Big Sissy Boy

Here's the black steer (half Holstein, half Jersey). He's all alooooone, and is most unhappy.






Here are the three Jersey steers.





Why is the black guy alone? Because he's a big sissy boy.

We were out of grass on the south end of the farm, so needed to move sheep and steers across our little wooden bridge to the north end of the farm, where there's more grass.

Here's the bridge.




Here's the shaded path they take to the new pasture once over the bridge.



One evening Melissa moved the sheep across the bridge. There is much baa-ing and hooves pounding but the sheep know if they can be brave for the ten seconds it takes to cross the bridge, there will be great grass on the other side. (I need to take a photo some day---it's a moving wall of white.)

The steers, however, have never been across the bridge. After she moved the sheep, she herded the steers up to the bridge. With much coaxing and dangling of luscious green leaves, she persuaded two of them to cross the bridge. They stood in their new pasture and mooed sadly for the two left behind (the black steer and a Jersey), who did their share of mooing.

I went down later and tried to get the two across with a bucket of corn. They'd lean in over the bridge, reaching as far as they could with neck and tongue toward the bucket, but they weren't stepping onto the bridge.

Here's the stile we use to take a short cut to the bridge. It's a clever piece of equipment that used to be used more often when people walked across fields and pastures and needed a way to cross over without a gate.




The next day Melissa and I combined forces. We pushed at their rumps, which was a silly thing to do because the steers weigh 1000 pounds. We poked them with sticks. We tried to lure them with wild grape leaves. We scolded and cajoled for an entire hour.

Finally I launched into my "This is ridiculous" speech, an articulate and compelling presentation about why it was time to stop, that the darned steers would never cross the bridge and that we were wasting our time. Melissa and the Jersey exchanged a glance, then he stepped onto the bridge as if he'd done it every day, ambled across the bridge and up into the pasture.

Now it was just the black steer, and he was having none of it. I gave up and went back to the house. Melissa tried for awhile longer, then gave up, then tried the next morning, and finally brought the steer up to the barn so at least he'd have us around so he wouldn't be so lonely.

We're not surprised it was the half Holstein that wouldn't cross. Temple Grandin told me that while she dislikes the use of cattle prods, sometimes you have to use them with Holsteins, as they get balky and will just stop walking.

In all fairness, if we'd taken the steers across the bridge when they were 300 pounds, we would have been able to push them across, and they would have seen it wasn't all that scary.

But we're still calling him Big Sissy Boy.

Beware Composted Sheep Manure


The Farmer and I planted a garden earlier this spring. Here's what it looked like:




I worried that I'd have to weed a lot, but we used newspapers and cardboard as mulch, and we only had to pull a few weed between plants. I dove into my busy summer, happily picking spinach from the garden until the spinach was done.

After the spinach, nothing else was ready so I sort of forgot about it. But then one day I looked up and the garden had grown into something huge and scary. There was hardly a weed to be seen. The big scary green things were the plants themselves.

We'd spaced things as if our soil was average, sort of forgetting that the soil was composted sheep manure. Oops.

The beans were out of control, climbing on everything. If I'd stood still near those beans for five minutes they would have taken me down without a squeak. The cosmos became a freakin' bush. The squash should have been planted in the next township to have enough room to spread. The potatoes and peas went wild.

We planted a jungle.



I had to pick the basil because our neighbors were going to show us how to make pesto, so I took my cell with me, made sure I had 911 on the speed dial, then ventured into the garden, hacking my way with a machete, stopping for water breaks every ten minutes, and trying to remain calm in the towering sea of green.

I picked the basil, thrashed my way back to the edge, and emerged in one piece, light-headed with relief.

We now have lots of homemade pesto. The tomatoes are ripening. The pole beans are nearly ready. The yellow squash is done. The winter squashes are growing. We still have the potatoes to harvest. And there are even a few hardy eggplants fighting the beans and tomatoes for sun and soil. The neighbor helped us pick the green beans, and that's when I remembered I didn't really like to cook beans, nor eat them. Another oops.

Next year? A garden twice the size, with half the green beans and twice the basil. Squash and pumpkins banished to the edges of the yard. Spinach planting staggered so it lasts longer.

And we'll also go a little easier on the sheep manure. It's powerful stuff.

Rocky Mountain High




The Writer and the Farmer are back from a 9-day trip to Colorado. We left the farm in the very competent hands of Bonnie, our 'farmaholic' friend.

All went well until the sheep, tired of eating hay (no rain---no grass), decided on the second-to-last day to find a spot where the ground dropped lower under the fence, and they could wiggle under it to grass growing along the creek. Bonnie, attuned to the sounds of the farm by now, heard lots of yelling (moms and lambs separated, some ewes yelling 'cause they couldn't figure out how to get to the grass) and went to investigate.

She was able to get everyone back in the right place (not an easy task!) then set up a few portable fences to keep them away from the fence they'd scooted under. She wasn't sure the fence was hot, but then got such a nasty shock, she decided it was. Poor Bonnie. Been there, done that.

All was well when we returned---the outdoor flowers were still beautiful, and little vases around the house had been filled with flowers. Bonnie always leaves the house cleaner and nicer than when she arrived.

So, why were we in Colorado? I'd been asked/invited to record an audio book of my novel, A Pirate's Heart, and I thought it'd be a great way to get Melissa off the farm, in a different area, where she could explore and fish and get a much-needed break.

I didn't really think about this until the last minute, but while she'd be out exploring, I'd be spending seven days in a sound booth reading out loud.

What was I thinking? Too late to back out... so we flew to Colorado.

Melissa had a blast---fishing, hiking in search of cool rocks and arrowheads, and hanging out with Hailey the dog.







And here's proof that the owners of Dog Ear Audio did let me out of the studio, at least for a few hours, when we visited the Florissant Fossil Beds, filled with fossilized redwoods like the one behind us.




Because this is a farming blog, I'm not going to bog it down with non-farm stuff. But if you're interested in what it's like to record an audio book while living in a straw bale house in the mountains of Colorado, check out my Inkslinger blog:


http://www.theinkslingerwrites.blogspot.com

We had a great time, but it is nice to be back home.