Yes, Virginia, There is a Sock Monster.

In my estimation, doing laundry is like the ancient myth where a man has to roll a huge stone up a hill only to have it roll back down where he will endlessly repeat the process. Yet, laundry is not only like this myth, it is a mystery within a myth. The mystery being, where do all the socks go and why is it that only one goes missing? I've never had my pants walk off or had a top vanish, never had a sweater go AWOL. This mystery has followed me through 7 states and 10 cities.

I've examined my washer and found no sinkholes or portholes for escapees to vanish through. I've checked my dryer--none there either. I've checked the sliver of space between my washer and dryer to see if grabbing hands protrude--they don't. It leaves me with one logical conclusion--there is a sock monster.

I don't understand his pathos though. Why does he take one sock and not a pair? Why one big sock and one little, one white with pink trim, one solid black? What is he gaining out of all this? Is it only to torture me as I stare at a pile of mismatched, unpaired socks when my folding is done. A calling card to let me know he's been here?

I have a box now--a sock monster box. At the end of the folding process anyone without a partner goes into the sock monster box. They sit there until they find their partner, a perfect match; then they leave a happy couple once again. Sometimes they sit there for weeks or months. At some point tough choices are made. Some go on death row. Some are partnered with another mismatch, like an interracial marriage; Ms. pink trim is partnered with Mr. blue trim. They make a slightly odd but acceptable couple. If 6 months go by and no partner has been found and an extensive search party has done its job, then the left behind ones are lined up and marched to the trash bin. From there they go to wherever lonely, unpaired socks go. And the cycle continues with new unpaired ones showing up weekly to take their place. It is a process that goes on and on, round and round, just like the cycle on my washer and dryer.

The Cat is Always Right

Sometimes we adults get so preoccupied with people things that we are often unaware of the conversations that our pets are carrying on. One day when I was relaxed from a bit too much rum in my eggnog I found myself tuning in to an argument between our barn cat, Bodicea and our faithful dog, Strider. Apparently Strider had been boasting to Bodicea that he had written the Oster 2009 Christmas letter. Strider informed her that he was now officially top dog. Bodicea had not taken well to the chest thumping and was giving him a piece of her mind when I tuned in to the conversation.

"Top dog!" Bodicea choked out. "Well, that just shows how ill-informed you truly are. The words top and dog don't even go together. Dogs are so far down on the evolutionary chart that one could never call a canine top anything."

"You're jealous, yeah, that's it, isn't it? You weren't chosen to write the letter. That means that the Osters think that I'm the smarter of us." Strider responded.

"Smart?, you have the audacity to call yourself smart. Well, listen up little doggie. First of all, one of us is a working animal. Do you get that...working. Only smart animals work, and I'm the one who has a job on this property. You, on the other hand, are in the house all day being a lazy layabout."

"Alright, I'm confused, you have a job? From what I see you walk around all day eating gross stuff like mice, so what's all this ranting about a job?"

"How dumb can you be, Strider? Eating that "gross stuff" as you call it, is my job! I keep this place rodent free. That is a full time job. I am the pest control, but you sit in the house eating processed food from China and fart all day. You could say that I eat all natural or organic as they say in Vermont. I contribute significantly to this farm.

"Whoa-wait just a second, you have cat food that comes from a bag too. I see the kids put it out for you on the stoop each day."

"It supplements my hunting diet if you must know. If I don't get it I can still survive; you, on the other hand couldn't get by if they didn't feed. You-you're dependent as they say. Not to mention how greedy you are; I've seen you stealing my cat food from the stoop."

"Alright it's tempting you know. A growing pup needs a full and varied diet at this age."

"But...cat food??!"

"Food is food is food."

"Case in point, you just demonstrated that you're not so smart."

"Alrighty then, if you're so smart then let me hear your attempt at a Christmas letter."

"Fine, here it goes...
Dear family and friends,
What a wonderful year it has been here on Bywater Farm. My year of pest management has been highly successful. I have caught several baby rabbits which makes Mr. Oster very happy. When I am not hunting (the warrior queen they call me) I can be found soaking in the views while perched on my favorite fence or scratching my back on a lovely pine tree outside the barn. Though I am 9 years old, I still look terrific and haven't lost my agility..."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, back this train up. Do you know anything about Christmas letters? You're not suppose to talk about yourself. You are suppose to tell about the family-as in Mom, Dad and the kids. No one cares what a mangy outdoor cat is doing!"

"I am the most important part of this family so naturally the reader would want to hear about me first. I'll get to the others later."

"What...in the last two sentences? You don't even live in the house!"

"I hope you're not implying that living in the house makes you family. I've seen your living quarters; they have you in a metal cage with a lock. You're not free-you're a glorified prisoner."

"It's a crate and it has a soft bed in there AND a toy."

"Strider, you're so naive, the toy is bait to get you inside and keep you there. It means they don't trust you bud. They're afraid you'll tear the house apart; so you're under lock and key, so to speak. While I, on the other hand, have freedom to roam the entire property."

"Well, you're afraid of sheep! I've seen you avoid the barn when they're there. I've seen you cower in fear. Some warrior you are, afraid of a few fluffy sheep. I'm the true warrior, I tell those sheep right where to go, and I make them do it!"

"I..I...well, I'm not afraid as you say. I'm simply annoyed by them. I don't have time for creatures who hit each other in the head repeatedly, and frankly I don't have time to keep explaining things to you that you should already know. I've got work to do!"

"Yeah, so do I. I've got a new toy I've got to check out."

"Oh brother!" Off Bodicea goes to roam the property with an air of superiority. She stops for a second and peers back at Strider. "The cat is always right, Strider. That's all you need to know for today...The cat is ALWAYS right!"

Living with the 1st and 3rd Person

It was an experience in New York state that first made me aware of the two persons living inside me. In writer's terms we call these the first and the third person. During this time I was working for the Mental Health Department in a residential program for adults with mental illness. The home in which I worked was an old, 3 story, Victorian house. The residents which occupied it were as eclectic and intricate as the details within the home's architecture itself. My time there as a counselor taught me the roller coaster nature of life with mental illness. I saw first hand how a person could be in their right mind one day, and then suddenly not be the next. This was the situation I found myself in with a woman I'll call Maude.

Maude was a self assured, gracious, black woman when in her right mind. She hovered at about 6ft in height and had a large boned build that could make her look formidable at times. She was well dressed and carried herself with great dignity. In good mental health she was an elegant, poised, intelligent woman.

I was fairly new to working in this home, but had been there long enough to have had a few pleasant conversations with Maude. We'd talked about cooking, knitting and other points of interest. Sometimes I shook my head in amazement as to why this seemingly sane person was living here. But a few weeks later, Maude was in a downward spiral which all came to a head on the night of a full moon.

