The Shetland Lambs of 2013 are arriving, gorgeous and healthy. Three mamas are relieved and contented, grazing and nursing.
The count is 3 ram lambs, 3 ewe lambs with 3 ewes left to deliver in the next week or so.
So much fuss with installing our lamb-cam, much enjoyment of remote viewing, sharing the view with our friends of the farm… and in the end, two mamas delivered in the run-out, out of view of the camera entirely.
We came upon them immediately after delivery and had to make a judgement of who belonged to whom because there stood Maggie & Ruva with 4 darlings at their feet. They sniffed and licked left and right and seemed indiscriminate. Quickly we paired them up with our best guesses so that we could ensure everyone would get a proper meal and not be left out in the cold. Maggie was behaving as though she was ready to abandon one of them. Who knows? Maybe she singled and Ruva tripled? Anyway, they’ve each got, and are nursing, two beauties. Nikki then lambed 4 hours later and delivered two more gorgeous bundles of wool. Fortunately we were on the scene then because Pansy, Nikki’s sister, was in the stall with her and SO eager to snatch the babies. We ushered Pansy out and away from the new lambs with as little intrusion upon Nikki’s laboring as possible.
Pansy, Lily & Winky await, not patiently. Perhaps Mother’s Day will bring them special gifts?
I hope so. I’m a bit tired.
But elated.
Nikki’s little Shetland ewe lamb & Farmer Tam enjoying a gorgeous Vermont May day
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When I was a girl, my mother and my grandmother taught us to pick any of the blooming flowers available on May 1st and tie them up into little bouquets. My sister and I would harvest the early daffodils, woodland violets and trout lilies from the woods. Sometimes there would be spring beauties. Of course we would pick dandelions. In my younger years, inLos Angeles County, California, there was no end to the choices. But in the Berkshires of Massachusetts, on May 1st, the offerings were slim.
My sister and I would then sneak around the neighborhood, lay the bouquet on the front stoop, knock loudly on front doors and then run like the wind to hide. We’d watch, secretly, while the door would open and someone would peer out, then down, and pick up the bouquet. Often we would come out of hiding, giggling, and wave hello before heading to our next hit. It was thrilling!
In our very rural Southern Vermont neighborhood, my own children did the same, collecting nearly the same types of bouquets, and then I would accompany them as they snuck around the neighborhood. It was harder to get away with being sneaky in such a rural setting. When you arrive at someone’s home in these parts, there are usually warning dogs that announce your arrival, or you’ve been walking a distance in the open which makes it easy to know you’re coming. It’s not quite the same in a more thickly settled area. However, my kiddoes would find a tree or a bush to hide behind, not realizing our dogs were giving them away near their retreat.
Delighted neighbors would find their bouquets and call them out, though it took a year or two to “train” these folks. At first when the kids hid May-baskets, people didn’t understand what was going on. One neighbor suspected foul-play, what with the knocking and the hiding and all of that!
My kids didn’t care. They found the gifting to be as exciting as I had as a child.
Today there will be flowers dropped off for friends, but I don’t know if there’ll be hiding or not. We’ll see!
My wish for you is that you can find a way to celebrate and enjoy a spring tradition, be it age-old, or something new for you and yours.
The Hug - In which younger sister tells older sister that she’ll be going to the same college
Everything, all at once.
The grass is greening, the daffs are dazzling, chicks are growing, eggs are being laid by the gazillions. I planted raspberry bushes & dahlia tubers in the softened gardens. I’ve got transplanting of seedlings to do, coops and stalls to clean, fences to mend…
There are recent developments with the flock – both kiddoes and sheep. From small to tall, the kids are alright. The eldest got great news, the youngest chose her place of higher education.
In our jubilation, we decided to install a lamb-cam to celebrate.
If you’re curious to watch blurry Maggie, or whomever we train the camera on, click on the link below and follow the login:
After joking recently that I have no qualms about having my driving privileges being revoked as it would afford me more time at home, especially during lambing, I opened a week’s worth of mail and found the notification from the State of Vermont DMV that my license had been suspended.
O.k..
This put me into a bit of a tailspin while I attempted online to get things right with the Vermont DMV and the Vermont Judicial Bureau, neither of them working out.
