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."