I happened to be working that night and was the first one to discover that she was up in the middle of the night emptying the kitchen cabinets of their contents. She was making piles of dishes and things all over the free-standing island in the middle of the room. I walked into the kitchen and observed her behavior as well as her disheveled appearance. Eyes that were warm towards me a week ago were now shooting daggers in my direction. In this state, her size and strength was downright scary. The staff realized how easily she could overpower any of us. At this point no one interfered with her dish rearranging in the kitchen. We figured that as long as her behavior wasn't threatening we would not interfere. I was warned to be particularly careful around Maude in this state because she had a history of taking out her aggression on employees who were new, white and female. The staff knew how easily I could be targeted.

When morning came Maude's psychosis seemed to have worsened. It was 6:OO when I (first person) walked into the kitchen that morning to discover Maude standing by the island. Maude saw me enter the kitchen. She then slowly picked up the new butcher knife the home had just purchased. She stood and faced me and began stroking the long, silver blade in a slow, deliberate manner. The other me (third person) began noting the details in an objective fashion, as if she were somehow outside of me.

The first person me felt a nervous twinge in my gut over seeing psychosis in its full blown state. My instincts told me not to turn my back on her but to just inch out of the room slowly, never taking my eyes off her. Meanwhile, the third person, writer in me was standing as a silent observer noting that the intricate details of this would make a perfect horror film scene.

The lighting was perfect. The first rays of morning light were streaming in the kitchen window in a beam that played off the glittering steel of an unblemished new blade. The light back-lit her hair and nightgown in an eerie fashion. Her disheveled hair was pushed into clumps that stood stiffly in odd angles like opposing enemies. The light illuminated her thin, flimsy nightgown, outlining her large framed, unclothed body underneath. The sterile white of the kitchen was also noted, the chips, the cracks, the years of use the kitchen had suffered; that it was utilitarian and worn. It lacked a homey warmth. It was all these details together that made it a notable scene.

The first person me experienced a level of fear, was disconcerted over being present during this psychotic episode. The third person looked into Maude's psychotic eyes and saw that it was a perfect Stephen King movie moment. This third person observed keen details coming together in one moment in a perfect way and then froze those mental details into it's brain for further recollection.

And this is when I knew that there were two of me, the first person who lives, feels, and experiences things first hand. Then there is the second me, that cool, calm, observant third person who shadows my every move, always on the lookout for recordable moments where she jumps outside of me with her pen and steno pad noting the details, the descriptions and records them in her collected fashion. Later she pesters me to listen and tell what she's observed. Finally, the two persons come together, the one who observes and the one who feels. They fuse together in the production of their final gift--the written word.

Lambing Gone Wrong

Spring comes each year bringing all the expected nuances of the season with it. Yet, every year it continues to amaze me and pull me deeper into its enchantments. The returning grass, the budding flowers and the newest arrival of lambs leave me filled with wonder and awe. These were the things I was pondering as I walked to the hillside barn this particular morning. I was going down to check on Blackie, our best breeding ewe. My husband announced that she was lambing, so I quickly grabbed my boots and headed out. I was only there a few minutes when the joy of seeing new lambs born flowed out of me and panic took its place. This delivery was not going well. Blackie was showing serious signs of distress. It wasn't long before I was down on my knees in the muck assessing the situation more closely. The lamb was dead and Blackie was unable to expel it.

In a normal delivery you will see a nose and two front legs peeking out. In this case I had a head only. It appeared the lamb had strangled. I watched Blackie strain and push for several moments. No progress. Exhausted she plunked down on the barn floor alongside me.

Now I was having flashbacks of the lambing class I'd taken a couple years ago. I was remembering the wonderful breakfast buffet that had beckoned me upon arrival. I remembered listening to the sheep farmer talk about lambing as we watched a couple videos. Later we had shifted gears to what can potentially go wrong with lambing. It was in these situations where we watched the farmer get a bucket of water and a bottle of dish soap. In my complete naivety I could not imagine what he was going to do with these items. Then I had my question answered as I watched him soap up. With wet, slippery hands he then worked his hand and then his whole arm up inside the ewe. The farmer then proceeded to pull the lamb out. His prize for this heroic act-one slimy, mucous covered arm.

I just had one word for the whole thing-disgusting. No, utterly disgusting. I remembered my breakfast of champions rebelled on me and attempted to come back up. I remembered looking intently at the floor while the remaining footage played. I said one thing to myself-Never! I. Will. Never. Do. That! But mother nature was laughing at me this morning for she knew that as certain as the grass returns each spring that more often than not, human beings are forced to do the very things they swear they'll never do.

I returned to the house to get my water and soap and then I grabbed the cordless phone in a last ditch effort to get out of this. I called the farmer up the road-no answer. I looked for the farmer across the road-no luck. I called my sheep farmer friend-not home. I dialed my vet who assuredly told me that I should be able to do this myself. Some luck the phone brought me, I chucked it over on a hay bale. I then considered the advice I'd been given. The vet said to pull gently. My sheep farmer's son told be to pull hard, really hard. Great, I said to myself-pull lightly, pull like gangbusters. Now my head was thoroughly spinning. I grabbed the lamb's neck and pulled gently and then slightly harder, and then harder still and nothing. Blackie looked like she exasperated with the situation and with me the lousy farmhand.

Now I knew what I was going to have to do. So I plunked down on the barn floor and dunked my arm in the bucket. Then I lathered on the soap till everything was slick as snot. I took a deep breath, muttered a prayer of desperation and slipped my hand up under Blackie's folds till it was no longer visable. Finally I could feel the lamb's body and I was able to get the legs where I could pull. With a little persistence I was able to get the whole lamb out. Relief! Pure relief for Blackie and I both. In the end I sat my slimy, filthy self down on the ground as I watched Blackie stand and spill her blood on the earth below her. I spilled tears of relief and the ground beneath us received them both like collecting dues from the living.

The Postlude

I stood in the back of the barn amongst a hodgepodge of sheep supplies. It was there that the smell of iodine was the strongest. Its pungent odor dominated the scent of hay bales around me. Though my barn was in Vermont, the iodine smell transported me back in time to my Grandparent's decrepit old house in Maine. It was there that I also recalled that scent, particularly in my Grandmother's beauty shop off the kitchen.

I hesitate to refer to the beauty shop, anything bearing the word beauty wasn't fitting for my grandparent's house. It was the ugliest place I'd ever been forced to visit. My grandmother as well was no longer beautiful. A combination of evil and mental illness had worked their fingers through her hair over time leaving her with vacant, cold eyes. She looked like she could easily hide an axe behind her back. The only thing that scared me equally as much was my grandfather. He had two black, golf ball size lumps on either side of his neck. He reminded me of Frankenstein.

