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.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, April 23, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, April 2, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
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.
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.
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