Then the phone calls. No one answering. Leaving messages.
Finally the returned phone call.
Turns out, my license wasn’t suspended at all.
So, I’m a bit disgruntled because happy-Farmer Tam had to chat with very unhappy Vermont Judicial Bureau-lady. And, hello, shouldn’t happy-Farmer Tam be the one that was being unhappy? And whilst on the phone with very unhappy Vermont Judicial Bureau-lady, I not only inwardly agonized about humanity and my own little current plight, but found there was nothing I could do to turn her frown upside-down.
So much for my plans to be a stay-at-home farmer and hitching up a buggy. I’m back to whirlwind living. Next time you hear from me, I will have cleansed the tension from my shoulders with lamb-tales. They are imminent. You can bet on it. I promise you. There are lambs in the extremely near future. It’s not hype this time.
And if there aren’t, then the folks of Shaftsbury are going to wonder what that crazy lady is doing, jogging with the ewes down these bumpy dirt roads, attempting to put them into labor.
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Figaro, our 5-year-old white peacock, is no longer a bachelor.
I have been in search of a mate for him since last October when his gal, Jewel, disappeared after having been here for 4 years. I combed the state of Vermont through my connections with the Vermont Bird Fanciers, through my past peafowl connections, putting out the want-ad a dozen different ways through media of all sorts.
In the past week, through the United Peafowl Association, I was finally successful in finding a mail-order bride for my guy.
A beautiful farm in E. Bridgewater, Massachusetts, a mere 3-hour, 45-minute drive away, had not one, but two white peahens. Because a peacock would naturally entertain a harem, we decided that since it’d been such a search to find a suitable bride to begin with, two brides were better than one. True to our farm’s namesake, this was an 11th hour decision.
It’s my reputation in our household that as far as movie genre goes, mom likes “anything that ends in a wedding.” It didn’t take much prompting to announce, on Friday, a general public invite to a shotgun wedding. At the crack of dawn on Saturday morning, I drove to fetch the brides.
Short back story: stayed up WAY too late on Friday night making banners and floral corsages for the attendants & musicians, hurried WAY too early Saturday morning to prepare wedding favors &flower girl baskets before departing, then pulled over to blue lights not even 15 minutes into my journey. Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. Mr. Officer didn’t flinch when I told him why I was in such a hurry-up hurry to get out-of-town, and then get back, and let me go on my way with a “Good luck with the wedding! Drive safely!”
Eight hours later, I arrived back in Shaftsbury, Vermont with two beautiful, white peahens from Rhineland Acres, gussied up their crate with some flowers and then left the brides to Jim to act as “father-of”, while I escorted Figaro to his position at the altar.
Friends scrambled to support, fully embracing this event as though it were William & Kate’s nuptials. The dress-code was “Farmyard Flamboyant” and 40 friends & 4 dogs arranged themselves under blue skies in our barn chapel.
My musician consorts provided the string strains of “The Marriage of Figaro” to accompany the brides in their wheel-barrow carriage. Ellen & Melanie also played the recessional music to conclude the ceremony during the bird-seed toss and champagne toast.
Dear friend Megan , also aJustice of the Peace, officiated and read vows in the brides’ & groom’s honor. My only request was that we have the dramatic “If there are any objections…” line, for effect. The pause drew a quick breath from a few parties, fingers crossing that no one would utter a word, and after carefully surveying the crowd, Megan continued to the pronouncement of man and wives. Here is where I emphasize that I could not imagine a more appropriate JOP for this event.
At that point, I allowed Fig to freely walk where he would, unsure if he would notice the two peahens within 3 feet of him or not. Figaro was a proper gentleman/groom for the vows, but he determined to recess during the dreamy strumming and crooning of “At Last” by Kerry & Peter.
Some thought that Fig’s departure was akin to getting the hell out of Dodge.
I prefer to think, rather, that Figaro was in the same trance that we all were in, and at that point in the afternoon, he flew off to pinch himself awake.
He & his lovely brides, (O’) Susannah-1 & (O’) Susannah-2, are spending their honeymoon in Stall No. 1 in the beautiful Wing and a Prayer Farm barn. They dined on a wedding gift of freshly picked watercress & chickpeas(do you get it?) for their first meal together.