Their house, which was eventually knocked down, was tilted and drooped severely. Cobwebs hung in the place of art, cockroaches scampered across floorboards, walls were uneven with bulges, cracks, and secrets. My brothers and I peeked behind closet doors with sweaty palms expecting to find dead bodies. But Mom dragged us to this decaying dungeon in the name of Jesus. "We have to honor our parents," she stated. And so we trudged to their house of horrors, with casserole in tote, to sit in their musty parlor so my parents could chat with my grandmother while we kids prayed Grandmother wouldn't touch us or offer us food.

If by chance my grandmother did offer us food, my mother would save us all by pulling out her casserole. We would work our way into the kitchen where Grandmother served up the food on chipped plates and silverware that had a decade of dried food stuck to it. Above our heads hung a dusty chandelier where pretty small lights had been replaced with chunky 60 watt bulbs. The whole place smelled of dead cats and decay. It was a place that only Edgar Allen Poe or Stephen King could appreciate. But we routinely came for these biblical visits so Mom could fulfill her duty of honoring her parents.

But one particular visit sticks out from all the rest. We were there on a mission. Grandfather was dying and Mom had grandiose ideas about having special time with him. Moments where we'd say Hallmark greeting card words and gain closure. But Grandfather was not the kind of person you had sentiments with. He was already as closed as a coffin. But my mother entered his room like one enters a confessional. His small room was top of the steps, five feet straight ahead. The room had a sofa, bowl of nuts, and a TV where he watched wrestling. He never spoke to my grandmother other than a one syllable response, and he never spoke to his children while they were growing up. Once when my mother was a kid she had poked him with a pin to see if he could speak. His yelp answered her question. The old geezer did have vocal cords. There in the quiet of the room I knew my mother spoke to him about the biggies-heaven, hell, death, grace and God.

When she exited she passed the baton to me and told me to go have a meaningful moment with him before he died. "Mom," I said. "Uh, Grandpa has never spoken to me in my whole life. What exactly am I suppose to say to him? I don't even know the guy." I towered over my mother at this age but she looked up at me with power oozing out her eyes and said "Get in there-now!"

A few minutes later it's just me, my grandfather and the bowl of nuts in the room. His steel blue eyes barely acknowledged me. "Hey," I said. "Go downstairs and have tea with your mother," he said. We had stood for five whole seconds in the same room with invisible strands of genetic material connecting us but our eyes were unable to meet, our hearts were unable to connect. His comment freed me from the room releasing both of us into the comfortable silence. "See ya later," I said as I cheerfully left the room. I instantly realized my mistake. I may never see him again and this was not disturbing to me.

I returned to the kitchen where the cabinetry clung for dear life to walls that were trying to kick them off. The cabinets strained to hold the dishes inside. I passed by the old black stove that served as my grandmother's personal bank. This was her favorite hiding spot for money. As I sat down at the table my mother shot me the look of death. "He kicked me out," I whispered to her. On a positive note I told her that he has officially said 8 whole words to me now. "I can die in peace now," I muttered. "Don't be smart with me," she retorted.

My mother was the essence of appropriate behavior. She had wanted the grand postlude with my grandfather. But I couldn't do it. I couldn't drudge up a postlude where there had never been a prelude or a middle. In the end the silence between us was fitting. A lifetime of things unsaid, experiences unshared. Though sometimes I still think about that invisible genetic strand between us. Does the loner in me, or my odd blood type come from him? I'll never have the answers to my questions for I left the room to go have tea and he remained in the room with the nut bowl refusing to speak anymore than those 8 meager words.

If You Were to Ask Me

If you were to know me, you would know that I had to put down our family dog. He was two. If you were facing the same crossroad, you would ask me that dreaded question. How do you put down the family dog? This is what I'd tell you.

I wouldn't look you in the eye as I would talk. I'd look down or off to your side. I'd tell you to be mechanical about the whole thing, to stick your feelings in your back pocket. "Don't prolong it," I'd say. "Do it first thing in the morning. Waiting makes it worse."

When the time comes, you make yourself move. You put your shoes on, put the dogs leash on, put one foot in front of the other until you're both in the car. Wear sun glasses and ball cap. Drive the car. Distract yourself by watching birds along the drive. Notice pretty wreaths hung on front doors. Don't look back at the dog enjoying the car ride, barking at things outside his window. Fight back the tears. Blink, blink, blink hard. Swallow past the lump in your throat. Open your eyes wide to make space for the excess of liquid.

Pull into the vet's office. Walk inside. Leave shades on as you tell the receptionist you're here. She'll know everything. She'll look at you and mouth, "I'm sorry." Salt water will assault your eyes. Blink, blink, open eyes wide, swallow hard. Pull ball cap further down. Keep shades on. Stick face behind a magazine. Quickly, in a single motion, remove glasses and blot, blot, blot. Fabric from your sleeve should blot from eye to bottom of cheek. Continue to use magazine as needed. Read an article. Look at the chintzy art hanging in the waiting room.

Look at the floor when the vet assistant calls you to come back. She'll apologize too. Then she'll leave. You'll be in the room for several torturous minutes. Pet the dog. Walk around the room. Blink, blink, swallow.

The vet will come in. She'll say the same words as the others. She'll recognize the shades and pulled down ball cap, the sleeve that is now wet, and eyes that have been through an aerobic workout. She'll take the dog and give him a treat, she'll give you a pat on the arm. She'll offer brief words of assurance, telling you it is the right thing.

She'll lay the dog on the table and he'll look at you with eyes full of trust, not suspicious of a thing. You'll pet the dog and the blinking won't work this time. An onslaught of salty tears will spill out your eyes. Snot will run out your nose. Blot the snot first, the saltwater second. Your sleeve will be used up by now. The injection will be quick and he'll close his eyes and look like he's sleeping. It will be calm for a second. The worst is over, you'll tell yourself.

You'll hand the vet the burlap bag you brought. She'll stuff the dog's body inside and staple it shut. She'll have someone put it in the back of the car and shut the hatch. The feelings in your back pocket will try to escape, but fight the urge. It is easier to drive without saltwater vision.

Drive the car home. Don't listen to the eerie silence, the lack of noise from the back seat. Try to focus on all the bad things he did. The time he nearly killed Grandma's new poodle, or chased cars for two hours refusing to come when called. Blink, blink swallow. Turn up the radio, pick something distracting-rock music, perhaps. Don't pick country. Pull onto your road. Blot, swallow and blink a few times.

Bite your lip and get out of the car. Avoid eye contact with the kids. They'll ask a 100 questions about his last moments. Be cheery, give brief answers. Go inside and drink a latte, eat chocolate. Let your husband put the burlap bag in the hole he's dug. Expect more questions from the kids and looks that will reduce you to a hit man. They will not blink and swallow. They will sob loudly. The emotions in your back pocket will escape about now and chase you down. They will fly in your face and suffocate you. Go into your bathroom and take a moment or two. You'll now realize the worst is yet to come. Put on a new shirt with dry sleeves.

