tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62348667034244336092024-03-06T15:01:19.538-05:00The Singing FarmwifeGinny Neil, The Singing Farmwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11098392391259327445noreply@blogger.comBlogger150125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6234866703424433609.post-14903220210361513612019-09-18T10:11:00.001-04:002019-09-18T10:11:21.834-04:00Just a reminderTo those of you who so faithfully followed this blog, this is just a reminder that I am still writing, just at this new address: <a href="http://www.thesingingfarmwife.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">The Singing Farmwife</a> I miss you and hope you miss me enough to join me there.<br />
<br />Ginny Neil, The Singing Farmwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11098392391259327445noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6234866703424433609.post-60586750368726810462015-03-20T10:27:00.000-04:002015-03-20T10:27:12.811-04:00New Home<span style="font-size: large;">MY BLOG has moved. I will no longer post new entries here. Please follow this link: <a href="http://www.thesingingfarmwife.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">The Singing FarmWife</a> to read the blog. Also, if you are a follower and you want to continue following you'll want to link to the above address.</span>Ginny Neil, The Singing Farmwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11098392391259327445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6234866703424433609.post-50788297249677316222015-03-06T10:47:00.001-05:002015-03-06T10:47:28.288-05:00MY HOPE CLOSET I have been a messy person almost all of my life. My first college roommate can attest to that. I still believe we parted ways because my clutter finally overcame her forgiving nature. Then I married my husband. While he's not a neat freak, he is far better than I am at keeping things clean. He started doing the laundry early in our marriage because he got tired of waiting for clean underwear. He keeps his tools organized, his barn feedways neat and tidy, and his truck free from trash. <br />
Sometimes, he wakes up before I do and I can hear him puttering around downstairs. First I hear the clink and scoop of coffee being made, then I hear the rattle of the dishwasher being loaded or unloaded. When I finally make it downstairs, the kitchen often looks better than I left it.<br />
In my defense, I have improved over time. While it's always been important to me that the public areas of our house be presentable, I have, in the last year, started making my bed every morning and, strangely, I now can't go downstairs until it's done. I've learned to fold clothes as they come out of the dryer so they won't get wrinkled, and I'm much better at cleaning the kitchen before I go to bed. But, there's one area of my life that I can't unclutter.<br />
It's my Hope Closet. I believe every home should have a hope closet, a hope drawer, a hope bin or a hope chest. In the old days, a hope chest was a place for a woman to collect things she planned to use in her married life. That's not the kind of hope chest or closet I'm talking about. <br />
My Hope Closet is really a junk closet, but I call it a Hope Closet because if I need something, I can always hope it's in there. Often it is. My Hope Closet is full of many of the usual things you'd expect to find: batteries, light bulbs, tools, paint, screening supplies, jars of screws, nails and fasteners. But, because it's the place I throw things when I'm not sure where to store them, it's a place full of surprises as well. I often forget what I've put in there. <br />
When I have need of an item to finish a project, I go to my Hope Closet and dig, and sometimes I pray as I dig. I don't know what's in there, and because I don't know, I pray that I'll find what I need. Now, don't laugh, but I feel like God usually answers these silly prayers. Faith is about things unseen, and there are plenty of those in my Hope Closet.<br />
Here's a picture of it.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL8t6RnAe4AFJv78Ut03JTMX3-dlt4HHC_khKLQizW2HXIq1L9rcYNeXVLXMcqxE1re1dBQu6wOPIHWdXdaADEGDJTNBdERbFV_LCkX-572Soa4QS3iYsbPMSODCvJ8BUBg4r8llRM0O8/s1600/IMG_1847.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL8t6RnAe4AFJv78Ut03JTMX3-dlt4HHC_khKLQizW2HXIq1L9rcYNeXVLXMcqxE1re1dBQu6wOPIHWdXdaADEGDJTNBdERbFV_LCkX-572Soa4QS3iYsbPMSODCvJ8BUBg4r8llRM0O8/s1600/IMG_1847.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
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If you come to visit, I will not show it to you. I'm not proud of the disarray, and if I were a complete convert to neatness, everything would be in neatly labeled boxes. Neatly labeled boxes that completely took away my ability to hope and pray for something unseen. In my life, hoping for things unseen is something I don't want to miss.Ginny Neil, The Singing Farmwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11098392391259327445noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6234866703424433609.post-88774717519880200082015-03-04T09:46:00.001-05:002015-03-04T10:35:18.563-05:00SNOW MORE When I was 12, going on 13, I ended my nightly prayers with a request for snow on my birthday. I am a close-to Christmas baby and I planned to carol around the neighborhood with friends to celebrate becoming a teenager. I also secretly planned to get myself a boyfriend. I had a big crush on Stewart and I was pretty sure he would offer to hold my hand if we were walking in swirls of snow beneath glowing streetlamps to the sound of happy carolers.<br />