From the hand-drawn cards, e-books and banners that our young friends lovingly designed, to the helping hands, the artistic talents, delicious, beautiful treats and generosity from our supportive community, we are grateful to all. Char & Jim, thanks for having my back, always.
“Hope is the thing with feathers…” L’Chaiim!
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“Shh! Don’t point! And yes, that’s the Chicken Lady!“
Farmer Tam, the Chicken Lady, as illustrated by Sarah Jane in 2010. Here I am, holding “Emma Grace”, the little Buff Orpington that could.
I could be called worse things. Some women, they have a thing about shoes. For me…
Over the weekend, I outfitted dear friends with some new hens after something, probably a fox, made off with four of theirs. We had a lovely Easter Eve stroll through our poultry, shopping for “colors” to go with the 3 they already have.
I sent them home with an Araucana, 2 “Wing and a Prayer Mix”, and a Columbian Wyandotte.
I popped by yesterday to drop off some Hot Cross Buns and check on everyone.
“How are the girls?” I asked.
“Oh, they’re great – loved the Easter Egg hunt, wired from jellybeans, came home and had great naps” replied my friend, referring to her adorable toddlers.
“Right! Of course! Yes! That’s super!” I refrained from further querying, “But, how are the GIRLS?” (You know, the feathered ones.)
Yesterday I’d also received a series of passionate emails from friend J that has only recently become a chicken farmer. She bid on 4 hens & a little coop at a fundraiser last fall and won, much to her husband’s chagrin. She came by our farm and selected her 4 girls in late October and I stopped by a few times to see how things were going. Oh gosh, my hens had stepped into chicken-heaven. The digs are posh. J does EVERYTHING right, attending to their smallest needs. A chicken-mama couldn’t be happier.
But two days ago, she & her family had returned from a sunny vacation to find Winnie, an Araucana she’d gotten from me, was probably suffering from a vent prolapse. J sent me emails and texts with photos and I coached her through some home remedies. I was going to take her to nurse for them last evening if things weren’t going well. Sadly, she emailed that after they’d bathed and soaked her and were about to treat her with some Preparation H (to attempt to shrink the swelling tissue), dear Winnie departed on them.
I mourn with them. She & her husband are beating themselves up for missing an earlier detection, but I tried to reassure her that these things happen to all of us. I know how sad it is to lose a hen, a beloved pet. I offered a new hen in her place, but they declined, saying they’d like to have some time to grieve. I understand.
The incubator has 4 days to go before 42 eggs reveal new loves. I’ve been candling and monitoring humidity and temperature for 17 days. I’ve got Faverolles, WhiteCrested Black Polish and Wing and a Prayer Mix chicks on the way. Most are pre-sold, but not all.
There’s always room for more chickens.
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My dad was Jewish, my mom was Catholic, I was raised in aProtestant church.
We weren’t orthodox-anything in my household, growing up, and I would say that holds true today.
Yesterday, March 26, the Supreme Court took up a legal challenge to California’s ban on gay marriage, Proposition 8, from 2008. The court is considering whether the U.S. Constitution’s14th Amendment, which requires states to guarantee equal protection of the laws to all, applies to marriage laws and, therefore, requires states to allow same-sex couples to marry.
Raised by parents of different faiths, human rights’ issues place strongly in my moral upbringing. Having children in their late teens and twenties that are exposed to greater diversity than my own college experience has also educated me in my later years. Studying prejudices over history from Cyrus the Great in 580 B.C. to the Civil Union debate in Montpelier, VT in 2000 has shown me how much I can continue to learn how to be a better person, a better citizen. I lean toward how we can craft a beautiful future for society vs an uglier path.
For me, I believe that God is love, therefore I believe in humankind being made in his/her image and therefore, we are all love.
This is the week of the observance of Passover by the Jewish faith community. Nostalgically, of course, I think of food: Matzoh ball soup, Matzoh Brei, Manischewitz grape juice… things my dad used to serve us when we were younger.
Strong roots and good wings in character goes beyond gefilte fish, though. Kindness, integrity, patience, support…
We are still telling the Passover story of freedom, from oppression to opportunity, 3,000 years later.
