The Eternal Move

My life continues to be interesting (as in the Chinese curse). I sold my house - closes the 15th of April, I hope. I have a fencing contractor working on sheep and dog fencing at my new place, so I can move my critters off the property by the 15th, my last day for using the 10 acres I sold last month. The easy access by vehicle is at the end of those 10 acres, so moving the critters before the 15th is important. I haven't yet found someone to do the hauling. I may be backing up to the gate in my van, moving 10 at a time.

I've been spending every spare moment moving something somewhere. I have to clear my barns by the 15th of May, and it is too wet and steep to get a vehicle to any of the barn doors. So it's haul the stuff to the van, move it, haul it out to store at the new place.

My neighbor took his horses back yesterday, and pulled a bunch of fencing panels and a kennel down to the end of the property where it can be loaded into a vehicle. Saved me time, arm and back muscles, and much frustration. He also moved the picnic table, so I can take it over for the dogs to play on.

If the fence gets put up in time, and I can find someone to haul the sheep in time, I need to put up a temporary fence at the corner to corral the sheep so they can be loaded. If all of those things don't fall into place, I need to fence in an area of the property I still own and the piece I've just sold, to keep the critters up there. Then I need to figure out how I'll manage to move them.

Today the weather held out long enough to get a vanload of stuff moved out of the barn and then onto the new place. Then it started raining.

Charlie (my working Pyr) carefully watched everything we moved. He came into the barn to see what we were doing. He stood by the fence watching us load things into the van. We even had the gate left open a lot of the time, and he never even tried to leave. He doesn't like things being removed, but if that's what I want, he'll go along with it. But not happily.

I'm now down to thinking less than a week in advance. Anything more and I get overwhelmed. The problem is, once one task is completed I'm hit up the side of the head with the next task that is due immediately. I just keep going, moving on. One day I'll be sitting on my porch, watching the mountains and the cows in the valley and my critters in the field, surrounded by my dogs, peafowl and geese, and this will all be over.

The End of a Busy Day

I'm moving. It's difficult enough moving a household, but add in a farm and it begins to seem impossible.

Today a friend and I hauled the extra gates we had pulled out of the fields last week down the creek path to the nearest road. Gates are heavy. The road is about 1/4 mile away - not a long walk, but a very, very long haul. Then we loaded them in the van and took them to the new place for the fence I'm having put up there.

Charlie the Pyr watched this, watched the horses and sheep watching, and joined all in trotting along with us on the other side of the fence. Nice to know you are providing entertainment for the critters.

On our return, I saw something large and white laying out in the field. It wasn't moving. It looked fluffier than a sheep.

I parked the van, and could see that the lump had still not moved. I got in the car and drove back down to the end of the field. The large, fluffy white thing that still hadn't moved looked very much like a Pyr. I ran into the field, calling "Charlie!" I ran and ran (he was near the center of the field), calling his name. I was certain by now that he had been shot in his own field. I was within several yards when the completely inanimate object raised its head and became Charlie. An alive and well Charlie.

Charlie looked at me with interest. I don't normally run through the field towards him, screaming nearly hysterically. He got up. I knelt down and opened my arms, and he came to me. He was a bit surprised at my joy and delight. He enjoyed the hugs. We walked together back to the gate, and he was disappointed that I left him there.

The neighbors off the far corner of the field had a gardening crew in, mowing and making noise. I think Charlie was out there keeping his considerable bulk between the noisy strangers and his charges, and just sort of snoozed off.

I'd been feeling tired and run down after two days of hard labor. Now I'm quite awake. And very, very glad that my wonderful guardian is still alive and well.

Frog Song

I came home to 3 messages. “Hi Judy? This is Rosie. On Armstrong? Do you know you have a sheep down? You have a sheep down. Bye.” “Judy. This is Donna. Did you get that sheep up? I hope so. I hope that sheep is up now.” “Judy, this is Reid. I couldn’t get the hay today, I’m still trying to get hold of the people tonight. If I can’t get them tonight I’ll try tomorrow. I’ll get you at least a couple days’ worth tomorrow.”

