on the porch before starting our next chore. I offered Colin a chocolate chip cookie. He took a bite. “It’s pretty good!” he said in surprise, then added quickly, “I bet you didn’t make them.”

“Nope,” I agreed, rocking. “They’re from Costco.”

Our next task was to weed the gravel walk to my tenant’s apartment. Weeding held no charm.

“I’m so tired,” Colin whined immediately. A minute or two later, “My back hurts.”

He thought the tool I was using worked better, so we switched. Oddly enough, in my hands, the old tool worked better and became the desirable one.

Patiently I handed him the rake and told him that I would chop and pull the weeds, and he could rake the gravel smooth behind me. Still I would look up to see him standing doing nothing.

“Colin,” I said pleasantly, “you have to keep working or you will not be paid.”

“Oh, right,” he said, and poked listlessly at the gravel.

A moment later I heard a yelp of “Oww!” Colin had deliberately stepped on the end of the rake to see if the rake would behave as it did in cartoons. It did; the handle rose up and clapped him on the forehead. He was startled but unhurt.

I shook my head and smiled. “C’mon, sweetie, let’s finish this job.”

“I have a concussion!” Colin insisted.

I laughed heartlessly.

My Ram is “Famous”

June 19, 2018

Last year I donated my registered purebred Clun Forest ram, Royal Blue (called “Royal”) to the SVF Foundation in Newport, Rhode Island. This foundation safeguards the genetics of heritage breeds. Clun Forest sheep are not common and the Foundation was happy to send a truck and two men from Rhode Island to pick him up.

Yesterday I received an email alert to a story in the Newport newspaper. On reading the article I was pleased to come across a passing mention of my boy Royal.

Apparently now that Royal’s semen has been collected, he will be sold to another shepherd. I’m glad to think I’ve contributed in a small way to preserving a rare breed.

Catch-Up Day

June 18, 2018

I was on the road yesterday from 8 AM to 6 PM, taking Lucy to New Hampshire for her two-week volunteer internship. She is staying with DH’s wonderful aunt and uncle for the fortnight. Lucy is passionate about government and citizenship and I hope this will be the first of many experiences she has working for the good of the country.

This morning is already warm and humid. Today there is, unbelievably, a heat index warning here in the mountains. However it is dark with gathering clouds, so perhaps it will storm and clear the air. I did not sleep last night so my energy is low.

I think I will concentrate on mucking the barn, bringing the cows in, moving and watering the sheep. Then I will catch up in the house: paying bills, filing, cleaning bathrooms, vacuuming, and folding laundry — all those less than exciting tasks that feel so virtuous to have done. I will haul out the window screens for the summer and put them up so we can have a cross breeze upstairs. I will fix the television for DH. Then, if it’s not raining, I can mow.

Of course if it is raining, and the drops are drumming peacefully on our metal roof, perhaps I’ll put off the indoor chores and take a nap first.

Got It Done!

June 16, 2018

After two wet, cool days, this morning it was sunny and warm, and by 7:00 AM I saw (from my bedroom window: how great is that?) the cattle in the back field stamping, flicking their ears, and lashing their tails against flies. By 7:15 they were making their way to the barn. I told myself, Today’s the day.

I had decided that somehow I would get Katika’s old halter on Flora. I have haltered a number of recalcitrant animals and now that Flora’s protective new-baby hormones seemed to have settled down I decided this would be no different. It took me half an hour and being dragged almost off my feet around the stall but at last the halter was on.

I then took a short break to think about my next move. Poking around my stacked garage I found a heavy 20-foot nylon strap that fell off a straw delivery a few years ago. I tied the strap to a lead rope, threaded the strap through the stanchion, and snapped the lead rope to Flora’s halter. Then I opened Flora’s gate and, holding the end of the strap, stepped back.

It took ten minutes but with every move she made in the right direction, I shortened the strap, hauling her step by step to the stanchion. It was a bit hectic to keep Riggins, the calf, close so that she did not panic. At last she spied the grain and bread in the stanchion and put her head through the bars to eat. I pushed the bar against her neck and slid the bolt home. She was caught!

Flora struggled to rear back and the stanchion (made of 2x4s) creaked under the strain, but thankfully it held. She was surprisingly calm when I began milking the huge front teats.

It was a strange thing. There was no milking motion necessary. The teats were simply vast balloons that had to be drained by squeezing. There was also no visible sign of mastitis. I had seen the massive teats dripping milk as she walked and my only explanation is that perhaps the constant drip had relieved enough pressure to keep mastitis from starting.

At last the teats were reduced from summer squash to long fingerlings.

The left teat was hot and bloody and I worried about infection, but she let me empty that one, too.

Her udder conformation is certainly poor, and the calf has not tried to nurse the front teats, even after they were reduced in size. However I feel sure he will in the next couple of weeks as he grows. In the meantime I am greatly relieved to have a means to empty them. I imagine as we go through this routine every day Flora will gradually become tamer and trained to the stanchion. I spent five minutes currying her after milking as a reward for her good behavior, and when she was safely returned to her stall my mood was triumphant.

  *   *   *

I had hardly washed my hands before Colin arrived to work. While I gathered our tools, I watched through the window as he dug a hole in the future front lawn with his boot. “Please don’t dig holes in the lawn,” I said when I walked outside.

“That wasn’t me!” he exclaimed, stepping away from the hole.

I led the way down the driveway. “Colin, lying is a bad habit and one that makes it hard to have friends because they can’t trust you,” I said briskly. “Now, today we’re going to fix sheep shelters and move the sheep.”

Over the next two hours we removed from one of the shelters the wire fencing panel that had been flattened by an unexpected snowstorm two years ago, and replaced it with another. All of this required towing 16-foot panels behind the mower, and screwing and unscrewing 3″ deck screws and 4″ Timberloks. It took a while for Colin to get the hang of using the DeWalt, keeping it perpendicular, and holding pressure on the screw so the bit did not chatter and strip the head. I did a lot of steadying and pushing his hands, but eventually he got the idea.

I mentioned later to Colin’s mother that he’d learned to use a screw gun.

“It is a drill,” Colin corrected me in a sharp tone.

“Actually, lots of people refer to them as screw guns,” I said mildly. “For example, today, we were driving screws, not drilling.”

“It is nails that have nail guns,” he insisted.

“Yep, and screws, screw guns. I don’t know why they’re so often called guns. Maybe it’s a guy thing.”

Colin frowned. Winning is extremely important to him. But he let it go.

Today he also fastened zip ties and drove the speedier John Deere mower.

He seemed proud to help me move the sheep fencing and drag the shelters to the new spot.

Still, when we took our water break on the porch, he held up the Rice Krispie treat I gave him and snorted. “It’s not even real Rice Krispies. It’s the store brand!”

“Yep,” I said, rocking.

It was a good day.