I got my wish. There were swirls of snow beneath glowing streetlamps, and carolers singing, but Stewart held hands with my older sister.<br />
Snow just can't be trusted.<br />
I don't pray for snow anymore. I know it is poor man's fertilizer, bringing nitrogen from the air down into the soil. I know it refills our aquifers so that the spring behind my house will continue to provide clear water. I know that to every thing there is a season and snow deserves its season. I even know that we don't have as much snow as we did 40 years ago and that should be cause for alarm. My husband still talks about snows that fell in November and melted in April.<br />
I am not alarmed. I am relieved. When your driveway is over a quarter mile long and the last part is a steep hill, snow means that getting to the road is an adventure. For the first time since we've lived at the foot of this steep hill, I have a four wheel drive vehicle. I can get out when it snows, but not if the snow has drifted into swales and swells that are two or three feet deep.<br />
So, I like snow as long as it is only two or three inches deep. I like watching it fall, twirling to the ground in soft curtains of white, as long as it ends in a couple of hours. I like my driveway, when it looks like this.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKu7NhWkuvJf5cPLq0Nw3GciBJ8pO7sHmmMeiwlyLoYYakFubBJ8Lfj1KQYS1XFj1qRe94x91G3d2tmls7Nzvk6caBk0XMBXG-lmYwahCXpGBgKTE11H4JRNdfDo1pYNiw2DULnC_FUlE/s1600/IMG_1845.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKu7NhWkuvJf5cPLq0Nw3GciBJ8pO7sHmmMeiwlyLoYYakFubBJ8Lfj1KQYS1XFj1qRe94x91G3d2tmls7Nzvk6caBk0XMBXG-lmYwahCXpGBgKTE11H4JRNdfDo1pYNiw2DULnC_FUlE/s1600/IMG_1845.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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How about you? Do you still feel romantic when the snow starts swirling, or do you growl?<br />
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The weatherman is calling for 6-8 inches of snow tonight. It might swirl romantically in the glow of the porch light outside my house, but I won't be watching. I'll be curled up inside on the sofa with my true love. It turns out it doesn't take snow to make romance after all.Ginny Neil, The Singing Farmwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11098392391259327445noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6234866703424433609.post-28690265806036860502015-02-21T23:02:00.000-05:002015-02-22T09:49:16.340-05:00Snow Day on the Farm<br />
Any snow over four inches deep means that the work on the farm is doubled. Today we have at least 14 inches and it's still snowing.<br />
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First Joe opens the driveway so we can get out to feed the cows.<br />
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Halfway through, he must stop to repair the four-wheeler.<br />
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While he's working on that I carry corn out to the horses. They get extra rations in the winter weather to help them stay warm. The ice all over them is proof that their long winter coats are protecting them from heat loss. </div>
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Then, Luke and I go down to the creek to knock open a water hole for thirsty<br />
livestock (and dogs).<br />
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Joe has finished the driveway, so we hop in the truck and drive down to the barn where we must shovel open the gate. This is where Gate Girl gets her exercise.<br />
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Then the barn doors are shoveled open so Joe can get the tractor out and give the calves and cows their hay.</div>
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While he's doing that, his wife entertains herself in the truck taking selfies...</div>
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Finally, we head back to the house. I carry water to the chickens, gather eggs and carry in firewood, while Joe plows out the driveway again.</div>
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It's still snowing outside and our county has been declared a local disaster area, but we are tucked safe and warm in our house. We'll worry about that tomorrow.</div>
Ginny Neil, The Singing Farmwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11098392391259327445noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6234866703424433609.post-27259827200925254612015-02-16T16:04:00.001-05:002015-02-16T16:04:48.745-05:00MONDAYS CAN ONLY GET VERSE<div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
FICKLE</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
February flirts,<div>
sashays </div>
<div>
looks back coyly</div>
<div>
blows warm kisses</div>
<div>
melts hearts and streams</div>
<div>
then....</div>
<div>
turns a cold shoulder to her promises</div>
<div>
and chooses winter</div>
<div>
as her partner</div>
<div>
once</div>
<div>
again.</div>