Rosie and Donna are two elderly ladies who live across from my field. They walk up and down Armstrong together for daily exercise, and are my first defense against critter problems in the far field. They don’t, however, seem to understand that I work in a different town, and am not likely to respond to distress calls immediately.

Reid is the across-the-street neighbor whose horses I’ve been boarding for the past month or so – since they broke down his fences while he was at work and started playing in the road. The deal is he gets the hay, I take care of the horses. This morning I fed out the last of the hay.

It is, of course, dark. We just went through torrential rains, so my clay-soiled property varies from under water to soggy to sucking mud. I can’t find my good flashlight, just a wimpy plastic one. I trudge out to find my missing sheep.

As I slip and slide down the hill I’m wishing Rosie and Donna had given me a clue as to the location of the downed sheep. Fifteen acres isn’t a huge area, but it’s dark, and my flashlight only illuminates about 3 feet in front of me. I walk over to the point closest to their houses, and start circling back.

The horses have been following me. Well, they came to say “hi, where’s the food?” then turned heel and ran off. Now they’ve come back to see what I’m up to. If they were dogs they’d lead me to the sheep, but no such luck. They run up, then run off. When I finally light up a white form, both horses trot over to it. Great, thanks guys. Now they are circling us as I try to get the ewe on her feet. They walk with us as I urge the ewe back to safety.

About once a minute I say a word of thanks for the warmth. The tropical storm that brought all the rain brought warm weather along with it. It must be 60 degrees out here. No cold fingers, no cold toes. Three days ago it was 18 degrees.

The frogs have started their winter song, filling up the night. We get to a flooded area, the ewe stops. Why didn’t I remember to bring grain? Push. Balk. I keep trying to light her path, but she really doesn’t want to go through water. Finally, dry land again, and she picks up the pace. I leave her in a relatively dry grassy spot and run off to get grain.

And get stuck in the mud. Running is not allowed. I never knew how bad clay mud could be until horses came to live with me. Clay holds its shape enough to be uneven, and clings to things that enter, trying to keep them from leaving again. Sucking mud.

The horses mob me for the grain. I slog through the mud and water to a dry patch – away from the ewe – and give them half the grain. Then slog back to the ewe with the rest. Now over to the pond to fill the bucket with water. This takes me past Charlie, the Pyr. He moves silently off. I must be walking funny because of this darned mud, and he can’t hear me because of the frogs. Near the pond the sound is almost deafening. When I first moved here I spent hours looking for the frogs that make all this noise. When I finally found them, I was surprised they were so tiny. Such a small creature, such a large sound.

Silence. As soon as I reach the pond the frogs stop singing. Charlie saunters over to the fence. The ground around the pond is dry, I’m walking normally again. Bucket filled, I stop to give Charlie a pet and say hello. He is surprised and delighted to see me. This rescue dog spent months tied to a barn without food because he killed a chicken. While we talk the frogs start up again.

With the sated ewe on dry ground and protected by two brave horses, I head back to the house. The breeze carries warmth that feels like summer. The frogs are singing. Life is good.

Winter Joy

In a dark, damp and dreary winter, sunrise isn’t an event one waits for. Dawn lightens the sky around eight, with no sun in evidence. Then, once in a while, nature provides a delightful surprise. On the way to work this morning I glanced south – and caught my breath. In a world of gray was a band of pale gold, and rising through the band, gold and silver limning snow, ice and rock, stood Mount Saint Helens. A white cloud hat, jauntily tipped, rounded the crater, wispily mimicking the once-perfect peak.

Rising daylight lightened the gray-black clouds to the north blue, and as I turned east at Tumwater Mount Rainier stood proudly clad in a cloak of billowy white clouds, one filament jutting out like hair blowing in the wind.

The beauty of the land surrounds me, blesses me, and keeps me safe. I start work knowing there is joy even in the heart of winter. The mountains are watching, waiting. They protect this land, and remind its inhabitants of their power.