Go outside for the funeral. Let Dad do the talking. It will be hard to hear over the crying. He'll read Bible verses that says God works all things for our good. Don't expect the kids to believe it, not today at least. Put your hands in your pockets and stretch your eyes as dirt is thrown over top of the burlap bag. Ignore the knot in your stomach, the tightness in your throat, the migraine behind your eyes. You won't be hungry today, tomorrow or the next day. But you will have done what needed to be done, even though you'll question yourself 1000 times, and the what ifs will be your new companion for weeks. You'll see your dog everywhere. Hear him in the absence. The silence will be deafening, and you will blink and swallow a thousand times over the days ahead. But congratulate yourself on doing the unthinkable. You will now be a member of a unique group, those of us who know that it is possible to lovingly stroke a dog with the left hand while holding a gun in the right.

Jury-Rigging in the Barn

What makes someone a true Vermonter? I think about this sometimes. I wonder about the Vermont dairy farmers. These hard workers are as much a part of the Vermont landscape as the barns and silos. Do they feel like true Vermonters when they're marking their territory with the manure spreader?

If it isn't your job that makes you a Vermonter, is it your wardrobe that does? Is a closet of Carhartt work clothes, serious mud boots, or handmade hemp clothing a tip-off that you're true-blue to the state? Are wild patterned wool socks, peeking out from Birkenstock sandals, a Vermont calling-card? Or the felted wool hat you purchased from the sheep farmer?

Perhaps it's the contents in your freezer that reveals your true status? Freezers filled with meat, wrapped in white paper, without a grocery store name. Packages that indicate one knew where this animal lived and grazed. A pantry lined with canned fruits and vegetables, all plucked from your garden. So is this the secret sign, being conscientious about where your food comes from?

Some folks say that if your grandparents were born here, then you can call yourself a true local. Others say that if you have relatives up in the Northeast Kingdom, who bury their money in the back yard, never trusting the bank, then you have serious roots in the state. Still others will look strictly to your accent as the true mark of a Vermonter.

While there are many theories as to who is a true Vermonter, I suspect I could qualify on a few levels. My grandparents were born and raised in this state. I still have relatives up yonder, a few that I suspect have the hidden money thing going on. I eat locally, including raising and slaughtering my own sheep. I have mud boots and help muck out the barn. Yet, in all this I have never actually felt like a true Vermonter. No, for that to occur something out of the ordinary would have to happen, and it did.

I pulled on my farm boots this particular morning and headed to the barn for a quick fill of the feeder. I walked in and discovered some of the sheep wandering freely in the inaccessible part of the barn. Normally they are confined to their area with two barriers: a metal cattle gate and a long hay feeder. The hay and feed supplies are stored in the back for obvious reasons. My job was to figure out how the lambs and smaller ewes had gotten back there.

Soon I saw it. A gaping hole in the metal fence. The bar which vertically supports the fence was dangling in pieces. The horizontal support bars completely bashed in, courtesy of an angry alpha ram. In the middle of these poles were 2 by 3 grid fencing which now had a sheep size hole through it. Hay bales strewn apart were now covered with sheep poop. The escapees stood munching away, enjoying the all-you-can-eat smorgasbord.

I looked at my fence; it was in sorry shape. I looked at my checkbook; it was in sorry shape. There was only one option: jury-rig it. I scrounged up some spare fencing along with some blood-red twine from unbound hay bales. I began to patch the hole. I tied and knotted the spare fence pieces in various places. The twine hung down like ribbons on a package. The grid fencing was bent in odd contortions. I yanked, pulled and continued to tie the metal pieces together to construct a barrier. It looked awful, like a twisted metal patchwork quilt with twist-ties. But the task was done; the hole was fixed. I had solved the problem like a true Vermonter, with scrap metal and no money.

I expect my pathetic looking fence will stand there until my angriest ram decides to completely beat it into a pile of rubble. Then I'll have no choice but to buy a new one. But as for this old one, I'll always remember it as the bent, battered gate that turned a girl in Vermont into a true Vermonter.

The Wind-Blown Hydrangea

I was entranced as I watched a dried hydrangea blow along the church pathway this blustery, winter morning. Light and billowy, it flitted down the path like a promise of spring, waiting impatiently to come. It bounced along, skidded on top of ice and frozen ground. It was like a cataclysmic clashing: of winter and spring, of hard and soft, of frozen ground and budding earth.

The wind-blown hydrangea hit the heavy, dark, church door, and bounced off; the wind whisking it off in another direction. I was sad for a moment as I thought of that hydrangea as God's Spirit that blows among us. Does it find our church doors shut, our teachings vacuous, our services unwelcoming? The church that morning was stark, and cold.

My mind's eye returned to the image of the hydrangea hitting the church door and blowing away. It is an accurate picture. We have shut the door on God in this state, and not politely either. Not like the old lady who declines the salesman at her door, bidding him another time perhaps. No, we have slammed the door, with clinched fists raised toward heaven. We've told God to go away and not to call.

I ponder this when a peace descends on me, reminding me that the Spirit does not need buildings of mortar and stone to call home; it needs the heart's soft flesh. We cannot stop the blowing of His Spirit, for when our churches close their doors; the birds will sing its liturgy. The novelist will write of redemption. The songwriter will fill a smoke-filled room with truth, and the Spirit, like a wind blown hydrangea, will still blow in and among all of them, bouncing off mortar yet piercing through flesh.

Stella

April blew in like a gust of north wind. The ground frozen solid, the air biting cold. But temperature and mother nature could not control when mother ewes would deliver. This early April brought us a cluster of new lambs. They snuggled with their moms for body heat unaware that another month would have been a more welcoming time to be born. One particular night was especially bitter. Strong winds blew through the vented barn gate and onto the new born lambs. They all fared well, except for one black lamb named Stella, who contracted pneumonia. Stella quickly lost strength, soon she was unable to stand or nurse.

But while life is happening in the barn, it is also happening in the house; sometimes the two being completely unaware of the other. While Stella was struggling to breathe, the kids were finishing lunch and stuffing books in their backpacks for afternoon tutoring. Soon we drove off unaware of how sad the remainder of the day would be.

We had barely gotten home when the phone rang. It was bad news. My neighbor and friend had passed away from her battle with cancer. She was a single mom of 7 kids. This was devastating news. I stood dumbfounded, trying to process the information. Meanwhile, my oldest was in hysterics outside by the chicken coop. One of the chickens was dead. Jackie was very upset and puzzled as to why I didn't seem to care. I stood there, weighing the death of a neighbor and our chicken. The chicken no longer mattered.