Shalom
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Beside myself at this point in the day, that is what I am. An abundance of beautiful, heartfelt wishes were delivered to me, either electronically, by phone, in photographs, on felt, in craft foam, pre-printed on boxes of flowers from Fed-Ex, in boxes of chocolate covered cherries, gingersnaps and homemade lemon sauce, and in glittery card creations and homemade watercolored postcards.
Additionally, I was given unique presents like none I’ve ever received before:
-A yearlong gift subscription to Red Heart the Ticker’s Songs in the Lunar Phase project came in my email. Tyler Gibbons & Robin MacArthur live in MacArthur’s grandmother’s original 1805 farm-house in SouthernVermont. They’ve preserved Margaret MacArthur‘s recorded Vermontfolk music collection as well as continuing the family tradition of recording their own original pieces. Their stories are special to me, connected to my own coveted experiences of singing with my daughters, my passion for music of all types, and rural Vermont life.
-An mp3 of “Happy Birthday”, recorded by a friend on his vibraphone, especially for me.
-Flowers, flowers, flowers. Which, at this time of year, I am so missing.
-An entire day spent with my youngest, sewing and crafting during a most precipitous storm outside. (Her school cancelled because there was quite a bit of ice and snow in the upper elevations -yay, Snow Day!) This, this was all the gift I needed. (I’m lying a bit here, because how I would have loved to have had my other two children home as well.)
-Healthy livestock.
-Sweets of all sorts. Oh GLORY. I’m set for the long haul.
-Last, but not least….I did NOT get sheep pajamas from Jim.
Which he always gives to me.
Long story short, they’re outrageous. And I’m set for life, thanks.
Last night I was busy painting our bathroom. I’d hoped for a night off in the kitchen but it didn’t quite work out the way I’d envisioned. Dinner was exquisite anyway. I cooked two delicious and very fresh eggs. They were perfect.
We’re just spoiled rotten around here.
Taking the daily eggs out to the road side.
Fresh Eggs sign boasts a Barred Rock on one side, a Rhode Island Red on the other.
I stand at the side of the road all day long and yell “Fresh Eggs!” (Only yolking, folks!)
Jackie will lick you if you steal ‘em!
This is how we sell eggs in the country.
Hard working hens having a nibble of grain on a winter’s day. They are free to forage as well, though winter foraging is a bit slimmer than the rest of the year.
Sassy Wing and a Prayer Farm Sultan-mix hen is very comfortable with me and Cricket
Hmmm, wonder how these would stack up in a taste test?
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Yesterday a friend and goatadmirer stopped by while I was doing morning chores. I was bundled to the nines, it was bitter in the a.m. and the morning barn is a cold barn.
Funny thing is that the evening beforehand I was having a great time mocking the commercials about some sort of cosmetic surgery to reconstruct your chin/neck to reveal a more youthful image to the world. The point of the ad was that the sagging neck was unsightly, ugly, made you less than perfect and life was hardly worthwhile if you could fix it all with a new, younger neckline. I mocked the ad so much that Char started giving me stern looks that it was quite enough, Mom.
Anyway, I never intended to be so moved as to remedy my own “sagging neckline” with my wooly neckwarmer this a.m., but the souvenir photo my friend sent along to me this evening had me in giggles. I realized I was effectively combatting the cold while simultaneously “improving” my look!
I hope you can laugh along with me. In the end, I just think a nun’s habitwould do the trick as well.
Patricia & Sister/Farmer Tam
But let’s talk about Patricia. She is my beautiful mixed Nubian yearling doe. She & her stall mates, Lucia & Marcia, love attention. Of late, the goats have to stay inside because I need to do some fence repair on their pasture. Waiting for a break in the weather, and after hearing this weekend’s forecast, it will be a few more days.
Patricia somehow managed to leap out of the window of their stall in the afternoon after I’d locked things up in the barn. Or so I thought. In the evening, Jim discovered her in the locked, (or so I thought), tack room, chowing down on the bin of sheep grain. I did an extra evening check to make sure she wasn’t suffering from her overindulgence, and she sprightly jumped up onto the stall door to give me a hello, just as she had in the morning. She was as round as a barrel, but fine.
Jim did a special tie-job on the stall door/window, hopefully foiling attempt #2. But hey, if these guys have learned how to fly, I’m banking on God to lend me a hand.
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