Ginny Neil, The Singing Farmwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11098392391259327445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6234866703424433609.post-3310875738181640642015-02-11T14:30:00.002-05:002015-02-11T14:31:50.170-05:00Rooster Love The chickens are always so much fun to watch, but I especially enjoy watching the roosters. They know their job is to protect the girls, so they crow alarm when a hawk flies overhead and crow about supper when I take slop out to share with the hens. But, they also love to crow for attention. They crow in the morning, long before the sun comes up. They crow in the hen house. They crow outside. They crow just because they can. They are cock-a-doodle Carusos, standing tiptoe, reaching deep into their diaphragms for air, and belting out melodic morning arias.<br />
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But, they don't crow when they are trying to seduce the ladies. Besides living to protect the hens, roosters also exist just so they can get them some chicken love. When a rooster wants love, he is strangely silent. He morphs from a sassy soloist to a shy salsa dancer.<br />
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ROOSTER LOVE<br />
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The rooster struts</div>
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and scratches</div>
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and crows</div>
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He jumps to the left</div>
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and bounces on his toes.</div>
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He waggles his wattle</div>
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and he cocks his eye,</div>
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quicksteps to the right</div>
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when the hen passes by.</div>
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The hen scratches seeds</div>
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with her eyes on the ground</div>
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She never looks up, 'cause</div>
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she's always looking down.</div>
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The rooster on her right</div>
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isn't nearly as thrilling</div>
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as the bug in the ground</div>
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for which she is drilling.</div>
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Ginny Neil, The Singing Farmwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11098392391259327445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6234866703424433609.post-67310071798186444252015-02-04T10:54:00.003-05:002015-02-04T10:54:52.031-05:00Polished With Prayer February is a muddy month. It's great weather for the maple sugar producers. Cold nights and warmer days make the trees and the producers run. But, it's not so great for those of us who gather eggs from free ranging chickens. My hens are not confined to nests or even to the hen-house. They run around outside all day parading through puddles, digging in dirt, and stomping out designs on the muddy paths. After all that fun, the hens hurry back inside. They do not stop to wipe their feet. Instead, they hop on the nest, deposit an egg and wipe their feet on that. February is egg cleaning month.<br />
Customers who buy eggs in grocery stores are buying eggs laid by hens in cages. The eggs never have a chance to get dirty because the hens don't. Customers who buy my eggs are also buying the time my hens spend outside and the time I spend hand polishing their eggs. My hens are laying about 45 eggs a day. That's a lot of mud and a lot of time with a rag, and I forgot to polish eggs yesterday. <br />
When I picked up my rag today and stared glumly at the 90 eggs waiting for a cleaning, it occurred to me that, after they are polished, the eggs glow just like rosary beads. That gave me an idea. Today, instead of moaning about the job in front of me, I decided to treat each egg as an opportunity to pray for the people I love. <br />
Now, looking at the cartons full of glowing eggs, I am looking at cartons full of prayer. I suspect the praying polished me a little as well.Ginny Neil, The Singing Farmwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11098392391259327445noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6234866703424433609.post-79521984940087970112015-02-03T09:43:00.000-05:002015-02-03T09:50:15.521-05:00Gate Girl <br />
<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14.5pt;"><i>This was published in my local paper, but never made it to the blog. Thought those of you who hadn't seen it might relate.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14.5pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14.5pt;"> Valentine’s Day is just around the corner.</span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14.5pt;">With love is in the air, it’s no wonder that,
when Joe asks me to go along with him to feed, I am lulled into believing he
wants to spend a few romantic moments holding hands in the truck. That
notion only lasts until we reach the end of the driveway. That’s when I
realize that he wants me to go along because he needs the services of Gate Girl. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14.5pt;"> Being Gate Girl is one of my biggest
responsibilities. Tonight is a nine-gate evening. Each gate is
different and demands a different skill set. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14.5pt;"> Gate number one is
brand new, but fell off of its hinges a week after we hung it. First I pry
it open. Then I move to the back side and drag it over the bumpy ground.