We fished the chicken out of the coop, and tossed it off in the woods. Jackie was then sent to the barn to fill up the hay-feeder. Soon she was running back towards the house in tears. "Come quick," she tells me. I followed her to the barn where we found Stella at death's door. Jackie picked her up, tears falling down her face. "You just can't let her die, you just can't!" she said. She stroked Stella's wool, holding onto her for dear life. "It's a day of death," she said. "First the chicken, then our neighbor, and now this lamb is dying. I can't take another death today, you have to save her!"

I prefer to let mother nature take her course, but it was heartbreaking to watch my oldest child learn the effects of living in a fallen world. She was witnessing the effects of the curse: death, suffering, disease, hardship, unfairness, and a whole lot more. She was learning that life is messy, it isn't just love, friends, mac and cheese, and Christmas gifts. She was realizing there is a whole other world outside the four walls of our house. This cold April wind blew its chilly breath on a defenseless newborn lamb and blew a new knowledge into a little girls heart.

Stella came into our house that night. She slept in a laundry basket in the front hall. We fed her with a bottle of milk-replacer. The next day I gave her a shot of vitamin E and an antibiotic. Eventually she was moved to the upstairs bathtub. We covered the tub floor with hay for her to lie on, as we continued our struggle to feed her. Stella did not want to drink from the bottle. We persistently plugged along and soon Stella was standing in the tub.

We followed the vet's instructions and in two weeks time we were able to move her back into the barn, where we hoped she'd be taken back by her mother. She wasn't. Her mother rejected her and I no longer wanted her in my house. My bathroom now smelled like the barn, and the smell was beginning to slowly slip out the bathroom and invade the rest of the house. The kids were now thoroughly grossed out by the manure covered hay and sheep urine in the tub, their expressions told me that I would be the one cleaning it, so I did. I cleaned it once with bleach, twice with bleach, and it still smelled like the barn. It was as if the pores in the woodwork had opened themselves up to drink in this new essence and then seal it in. I opened the windows to usher the odor out, but it stayed. Stella was in the barn, but her essence stayed in the house for weeks.

The fact that Stella's mother would not take her back left us with quite a chore. Every couple of hours we had to go to the barn, catch Stella's mother and restrain her while Stella latched on. The mother ewe grunted, butted, kicked, fighting this like it was a great violation against her, but we kept hoping she would re-accept Stella of her own free will. She wasn't interested. It wasn't long before this find mom, catch mom, restrain mom, let Stella drink (tank-up) routine became quite laborious for all of us. How happy we were when she was old enough to drink water and we could end this process.

This little lamb, named in Latin for a starry night was fully alive. She grew bigger and stronger. We had saved her but as the months wore on we would be sorry we had interfered with the laws of nature. Stella would turn out to be anything like the peaceful pleasure of a starry night. She would be an exasperating headache and a tough lesson for all of us.

Ajax's Horns

It is holy week, an appropriate time to think about sin. You might not think a sheep with attitude could teach me anything about the topic, but Ajax the ram did just that. Ajax and his horns taught me a valuable truth about hidden sin.

I remembered seeing some blood on Ajax's cheek prior to this day, but blood on a ram isn't usually alarming; it's typical. Ramology 101 says: rams fight, rams get bloody, rams still fight. That's life. His bloody face made me uncomfortable though, so I looked closer. Horns were the problem. Ajax's horns had grown too close to his cheek, leaving no room for air flow. The flesh underneath was breaking down. Ajax was in distress, bashing and rubbing the side of his face into the cattle gate to get relief.

I called the vet, described what I saw, and he confirmed my suspicion. "His horns need to be cut," he said. "You can use an OB wire if ya like."
A what wire? Steve and I cut Ajax's horns, are you kidding?
Being a good Vermonter, the vet had given me the you-can-do-this-at-home-for-free option. If it had been another ram, my husband and I might have considered this, but without a stun gun or knock-out pills, there was only one option...call the vet.

The vet came and Steve helped restrain Ajax while Kent did the cutting. Both of them struggled against Ajax's strength and dominant will. Finally, Ajax's horns fell to the ground. Now, everyone could see what Ajax had been so desperately trying to relieve. He had two gaping holes for cheeks, oozing with maggots. The breakdown of skin had led to an infestation of fleas, making way for the maggots. The vet sprayed Ajax's face. One spray for infection, one to kill the creepy-crawlies.

While Ajax hated the manhandling, he was instantly relieved when the sprays began to work. Now with proper air flow, his cheeks healed in just days. He could go back to fighting, he was officially itch free.

In the business of life, we could have overlooked this horn problem, but eventually it would have killed Ajax. The wound was hidden, but still present. His flesh had been slowly eaten away. Hidden sin in our lives isn't much different. It to gradually eats at us. Ajax's face needed air, hidden sin needs light. Bringing the offense into the open is the first step to healing. Light and air, two things we take for granted until the lack of them causes problems. Then we appreciate them for their glorious contributions.

Ajax is now back to the things that alpha rams do; he's just doing them with shorter horns. He continues to live and fight in the red barn, with the flaking-off paint and the half-dangling cattle gate. It may be rough around the edges but the place beams with life and lessons that burst through when we least expect.

The Ever-Tilting Planet

Anger is an interesting thing. We instantly want someone or something to blame when the volcano inside us erupts. Most of us have grown up hearing all the various words and expressions people use when upset. For my older brother, Todd, this wasn't the case. Being born deaf, he had to rely on lipreading for learning the cruder expressions in the English language.

Todd, however, is not just deaf; he has a myriad of issues that have made him the one-of-a-kind person he is. Over the years he has developed his own thought process on whom or what to blame when angry. Just as we have many different sayings, so does he. He has created his own brand of cursing.

Sloppy carpentry work is one thing that makes Todd riled up. His autistic leanings and perfectionism make him intolerant to construction that isn't perfect. In these instances, he raises his voice, uses animated hand gestures and begins to shout that the carpenters were "Three Stooges." To him, this is a clear way of describing something as shoddy, stupid, or to say, "What were ya thinkin?" We in the family understand this comparison. It's his anger towards winter that we find a bit funnier.

Todd despises winter for one reason: snow and ice make it difficult to get to work. Consequently, he now curses these elements. Part of this is autism at play. To Todd, life, happiness, and fulfillment equals work. To not work is misery. The rest of us in the family enjoy our non-work days; we relish our holidays, social gatherings and vacations. Todd, however, rolls his eyes and yells when he has to attend a family member's wedding, or celebrate Christmas, because this means he will not be working. This explains why inclement weather makes him holler a blue streak. In the heated moment however, Todd does not resort to the sharp, four-letter word list, but instead, he loudly mutters about things that are a jumbled combination of his religious upbringing with a touch of science thrown in.

