Sylvia's Farm (17 page)

Of all of the many burdens that face the day, what are the ones that I can do something about? That seems like an easy question. But the mind is a tricky thing, and often intrudes, reminding me of problems that have no solution, at least at the moment. I can't pay some bills that are worrying me today. Or even tomorrow. But what I can do is find the address that I've misplaced and send out a story already written, on speculation, to a magazine I haven't written for before. And while sending that out I can know in my heart that action is being taken. I can be firm in my resolve to chip away in increments that which could easily seem overwhelming were it to be done all at once. And I must be clever and understand that some actions must be taken even when seeming unreasonable or frivolous, if only to give my spirits a lift.

Some days are given an all-encompassing directive. Perhaps a command. Make no new messes and clean up one old one. Inside and out. The human heart can carry only just so much. Some messes of the heart must be tidied as much as a mess in the cellar. Some days the directive is more subtle. If there is something you feel badly about, something that burdens your heart, fix it for someone else. If you feel nothing is ever going to happen to you unless you do it, do something unexpected for someone, to lift their spirits.

Some days have a built-in command. Have faith. Believe just for today that the problem repaired must not be diminished by the one still lingering. Translated into practical terms, buy the corn with the money earned by the sale of some lambs that you designated to pay for corn. The mortgage will have to be paid some other way. Don't borrow the mortgage money from the grain money.

I write lists. Wonderful lists. “Greenleaf Demystified” is the title of one such list. It is a master list created to show the family and me
that there is not that much to do to make things seem really nice here. It is not that overwhelming. Easily accomplished in units of one or two or three hours. And if those things are done, everything will seem and in fact be so much better.

The lists entitled “Enchanting” and “Toward Enchanting” are ones that most affect the human heart and give joy to the spirit. Some things on them are as practical as a bed. But, oh, what a bed! A copy of a sixteenth-century French box bed to go in the loft of the barn in which to sleep when it becomes impossible to go back to the house in the throes of winter. I've already found the absolutely correct material with which to make curtains for it and a lovely little curved window that had come from somewhere here at Greenleaf a long time ago. It is to have a crown molding around the top and a mattress of barley chaff, if I can get some from Robbie Kathmann, and feather pillows. It shall be enchanting.

“Toward Enchanting” is a slightly lesser list with more practical overtones. At least that's what I thought when writing it, but I may be changing my mind about its designation. Why would I ever designate stenciling dogwood blossoms on my walls “Toward Enchanting” and a shepherd's bed “Enchanting”? I'm not sure. Perhaps it has to do with the degree it can lift the human heart.

I've never known whether to spend a whole week and shovel the barn. Or a whole week to winterize the house. I tend to say that one hour a day committed to a problem will accumulate, and the task will be done. In time.

There are lists and notes in books and on sheets of paper. Some have notes attached saying if I spend two hours a day on “Out of Control” and two on “Greenleaf Demystified” and of course something on “Enchanting,” I'll probably be finished by such and such a date. Believing that the day is defined by what I do with it becomes a burden in itself. On a farm, a lot occurs because of
what someone or something else has done. While writing this I've gone outside twice because the sheep have moved away from my line of vision. The second time they had, indeed, gone through a hole in the stone wall, to breakfast at Connelly's. The 330 feet of woven wire I put in a week or so ago are still standing. They just found an alternative route.

Tasks of the day are not only practical. They involve our obligations to people as well. And those burdens can be the heaviest of all. Each day also presents an opportunity to give love. I've always thought that if there were something you believed you needed, that created an obligation to give someone else that very thing, someone whose needs are greater than yours. And so there are some additional things to do today, or rather, an additional list to make. For today, that list shall include writing two letters, not of amends or obligation but to bring a touch of the unexpected, a surprise, a feeling that one never knows what this day shall bring into two lives. Lives of people I care very much about. For this is a day the Lord has made.

S
ATURDAY WAS
a very special day for me. It was the one day a year that I consider to be my day off. Of course, that included getting up at five a.m. to get enough of my chores done so that someone could reasonably take over for me. Nonetheless, it was truly a day off.

