A ewe wandered off by herself today. I found her near some tall grass with twins, our first lambs of the new year.

Happy New Year from Glenrose Farm!

Looking out on the last day of 2005

 

Morning Mist and Cloud- Looking East Towards Skyline Drive 

We had a good Christmas here on the farm. The lamb count is up to eleven, with two new additions today. The picture below is obviously not the farm. It is instead the view down Main Street in Front Royal, taken tonight on my way home from the office with a new digital camera, courtesy of my in-laws. 

Like Elvis appearing on a tortilla, this simple snapshot shows that the universe is filled with mystery: Behold! My simple flock revealed as ghostly demon sheep! As always, you can click for a large version.

In the midst of the holiday rush, it is good to see someone who is content with the basics of life, a little hay, a little water and a warm spot out of the weather with your lambs.

Twins

New arrival on an icy Friday morning

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

Robert Frost

December's first lambs arrived this evening. As we walked up to the barn to feed, there were sheep were there should not be sheep, telling me that at least one gate was down, and probably more. As I groped for the light switch, I heard a smaller voice mixed in with the baaas of hungry ewes. Making my way through the tangle of sheep and fallen gate panels, there she was in the shadows, trapped under a gate and calling out to her mother, who was busy with her twin. After a quick rescue, she went into a pen with a heat lamp in place overhead. Too chilled and weak to stand, she couldn't suck, so we made do with a bottle brought down from the house. I hope that will be enough. I hope she will find her strength and make it until morning. She is the one with white on her head, just to the right of her brother. The other lamb is doing well, and in this picture is trying to persuade his mother to stand up so he can finish dinner.

The leaves are a bit past peak now. High winds yesterday took them from tree branches and sent them swirling around the house and barn. Here is the view looking east towards Skyline Drive Sunday afternoon. 

We have an old dog who's sense of time is slipping. He woke me up at 2:00 a.m. whining to go outside. When I opened the door I heard dogs barking in the pasture, at least one low loud bark mixed with the high pitched yapping of smaller dogs. To a shepherd, these are not comforting sounds. They are the kind of sounds that mean sheep running in a panic through the fields and seeing vultures circling in the morning. After letting the old dog back in, I headed down through the barnyard with flashlight and rifle in hand. Four ewes and the llamas were waiting by the barnyard gate, agitated, but unharmed. After herding them through into the field closest to the house, I walked up the hillside, swinging the light over the fields as my eyes adjusted to the dark. The sound of the neighbors' dogs echoed off the hillside, but our trespassers had lapsed into silence. One quick glimpse of glowing eyes retreating towards the woodline, and they were gone. I waited for a while the under the night sky, moonless and star-filled. Finding Orion, then the Dippers and the Pleiades, I listened again. Hearing nothing, I headed back to the lights of home.

Fall color, frost and a slice of morning sun.

Here is another picture from last week's sudden snowfall that left us bemused and the sheep in search of any bare patch of grass. One ewe, bottle-raised and still convinced that we are her flock, stood by the door befuddled by the change and loudly complaining. The snow left as quickly as it came, followed by a succession of Indian Summer days, the slanting light on the newly green grass somehow reminiscent of Spring in spite of the fall colors around us. We know though that Winter is on its way and soon enough Spring will be both a hope and a distant memory.

Here is a poem from Wendell Berry's latest collection in praise of the lushness that this last week has been an echo of:

The woods and pasture are joyous
in their abundance now
in a season of warmth and much rain.
We walk amidst foliage, amidst
song. The sheep and cattle graze
like souls in bliss (except for flies)
and lie down satisfied. Who now
can believe in winter? In winter
who could have hoped for this?

Saturday afternoon with the flock

Saturday morning; mist, cloud, and a little fall color

After experiencing an onslaught of comment spam, I have reluctantly switched on the "word verification" feature in the hope that I will have fewer messages left by machines that want to sell me something or leave links salted on the page. I apologize to you real people out there for the inconvenience.

A sudden snowfall took us by surprise this morning. Cold air that was supposed to bring us frost met wet air from the hurricane here by our mountains. It will be gone by evening, turned to rain as the day warms slightly.

This morning's forecast from the National Weather Service makes it official, summer is over:

FROST OR FREEZE CONDITIONS ARE EXPECTED TO OCCUR TUESDAY THROUGH FRIDAY MORNINGS...MAINLY ACROSS THE OUTLYING SUBURBS AND LOCATIONS WEST OF THE BLUE RIDGE. AS A REFERENCE...THE GROWING SEASON WILL BE OVER WEST OF THE BLUE RIDGE BY WEDNESDAY MORNING

The late rains these last few weeks brought the pastures back to life after a dry summer. I was hoping the frosts would hold off and allow a little more late grownth before we head into the winter. The more forage left in the field, the less hay we have to feed through the winter. One of the first signs that you are thinking like a farmer is realizing that there is direct link between the weather and your wallet. Sun and rain are, of course, beyond our control, which builds in a certain level of uncertainty into even as small a farming operation as ours. Being dependent on forces beyond one's control can have a salutary effect on a modern such as myself. I am not by nature a pious person and, left to myself, would agree with the old cowboy in a Tom T. Hall song who said "it don't do men no good to pray for peace and rain. Peace and rain is just a way to say prosperity, and buffalo chips is all it means to me." Nonetheless, there is something about the sight of the flock content on good pasture that brings pleasure apart from the economic reward. It leads almost inevitably to prayers of thanksgiving. Likewise, thinking of fields turned brown by drought, and the prospect of winter snows, I find myself praying the words of intercession from the Sunday liturgy: "For favorable weather, an abundance of the fruits of the earth, and temperate seasons" with an unaccustomed fervency.