This is complicated by the sheep who are anxious for their evening grain.
I have to abandon my dragging to shoo them back into the field.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14.5pt;"> Gate number two has both hinges, but the latch has been replaced by a
strand of barbed wire. I prick my fingers as I untwist it. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14.5pt;"> Gate
number three is made of wood. Some nails are loose and the boards shift
and creak as I push it around. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14.5pt;">Gate number four is new. I like gate
number four. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14.5pt;"> Gate number five is lightweight, but must be lifted over a
mound of dirt as I open it. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14.5pt;"> Gate number six has a sliding wooden latch
that pinches my fingers. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14.5pt;"> Gate number seven must be propped open with an
old fence post or it will swing shut on the truck as we pull through. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14.5pt;"> Gate number eight has one baler twine hinge and no latch. It leans
drunkenly against the posts and has to be bullied around. I hate gate
eight. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14.5pt;"> Gate number nine opens on the left instead of the right. I always
forget and try to open the wrong side. Tonight is no exception.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14.5pt;"> When we were first married I loved any excuse
to ride along with Joe and help out on the farm. Being Gate Girl was something
a city girl could do with no training. Now that I am older and more
experienced, I can drive tractors, feed hay from the back of a moving pick-up
truck, bottle feed calves and lambs, give shots and rake a pretty tidy
windrow. But, being Gate Girl is still my favorite farm chore. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14.5pt;"> Gate
Girl will never make it to the super hero hall of fame. I can’t leap
buildings in a single bound or put out fires with my bare hands. What I
can do is open any gate on the farm and make my husband’s life just a little
easier. And when all the gates have been opened and closed, perhaps we’ll
pull up to the top of a hill and watch the lambs play in the fields
below. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14.5pt;"> Then, Joe will turn to me and whisper softly in my ear, “Can you
help me again tomorrow?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Ginny Neil, The Singing Farmwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11098392391259327445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6234866703424433609.post-9668240983535313222015-01-28T11:51:00.001-05:002015-01-28T11:51:16.423-05:00Raking Snow I have a new farm chore. When it snows, my chickens refuse to step out of the hen house. That's sixty chickens dropping their business on a floor that it's my job to keep clean. I want them outside, but when I open the door and they see this <span style="text-align: center;">they don't think, "Oh what a spectacularly beautiful snowfall." </span><br />
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<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span>
They think, "Nope. Not. Going. Outside. Today."<br />
Sixty chickens hanging out all day in a hen house leads quickly to an excess of fertilizer Luke thinks of the chickens as Pez dispensers. He's delighted with every deposit they make. More food for him. I'm not so happy. Poo builds up quickly and sticks to my shoes when I gather eggs. I must either clean the chicken house pronto, or throw another layer of hay on top.<br />
I am currently throwing another layer of hay on top, delaying the torture of cleaning until warmer weather or Scott comes home. We are almost 8 inches deep in hay and compost now and I'm hoping it will start to heat as it decomposes. Then at least the chickens will stay warmer.<br />
<br />
But for now, I want the girls to go outside. That's where my rake comes in. I have discovered that if they can see just the tiniest bit of a path then they will step out.<br />
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So I grab my rake and start making paths. One path leads down to the creek so they'll go there for water. That's a five gallon bucket less for me to tote. Another path leads to the back side of the shed, which will often heat up enough to melt off a little bare spot. I call it the Rooster Riviera.<br />
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The chickens like to sunbathe there, and the rooster struts about picking up chicks. Lacking a tiny bathing suit he substitutes a deft display of neck feathers.<br />