I spent the day at the New York State Bred Ewe Sale and Show in Rhinebeck. A busman's holiday, of sorts. This was my fourth year visiting this show, and I loved every minute of it. There are wonderful sheep to look at from all over the East Coast, breeds I rarely see anywhere else. Some I covet and some I simply admire. There are incredible books about everything one needs to know about dying wool and knitting and, yes, raising sheep. The yarn choices are beautiful, although I must admit my favorites always come from RipRap Farm in Windham. All others pale before her angora-and-wool blends. I ordered the most amazing color, a cross between raspberry and garnet, to be dyed for me. I am to make a special sweater from it. It had suddenly occurred to me that I'd like to wear something nice for Christmas, rather than looking like I slept in my clothes when I come downstairs Christmas morning. This fair does that to me. It is inspirational. It makes me remember that life can have its graceful moments. Especially after looking at these lovely yarns. And, in fact, the fair itself is a graceful moment in a shepherd's life.

My daughter and several of our friends all meet one day at the fair. Justina and I have a passion for the homemade ice cream, the world's
second-best ice cream, served in homemade waffle cones. We debate about when in the day we shall visit the ice cream stand. I opt for eleven
A.M
., before lunch, and am outvoted every time. Once I even had two cones, one in the morning and one in the afternoon. The lunchtime food is acceptable if not wonderful, the meatballs are good. The elephant ears are the best. They are our grand finale. The sheepdog trials are beautiful and make me love my dog Steele even more.

What this fair does for me as well is to delineate the year. My involvement with the flock and lambing begins to accelerate after the fair. This year I am in a far more hopeful state than I had any right to be in last year. It was about this time last October that I came to understand that the amount of money raised by the fund to restore my barn was unlikely to grow in any significant manner. There had been enough hay in the barn, but by October most of it was still on the ground. The roofer had begun to play bird in the hand, bird in the bush games with me. I was his bird in the hand, so he could court other birds in the bush and keep me waiting. I was never certain that he would install my roof. I didn't have enough firewood that was dry and didn't have enough that was green, either. I went to the fair looking for hope and inspiration last year. It was there, but the winter proved to be an endurance test. This year has been much better. It is as if I've been wielding a massive sledgehammer on all that is formidable here, swinging it with a consistency that has been unusual for me. Bashing down all things that have stood in the way of order and peace of mind.

I am only a few days away from seriously addressing the barn again. Those few days include the livestock, however. The geese must be put in for the duration. Their duration. And last year's pen needs be redone in such a way that it functions. There shall be a new gate built into it so I can water and feed them easier and so grain trucks can bring me what I need nearer to the grain chute, relieving
me of the necessity of carrying fifty-pound sacks up the barn bridgeway and down a flight of stairs. By this time next week the geese should be properly inside and the pigs properly outside.

A neighbor is going to help me build a pigpen in the south pasture so the pigs can root up a field where I shall plant some crops next year. It will create less for me to muck out of the barn and in doing so fertilize the field. It also should be both easier to feed them as well as making life a bit more manageable. Tomorrow I shall finish painting some lengths of fence that have remained unpainted far too long, giving a more finished aspect to Greenleaf for a change. I'm starting to muck out the barn, and for some reason I am optimistic that it shall be done in time even though I've started it late. For the past ten years, I've spent each fall with paper and pencil trying to figure out how to get the best food for my sheep at the best price. This year is no different. And so this morning, the first after my day off, I spent some time with pen and paper, working out grain cost and prices, volumes, and daily feed programs. If I keep the young stock separate, then I can feed them corn, and if I put the rams outside, then I can save fifty cents a day for one hundred and twenty days. In between the colors of corn and molasses floating through my thoughts are visions of a quince-colored yarn I bought to make the barn sweater I designed for my daughter (it took four years of developing one design a year finally to arrive, on the fifth year, at the perfect design) and the colors I am going to mix to make a little sturdy outdoor sweater for a baby I've grown to know and a vest for my new son-in-law.

Here at home are the beeches, the golden ocher I love so well. The russet oaks form a perfect background. The sun breaks through the steel gray clouds for rare moments. The wind blows. And I have not yet made a fire. But somehow it doesn't really matter. What matters are the inspiration and the many choices.