One snowy day, Todd was in the driveway upset at having to clear off the piled-up snow on his car. He got angrier when he realized he would have to shovel the entire driveway in order to back out. All this work was a mere time-sucking project keeping him from his obsession to work. Soon he was fuming and yelling at our "ever-tilting planet", as he put it. Todd, unable to hear his own rantings, filled the air with his frustrations, as he shouted continuously about our stupid, tilting planet, which produces seasons, one containing snow and ice.

In another snow storm, Todd cursed the devil. For several minutes he stood yelling at Satan, as if he was the one who sent this white fluffy stuff. Todd linked the devil to cold freezing weather, while the rest of us associate him with oppressive heat.

Todd lives in Maine, which makes the opportunity to rant and rave about weather last a significant part of the year. One year, a particularly bad ice storm left Todd beside himself. Instead of blaming the devil this time, he decided to blame Adam, the guy in Genesis. He knew that Adam was the one who got the sin ball rolling, so naturally, he should be blamed for anything that goes wrong. Todd stood and blasted him for several minutes.

Now his curse list has included the Three Stooges, the Devil, Adam, and the ever-tilting planet, so it shouldn't be surprising that the next one to make the list would be God. But this time it is not to blame God, but rather to petition Him. He wants God to make the snowfall stop, warm up the temperatures, melt the ice and enable vehicles to operate easily. For this he summons Dad. Dad is a pastor, therefore his connection to God must be the most direct, like a telephone connection without the static. Todd yells at Dad to start talking to God to get him to straighten this weather out, to cross winter off His list of seasons, and warm things back up to respectable temperatures; to tell God to think green, not white.

In the end, I've looked at Todd's list of those deserving blame and I think I've made some sense of it, found a way to make it cohesive. It goes something like this. A long time ago the devil rebelled against God. Later he tempted Adam's wife to join him in his rebellion. It worked, and as a result Adam flunked the most important test in human history, leaving us with original sin and Satan as our lousy pack leader. Our only hope lies in petitioning God to return and set it all aright, once and for all. Till then, we will most likely continue to play the blame game, acting like the Three Stooges, as we live on this ever-tilting planet that we call home.

The Uprising

It strikes at night
when one least expects
When all in the house
are asleep in their beds

Blankets in tidy formations
covering their occupants
Pillows plumped beneath
sleepy heads

Then it comes
the uprising of the
unwanted guest

It gurgles and moves
gathering its forces
gaining momentum
Then...

momentarily it halts
to see about some acid
That's been lingering about
looking for some action

Together they make a potion
like a wanted cocktail
before continuing on
its upward march

At last it hits the sweet spot
where momentum and
force combine for
volcanic effect

which takes this vile bile cocktail
from its host, to the world
that exists just outside
the mouth.

Just Give Me the Cake

My girls were delighted to hear that Uncle Matt was getting married. They were even more ecstatic when asked to be in the wedding party. They had great fun trying on fancy dresses and being a part of all the preparations for the upcoming big event.

Months later, the day of the wedding finally came. You could feel the anticipation in the air, but for my daughter Colleen, the youngest member of the wedding party, her excitement held a solitary focus: cake. "We're gonna have cake today!" she told us first thing that morning. It was the anticipated high point of her day.

Later that morning, Colleen was downstairs getting ready for the wedding. Her shimmery dress was slipped down over up-stretched arms. As her head popped through the neck opening, it revealed two eyes aglow as she once again brought up the cake. "Is it time for cake yet?" she asked.
"Not yet, sweetie," I told her. "First we have the wedding, then we have the cake."
It soon became apparent that the pretty new dress, sparkly shoes, and the chance to throw petals held far less enchantment then her anticipation of eating wedding cake.

Soon we were being assembled in a line outside the sanctuary door as we waited for the processional to begin. Not surprisingly, Colleen turned to ask if she would get cake once she was done throwing petals. "Not yet honey," I told her. "We have to wait for the reception. That's when we'll have cake."

Colleen proudly fulfilled her flower-girl duties and then struggled through the remaining ceremony, unable to savor the moment. Frankly, she just didn't care about the pontifications on love, beautiful music, or Grandpa's words of blessing. To her, the whole ceremony was simply an object that stood in the way of her getting a piece of cake.

After the ceremony, the wedding party posed for photos. My gown being sporadically tugged on as she asked, "Is it time yet, time for the cake?"
"Soon," I assured her, "very soon."

Finally, things wrapped up and we piled into the van as we headed for the reception. When we pulled in the parking lot, I glanced back at Colleen who was conked out in the back seat, her floral headpiece off-center like a cock-eyed halo. "Hey girl," I said. "Wake up, it's time for cake. It's the moment you've been waiting for." Her eyes didn't open. We carried her in and once again tried to revive her with the promise of cake. No avail, she was down for the count.

Inside, we pulled two chairs together into a make-shift bed and I covered her with my shawl as she continued to lay there motionless. She slept...slept through the dinner, slept through the introduction of the wedding party, slept through the dancing and slept through the cutting of the cake.

Colleen was too young to understand the whole significance of the wedding day. To her it was a day of getting cake. I, on the other hand, understood that what she was really getting was far better. She was gaining family. She was getting a new aunt and would eventually gain cousins. Family was the true gift of the day.

However, I don't think that one has to be a three year old with rosy cheeks and twinkly eyes to miss this point. I think there are many people in the church today that are going through life motivated by the hope of heavenly rewards in the same way Colleen was passionate about the cake. Many Christians have turned rewards into the focus that drives them, clamoring on about them as if they were an ultimate end, the high point of eternal life. I question this motivation. Are we to go through life with our hearts set purely on accruing rewards? Are we missing the wedding while dreaming of the cake?

Maybe, we'll find ourselves like naive three year olds on that great day, when we understand rewards in light of what we've truly gained: family, the ultimate family. We will fully understand that God has given us, the church, as a bride to His beloved son. Maybe in this face to face communion with God we will realize we had been passionate for the lesser things. We had it all backwards. We had missed the significance of this unique wedding.

At the end of the reception a waiter approached me about my sleeping daughter's untouched meal. "Would you like us to wrap this for you to take home?" he asked.
"No thanks," I said. "We'll skip it, but if...ah..we could take a piece of wedding cake that would be great...just great.

Little Bo Peep: Scripted Out Femininity

I was sure it was Little Bo Peep I was looking at in the catalog, but then I realized it was a forty-something mother in a puffy white dress with her hair all up in a bow. she was posed very demurely. By her side were little girls who were also in dresses, looking as if they were ready to appear in an episode of Little House on the Prairie. The girls were sweetly gathered around their mother while working on embroidery or playing with their dolls.