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The rest of the hens head over to the bare spot under the truck. They can scratch a little, make dust baths and stay out of the view of the hawk who patrols the sky.<br />
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Satisfied that I've avoided adding another deposit of hay to the coop, I head back to my house. The hens hang outside for another fifteen minutes and then make their way back to the hen house. It's warmer in there.Their deposits are decomposing. Time to go make some more.</div>
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In spite of my efforts to avoid it, I guess I'll be making a fresh deposit of my own tomorrow. </div>
Ginny Neil, The Singing Farmwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11098392391259327445noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6234866703424433609.post-28517843209451553082015-01-26T10:09:00.001-05:002015-01-26T10:09:51.703-05:00A Trip to the Woodshed My husband had a conversation with a newcomer to the mountains the other day. The newcomer was commenting on the beauty of the place and how his wife loved her view. Since they were looking at chainsaws, the talk soon turned to cutting wood for the winter. The newcomer shared the enormous amount of wood he'd already cut and then said, "but my wife gave me specific directions about where the pile could be. She didn't want it to block her view, so I've put it behind an outbuilding." Joe then said to him, "Yes, my wife felt the same way when she first moved here. Two winters of hauling wood cured her of that notion." He's right. Here's my woodshed.<br />
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<br />
It's pretty far from my house, but in good weather I don't mind rolling the wheelbarrow out there to bring in a load. It's good exercise and the driveway makes it an easy trip. But in snow, the wheelbarrow doesn't roll as well. That's when I'm grateful for this stack.<br />
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As you can see, it's right beside the house; an easy distance to tote. </div>
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I'm fairly certain the newcomer's wife will one day appreciate a stack by the door, too. </div>
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Ginny Neil, The Singing Farmwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11098392391259327445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6234866703424433609.post-35369372371831128542015-01-24T20:58:00.000-05:002015-01-24T21:00:25.780-05:00Neither Rain nor Sleet nor Misery....<div class="MsoNormal">
Farmers are superheros.
Illness doesn’t stop them. There
are no sick days when the cattle are standing out in the weather and the only
thing that keeps them warm is a constant meal of hay. There is no one to call when a farmer feels
just like the piles of crap dotting the fields where he must, with a fever of a
hundred and one, go out and throw hay off the truck in the cold rain.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is a short post because I just wanted to give a shout
out to my husband and sons, who do what needs to be done even when the doing is
pure misery. I am proud to be a farmer’s
wife and the mother of two more. My men
have the kind of grit it took to settle the wilds of America. They have the kind of determination and stubbornness
that gets the job done, personal discomfort be damned. </div>
<br />
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I hope the animals appreciate them as much as I do. </div>
Ginny Neil, The Singing Farmwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11098392391259327445noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6234866703424433609.post-52978926275634190062015-01-04T13:08:00.000-05:002015-01-04T13:50:06.126-05:00The Grass is Just as Brown...<div class="MsoNormal">
I wish that someone would tell those rascally calves. I know that they are young, so they don’t
have much experience to go on, but it’s winter.
The grass on the other side of the fence is just as brown as the grass
on their side. It doesn’t matter. They keep busting out anyway. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My husband and I have chased these two calves down the edges
of the road, to an open gate, at least ten times in the last four days. In the pasture, where the rest of their friends
seem content to hang out, they have access to fresh hay and to calf pellets,
delivered daily. There is a fine source
of fresh water, so they are not thirsty.
But, still these two roam and we can’t figure out their escape route or
their reasons for escape.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It happened again this morning. The phone rang just as the sun came up. “Your two calves are in the road again,” a
neighbor said. We pulled on clothes,
coats and boots and fired up the truck.