I
LOVE THIS
weather. The wind howls, rages, and roars, with an occasional high-pitched whistle, rushing through the open floorboards that are both my porch ceiling and my bathroom floor. The day is damp and gray with winter overtones. And it is an act of triumph to be dressed warmly enough and yet able to commit to barn chores.

I always forget how much I love the cold, until it begins, when I've got a system down, that is. And today, so far, I have. The carriage house is well on its way to achieving some semblance of order, and it becomes even more so by afternoon. I started stacking hay, untangling it from the mass confusion of its summer arrival.
Never again
became almost a chant. Never
what
again is the question. Perhaps never again to be talked into doing something that I don't want to do. I've had the same lesson brought home to me over and over again. What appears to be immediately convenient on this farm is often grossly inconvenient in the long run. The man bringing the hay was in an understandable frenzy to get it under cover. And I yelled, screamed, stamped my foot, and said no in every conceivable way I could, but to no avail. His logic prevailed. The hay was there. Hay in my mow is better than hay in his barn. We all know that to be a fundamental truth.

Unfortunately, an equally fundamental truth is that hay thrown every which way in July will probably stay that way until October. The barn was overloaded too. I regaled my hay man with all of the
reasons why he should stop any further delivery. I couldn't stack any more. Alone. “I'll never get it stacked,” I cried, tears streaming down my face. As a result, this weekend I shall have to pay my contractor to put a post in to remedy the sagging joist. I couldn't properly stack the rest, and the hay is unbalanced. Nonetheless, the hay is in and I am secretly grateful. I need only another six to eight hundred bales, which shall be delivered weekly, as I had wanted hay to be delivered all along. The anticipated hay is excellent, I've heard, and shall arrive in manageable increments.

There is something so satisfying about stacking hay in brisk cold air, wearing gloves that are not soggy from the heat, and having coveralls that effectively cover all, so no hay pierces one's skin. It was a good feeling to start to restack the cows' hay in the upper level of the carriage house. Half of it is neat and finished and under a mantle of black plastic. The floor is now swept clean. All of the scraps are in the hay chute. Order has successfully claimed this day. I put up a basket in which to keep my gloves, which are frequently misplaced. And I've added a convenient pad and pencil on a string to write down the amounts of hay and grain that I use. Recently a friend gave me some chickens that were about to molt. They now live in the carriage chicken coop next to the nicely stacked hay. No eggs. I don't exactly know how to fatten them, but I'm trying. Five are marked for the pot. However, there has been of late not only the absence of a gas-cooking stove, but the woodstove that has helped me cook has developed a crack and I'm reluctant to use it until it is repaired. However, ingenuity has triumphed. The brisk chill air has demanded something more sustaining than an omelet cooked on a hot plate when coming inside from the wind blasting Greenleaf in the afternoon. (Someone told me there are very few winds that come from the north. He should have been here today.) I couldn't find any of my old iron pots in which I could cook in the fireplace, so I simply
wrapped some potatoes in aluminum foil and put them under the ashes in the living room fire. It has been heaven to be able to come in from the barn and pull out beautiful baked potatoes that melt butter instantly. They are perfect. Absolutely perfect.

One night last winter I read a memorable passage from a Georges Simenon book about the redoubtable Inspector Maigret. One in which he went downstairs into a French farmhouse kitchen (Normandy, I'd like to imagine) at four-thirty in the morning. The lord of the manor, and he was a French version of a lord, was eating a bowl of hot soup. The soup had been simmering on the back of a big old coal stove all night. Maigret ladled himself out a bowl and ate, in silence. I imagined that soup to be very, very thick and fairly smooth, with the only real texture from small pieces of fatty ham. Like our slab bacon, in one-inch chunks. Somehow, that soup always has seemed to be a pale orange in my mind's eye. Perhaps it's been colored by a few carrots, so the soup is not too sweet, and by the orange rutabagas of my childhood (I hated them) that my mother used as the obligatory yellow vegetable so often in the winter. I'm not certain I'd even like that soup. The Norman French don't use much garlic. But I wanted that soup. Here, in the morning. Eaten in silence without a word to the dogs. Before going outside.