The scene was as saccharine as the message it put forth, that this is what good Christian mothers and daughters should look like. The material by this group had a narrowly defined interpretation of femininity and masculinity. Their catalog was clearly divided into male and female sections. Things like code-breakers, bows and arrows, and Indian caps are for boys to play with. Girls had their choice of embroidery, cooking aids, or dolls. Their message was loud and clear: Home-economics for the girls, adventure for the boys.

Lately, I've been bombarded with this type of thinking, particularly from within the religious homeschool community. I think this is an ever present danger in the religious world; to script-out specifically an everyone-should-do-it-this-way method on the non-essentials of the faith. Just for the heck of it, I decided to see just how I would measure up on this group's particular checklist.

First thing I determined was that I don't dress like Little Bo Peep. In fact, the only thing she and I have in common is lost sheep. Occasionally, my sheep escape and wander off. But when they do I seek after them in my barn clothes, mud boots, and a ball cap. Who wants to wash a white frilly dress caked in mud anyways? I then determined that my girls didn't fit their scripted-out image either. They are complex, complicated creatures who refuse to have their girlhood turned into a list of girl-only and boy-only activities. While they do own some pretty dresses and enjoy the so-called feminine activities, they have also been known to be fierce orc fighters. They have read books ranging from Jane Austin's Emma to Tolkien's Ring Trilogy. In the end, it was the girls who fought orcs that most captured their imaginations.


The awe-inspiring scene in Lord of the Rings in which Eowyn fights the Lord of the Nazgul has left an indelible impression on my youngsters. Christmas 2009 demonstrated this beautifully. My girls asked for weaponry. They wanted swords and shields, bows and arrows. Old boxes in the basement soon became Helms Deep, and fabric scraps were made into capes. Then, out from the cardboard windows, they appeared ready to fight, armed to the hilt. Scenes like these that make me question narrowly defined interpretations of femininity.

I quickly decided to stop comparing myself to their checklist. Aside from the Bo Peep clothing, I already knew that my interests, activities and reading material wouldn't make the cut. We will keep the catalog though, as we sometimes purchase weapons and such from the boys section; but as for their script, they can keep it and Bo Peep can keep her dress, as well. No one in my house will be needing it.

Ode to the Nyuck, Nyuck Trio

Growing up with a handicapped brother had its interesting moments. Todd's deafness, autistic tendencies, and other issues complicated our increasingly tricky relationship. Somehow, we discovered ways to communicate.

One thing we found that we could share was TV. However, finding a program that left us both satisfied was not an easy task. I had become a huge fan of the show, Get Smart. This program was about a bumbling detective, Maxwell Smart, a.k.a. Agent 86, and his clever female counterpart, Agent 99. Smart's signature was his always accessible, secret shoe phone. The show hinged on these shoe-talking conversations and provided little plot that was nonverbal. Unfortunately, this left Todd unaware of the storyline and puzzled by Smart's choice of phones. So, Get Smart was not a good pick for us.

My next favorite program was Land of the Lost. In this story, a dad and his two kids live in a cave, while outside dinosaurs and other creatures roam freely. If that was not scary enough, in nearby dark tunnels live the spine-chilling sleestaks: large lizard-like creatures. For one reason or another, the family continually had to keep entering into these sleestak-infested tunnels. This always left me spell-bound and on the edge of my seat unable to breathe. While I enjoyed this horrifying amusement, it was just a recipe for disaster for Todd. Todd had trouble differentiating fantasy from reality. His watching Jaws one night left him resolved that he would never swim in our summer campground's lake again. There was no convincing him otherwise. This meant that a show about dinosaurs and sleestaks was just a candidate for leaving him with irrational fears and nightmares. Now we were 0 for 2. My shows just weren't working for him.

One day Todd stumbled on a show of his own, one that he could follow in its entirety and that was completely visual- The Three Stooges. This program quickly became his favorite and the living room would fill with his laughter. I, on the other hand, did not see the humor in it at all. Three people whacking each other with various odd objects accompanied by loud smacking or thud sounds was not my idea of fun. It was these scenes however, that left my brother doubled over in laughter, and left me cringing, doubled over in imagined pain.

Watching this show became a routine that I endured for him; wincing through its entirety. As an adult, I still abhor that crazy, 'Nyuck, Nyuck' Trio, and I've thought long and hard about why I suffered through those seemingly never-ending episodes with him. I believe it was because of love. I loved seeing my brother deliriously happy, momentarily unaware of the harsh hand that life had dealt him. Ultimately, Todd had selected a show that was a good parallel for life; you can't get through it without your share of bumps and bruises. The lesson from the three stooges was that sometimes the pain will make you cringe and other times you'll laugh in the face of it. Leave it to my brother to have found a show where life and laughter came together in a way that was picture perfect.

Mother Nature Can Just Keep the Ice

Mother Nature has the most annoying habit of not consulting people before she decides what conditions to leave on our doorstep. I bet you didn't need me to tell you that. Anyways, we can handle snow, but ice is just downright aggravating.

It is because of this ice that the only ones getting around our property successfully are the animals. Strider, our Icelandic Sheepdog, is equipped with double dewclaws, which means that ice is no obstacle for him at all. Bodicea, our barn cat, also seems to be able to traverse around without much trouble. The rabbits, outside my window, seem unaware that the property is one giant sheet of ice, as they move about like welcomed guests, which they are not. Unfortunately, it is us humans who are having a dickens of a time trying to get from point A to point B.

Duties have forced us to leave the confines of our four walls and wood-stove warmth to accomplish tasks such as filling the sheep's hay-feeder, fetching the mail, bringing trash to the curb, and simply walking to the car. The ice, however, has made these tasks as difficult as trying to climb a slip-n-slide that's been slicked up with soap.

We gingerly step-off our deck, sticking our arms out like scarecrows, trying to balance ourselves all the while lamenting the uneven nature of our landscape. The subconscious act of walking has become an act of painstaking effort. We wobble, we slide, we fall. Our eyes constantly scan for crunchy patches of snow that will provide secure footing; tree branches or twigs that can be grabbed to help move us along. And yet, at the end of the day we are still left with black and blue marks in places only our spouse can see.

I wonder if the animals look at our antics and laugh to themselves, wondering why we struggle to walk in these conditions, and why we have ski poles and crampons attached to our body parts. I also wonder if they feel superior to us in these icy winter months, pondering how the evolutionary process has left them better suited to handle ice than us, their slip-prone, two-legged owners.

Inspired Stupidity: A Homemade Olympic Moment

The Olympics are here, and our TV is tuned into them at anytime when either school is not in session or piano is not being practiced. Each family member has gravitated to one sport or another and has imagined himself in their favorite Olympian's shoes. We've all been inspired, but how that inspiration would play itself out for one of our family members would require our local hockey rink.