A mile away the calves trotted into a neighbor’s front yard and put down
their heads to graze on dead grass. It
must taste better than the dead grass on their side of the fence. It must.
Otherwise, why would they insist on escape?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The calves have gotten used to our herding them back down
the road. They aren’t scared of us
anymore. They sashay, stopping to grab
another bite of dead grass. They halt and
consider the clouds racing across the sky. They pause to ponder, they stop to
stare. Finally, they trot back through
the gate and Joe and I walk the fence-line once again, looking for gaps. He hammers in a few loose staples and we
study the grass looking for signs of escape.
We should see footprints or bent grass, but we don’t so we go back to
the house.</div>
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I have just placed a couple of pieces of bacon in the pan
and turned up the heat when the phone rings.
“Your calves are out in the road again,” the caller reports.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have come to the conclusion that these calves are going
through puberty. They are seeking to assert their independence. I’ve read that in Rio de Janeiro adolescent
boys, and some girls, get their kicks by hopping on to the tops of speeding trains
as they roll down the track. These
thrill seekers stand, with arms outstretched- surfing, as the trains rumble
down the mountain. Despite the fact that
over 600 kids a year are killed or severely injured riding the rails this way,
the young Brazilians continue to flirt with danger.</div>
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When I chase the calves down the road, back to the safety of
their paddock, they exhibit this same “devil-may-care” attitude. They are not afraid of failure. My only consolation as I once again corral my
boisterous beeves is the fact that my four-legged adolescents aren’t surfing
the tops of trains for thrills. Maybe I
can train them to hop on top of cattle trucks as they lumber by. </div>
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Then they could get their adrenaline fix and I
wouldn’t have to pay to get them to market.</div>
Ginny Neil, The Singing Farmwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11098392391259327445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6234866703424433609.post-38998487745286923482014-12-09T15:25:00.000-05:002014-12-09T15:25:29.826-05:00The Hawk<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
That</div>
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Damn</div>
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Hawk</div>
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sits in bare branches</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
considering which</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
of my </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
hens to eat next</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
while I sit at </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
the window</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
considering how long it will be</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
before I get arrested,</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
if I shoot him.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Then</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
the wind shifts</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
and the hawk </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
extends</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
elegant wings</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
to rise in silent circles</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
sunward</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
and I decide to let him live</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
just because</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
he is so </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Beautiful.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
Ginny Neil, The Singing Farmwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11098392391259327445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6234866703424433609.post-5641888859308638072014-10-06T11:14:00.000-04:002014-10-06T11:14:03.525-04:00Free Range Fricassee<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If someone had
told me thirty years ago that I would one day kill a chicken and giggle while doing it, I would have scoffed. Yesterday, Joe and I beheaded four of our
roosters-who-should-have-been-hens. I
didn't think I could ever find any humor in death, but my husband looked so silly with specks of blood and feathers on his face that I did it. I giggled.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Joe was kind
enough to do the beheading while I boiled water over on the other side of the
fence, so I guess I can’t claim to be a total farm girl, yet. My father says his grandmother used to chase
the chickens down, grab them up by their necks, give each neck a quick twirl,
and bring the old girls in for the stewing.
Our process was a bit more complicated.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
First, I read a
book about how to butcher chickens. Joe
humored me in this, but thirty pages later I decided it might be easier to just
listen to him. He had, after all, done
this before with his mother and had the chopping block and ax to prove it. So, he gathered up four of our overdose of roosters and guided me through the process.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After head removal,
the roosters were tossed into a bucket to bleed out. They shuddered and shook as rigor-mortise set
in, but my book assured me that this was the dance of the dead. Then we dipped the carcasses in 160 degree water. The feathers came off pretty easily and in
forty minutes, we had four headless, featherless birds ready for phase two.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Phase two was to
singe the long hairs off of the body.
Joe’s mom had always done this with a rolled up newspaper which she lit and passed over the bodies, but after
almost setting the kitchen, the porch and the yard on fire, we decided to use a blow torch instead. When the roosters were as slick-skinned as body-builders, they were dropped into the sink for phase three.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEUbqn0umSQY2xJ6dxn6Z0lY64FhpAVUj4tCdQ3dye_R7kukrDbyBWieMjueScNjk3YehvHYkYNpG1o_41x6Q0OvToveaV6veQYB7mmU9W5nWuiEH4vFqPuK-9-jQ-PwcC4hxi0TpqYUo/s1600/100_2698.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEUbqn0umSQY2xJ6dxn6Z0lY64FhpAVUj4tCdQ3dye_R7kukrDbyBWieMjueScNjk3YehvHYkYNpG1o_41x6Q0OvToveaV6veQYB7mmU9W5nWuiEH4vFqPuK-9-jQ-PwcC4hxi0TpqYUo/s1600/100_2698.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Phase three made
me appreciate my underdeveloped sense of smell.
We made a slit in the skin around the crop and removed it, cut off the
feet and then worked to carefully remove the intestines without any spillage
into the body cavity. We were mostly
successful at this, but since Joe’s mom had always done the innard removal, we
had to experiment a little and consult the book (which frustratingly had no
pictures). By the fourth bird, we had mostly figured it out.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The four boys,
which at this point actually looked like store bought chickens only skinnier,
were placed in water for a cold soak to remove the rest of the body heat. Then they were placed in the fridge for storage
and aging.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The final step was
the easiest. We watched a video on You-tube
of Joel Salatin butchering. He had lots
of fancy equipment and completed four hens in ten minutes. He recommended using a knife as little as
possible, tearing the skin open instead, to save meat. He said every ounce of meat was worth fifteen
cents, which made his chickens worth $2.40 a pound.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tonight we are
having $4.80 worth of chicken fricassee.
But what we are really having is a farm-raised, free-range, antibiotic
free, cleanly slaughtered supper. That's worth more than any fat, overfed, cage-raised hen that money can buy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
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</div>
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Ginny Neil, The Singing Farmwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11098392391259327445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6234866703424433609.post-92228677277574500952014-09-24T21:13:00.003-04:002014-09-24T21:13:34.912-04:00Manna and Tomatoes<div class="MsoNormal">
Having a garden is a marvel.
I step out the door, walk twenty steps and palm a ripe red tomato or I
wander the rows eating tender green beans like candy as I admire the beauty of all
those growing things. In July, the seeds
I planted in May are showing a promise of abundance. I run to the house, first tomato in hand to
share with Joe, and we slice it reverently to eat with just a little salt and
pepper. Or we strip the silk from those early
ears of corn and drop them into the pot that’s already boiling and stand over
it drooling in anticipation. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But in September, my humble garden has morphed into an an
overachiever. It used to offer tomatoes
shyly, nestled below green leaves. Now
it dangles them brazenly in the sun. It
hammers me with abundance. “Come gather beans now!” it screams whenever I
step into the yard. And the flighty
corn, so vibrant in its youth, is now pale and whining about the load of ears
it carries. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We eat tomatoes for breakfast, tomatoes for lunch and
tomatoes for supper. I’m even tempted to
hide them in dessert. I have made and
canned tomato juice, whole tomatoes, tomato ketchup, tomato soup, pizza sauce,
spaghetti sauce and salsa. I have
gathered, de-silked , shucked and cut five buckets of corn. I have pulled and dried a bushel of
onions. I have picked, snapped and
canned twenty quarts of beans and still the garden throws vegetables at me in
reckless abandon.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I always feel overwhelmed at the end of the growing
season. Longing for the garden to cease
and desist. But then, I notice that
there are no more green tomatoes on the vines.
There are no more bean blossoms.
There are no more baby cucumbers.
The corn rustles dryly in the wind. The garden is shutting down. And, I after longing for such a moment am
sad.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When the Israelites wandered in the dessert, they cried out
for food and God gave them manna. They
ate it three times a day for forty years.