We arrived one morning for public skate time and my three kids quickly laced-up and took to the ice. I stood at the side of the rink staring through the plexiglass to watch them for a few minutes before heading for the locker room to read. I was just about to leave when my youngest child, Colleen, caught my eye. She suddenly took-off running full-bore on her skates. "I'm a speed skater!" she proudly announced. I held my breath knowing she was not a proficient skater. She was a newly, self-taught skater who didn't even know the basics of stopping. So, while she was off imitating Apolo Ohno, I was waiting rink-side preparing to mollify a bruised child or call an ambulance if need be. Fortunately, the episode ended well. She never lost control; she didn't crash and burn. Still upright, she was convinced she showed enough potential to justify speed skating lessons.

The whole episode brought back memories of my own Olympic moment. I was about twelve at the time and the Summer Olympics had left me, like my daughter, captivated. My inspiration had come from the gymnastic floor routines. Spellbound, I watched the athletes run across the mat and begin their succession of hand-over-hand body flips. "How hard can that be?" I wondered to myself. The next day I found out.

In my backyard, I prepared for my moment of glory. I got off to a strong running start and carefully chose the spot where I would initiate a series of flips - eight to ten, perhaps. When I hit my ideal flipping-spot, I threw my hands down onto the ground beneath me as I launched my 90 pound body up over my hands. Unfortunately, something was missing and I hit the ground abruptly - and hard. My body tingled and I felt nauseous. When I opened my eyes, the world was spinning. However, it was the pain in my neck and back that kept me from getting up and walking to the imaginary podium. I laid there, my thoughts captive to pain and confusion: "Why did something that looked so simple turn out to be surprisingly difficult."

In the end, just like my daughter, all was well. My bumps and bruises went away, and my vision returned to normal. All in all, both of our 'don't-do-this-at-home' Olympic moments proved the point that inspiration needs to be accompanied by know-how. Inspired stupidity can land you in the hospital. Luckily, I didn't break my neck during that brief gymnastic moment; and I'm relieved that Colleen's short speed skating episode didn't result in her being carried-out on a stretcher. I can only imagine that this day's event would have been very different had she been inspired by a figure skater and attempted a triple axle.

One Unlucky Ram

Adonis was one of the first rams we purchased. A specimen, his wool was a spinner's dream. Adonis was not only beautiful he was gentle. He wasn't the head-strong bully like some of his bunk-mates, and so he didn't exactly evoke fear out of us. Adonis was more like a tall, lanky, intellectual Greek - one with a gorgeous head of curls. Our other rams were more like Roman gladiators: massive, brawny brutes - small brains included.

Adonis, however, was a ram lamb just old enough that he was beginning to experience certain biological urges. This particular day, my husband and I happened to be in the barn just as Adonis was in the process of figuring out the sex-thing. He had his eyes on Blackie, one of the breeding ewes. This, I'm convinced, was his first mistake. She was our most head-strong ewe; not submissive or cooperative. Adonis marched-up behind her, but when he attempted to mount, Blackie spun around kicking, making it impossible for poor ole Adonis to make his mark. Not discouraged, Adonis took a second approach. He walked up beside Blackie and very gently rubbed his cheek against hers. "I do believe he's trying foreplay," I muttered to myself. After two or three quick cheek strokes - typical male - Adonis again went for her backside. Blackie, however, was not about to suffer poor, inept Adonis. This time she spun around and whacked Adonis with a horn to the face, leaving him with skin missing and blood flowing. "Welcome to the world of sex," my husband tells him. "Sometimes you get it and sometimes you don't." Even with romance, he came-up empty. It was a tough lesson. Adonis, like every other young ram, learned that being a stud isn't always easy.

Barn Math

The scrapie vet and his assistant came out today for our annual scrapie inspection. The inspection is not really a big deal; it's mostly fact gathering and sheep counting. So when they arrived, I pulled on my farm boots and met them out at the barn.

The vet first asked about the size of the flock. Now, any good farmer should be able to answer this without hesitation. Hesitating would be like stopping to think about how many children one has. I, however, do not claim to be a good farmer, and my husband, who normally handled this appointment, was overseas. So I reluctantly admitted that I didn't know how many sheep we had. "Well, that's okay" he said, "We'll just do a quick count." With that, the three of us started counting sheep.

Sheep-counting sounds like an easy task except that sheep don't cooperate. The sheep ran this way and that way. They jumped over the water trough, and continued to run in circles, which made counting them quite a challenge. Our first attempt resulted in each of us arriving at different numbers, and so we counted again. Our second attempt was slightly better: two out of three of us arrived at the same number, and in retrospect, that number was inaccurate. And so minutes went by with three adults counting sheep that were on the run and still no head-count that was spot-on.

We eventually agreed, to our collective relief, that there were fifteen sheep in the barn. Next, we needed to break-down the flock by sex and age - you know, so many rams, so many ewes, and so many lambs. Rams are easy. They're big. They have large, curly horns and have battle scars on their faces. "Three," I said, "We have three adult rams." He wrote this down on his form, a government one, that is.
"All right," he said, "What about lambs? How many lambs were born this year?"
Again I should have known this, but between raising three kids, doing mountains of laundry, working a job, and homeschooling, I honestly hadn't paid much attention to what had been going on in the barn. So, we began to count lambs.

Some lambs were born earlier and were almost as big as some of the smaller ewes. That's why it was a little tricky sorting out what was what. Fortunately, most of the new lambs weren't ear tagged yet, and so this helped. After several minutes, we arrived at the number 'six.' Then, of all things, he wanted to know how many were male and how many were female. Two of the six I knew the sex of. The other four we had to catch and flip over to take a look-see. This was not a quick procedure. We continually kept re-catching the same lamb, which slowed us down considerably.

Once our information was collected, we were down to just ewes.
"Okay," the vet said. "Lets count the ewes now."
It was at this point that I suggested barn math.
"Just subtract the lambs and rams from the fifteen and there's your ewes," I said. Then came an uncomfortably long pause, so I simplified it further. "Six lambs plus three rams equals nine. Now, subtract nine from fifteen and there's your number of ewes."
The two vets stood there silent - neither one volunteering an answer nor working the numbers on a stray piece of paper. "Six," I said. "The answer is six."
"Oh yeah," they both nodded in agreement.

The whole counting episode reminded me of an incident back in college when a classmate named Rick ran for class treasurer with a three word speech. "I can count," he stammered. We all laughed then, but I wouldn't laugh now. I had just spent an hour or so with two other adults, one with a clipboard, and all three of us had a tizzy of a time trying to count. So, maybe I will do a Google search on Rick and ask him to come to Vermont next year in time for my scrapie vet visit.
"What for?" he'll ask.
"Oh, nothing much, to just do what you're good at. Count, count a few sheep that's all."