I ate tomatoes three times a day for a month and whined about it. Children in Africa would eat them gladly for
as long as they could get them. I have
much to learn about gratitude and abundance.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Ginny Neil, The Singing Farmwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11098392391259327445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6234866703424433609.post-86098997487663211112014-09-17T12:02:00.001-04:002014-09-17T12:02:57.026-04:00Spring Cleaning<div class="MsoNormal">
With fall fast approaching I find that I am feeling rushed
to complete my spring cleaning. “What?”
you ask. “You haven’t finished your
spring cleaning? Spring is long past.” You’re right spring is long past and I haven’t
even started my spring cleaning. There,
I’ve said it out loud. I am a spring
cleaning drop out. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Over the years, I’ve
tried to get excited about moving all the furniture out of a room, cleaning it
side to side and top to bottom, and then putting it all back. After all, Livvie Walton and the girls
certainly seem to have a lot of fun when they do it on TV Land. My problem is that when I start something, it
usually brings to mind something else that I need to do. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For example: To
start my spring cleaning, I prepare to move
the blanket chest in the living room out
to the porch, but realize it’s really heavy, so I open it to see if there’s anything I should
remove. As I am sorting through the
contents, I find a blanket that would look really nice on my couch, so I pull
it out and drape it over the back. But
now a quilt, that’s folded in a basket, doesn’t match so I carry it upstairs to
put on the shelf with the other quilts, which are stacked beneath a coat that
needs some buttons. Hmm… It won’t take
me but a minute to sew those on.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, I get the
coat and the buttons, but the blue thread is not in my sewing box. I walk downstairs to look next to my chair
and notice a great magazine article about spring cleaning, so I sit down to
read that. Maybe I can get some tips
that will make me more efficient. When I
finish the article, I find the thread and head back upstairs. Once the buttons are attached, I take the
coat in to my child’s room, which is really dusty. I can’t leave it like that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back down the
steps I head to get a dust rag and some dusting spray. Might as well dust the whole downstairs while
I’m at it. Downstairs dusted, I climb
back up and dust the upstairs. Then I notice
that the screen to Scott’s window has fallen out onto the porch roof, so I squeeze
through the window to retrieve it and, while I’m there, I see that the chickens
are in my garden.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I run down the
steps, out the door and through the yard, waving my arms and hollering at the
renegade hens until they fly over the fence and hot foot it back to the hen
house. On my trip back to the house, I
notice that the lawn really needs to be mowed, so I get the lawnmower, gas it
up and trim up the yard. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I finish
that chore, I’m thirsty so I head to the kitchen for a glass of water. The clean glasses are all in the dishwasher
which I unload. As I’m unloading, I
notice how messy the cabinet where I keep my plastic-ware has become. I sit on the floor and sort through all the
different size bowls, trying to match them up with lids and discovering that I
have 40 lids that no longer have mates.
I toss those, which fills the trash can, so I take it out and dump it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stand for a
moment admiring the beautiful spring flowers and that’s when I remember. I am supposed to be spring cleaning my house. But, now it’s supper time. I’ll finish tomorrow. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
After supper, I
sit down in my chair. Why am I so
tired? I didn’t get a bit of spring cleaning done. The trunk in the living room is still
standing open and, as I reach over to close it, I notice a stack of pictures that
need to be sorted and placed in albums. I’ll
do that as soon as I finish my spring cleaning.
Which I might finish this fall…if I don’t open that trunk again.</div>
Ginny Neil, The Singing Farmwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11098392391259327445noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6234866703424433609.post-66887125919570936202014-08-06T18:05:00.000-04:002014-08-06T18:05:30.068-04:00Waiting<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
One of the things I’ve learned on the farm is patience. I am
thinking this as I sit on the steps of the chicken house waiting for the last
hen to decide it’s time for bed. She is
still outside, pecking around, hopeful that she’ll find one last beetle or seed
before flapping up to the roost. I know
that if I go into the chicken yard and try to shoo her toward the building, she
will run the other way. That’s the way
chickens are. So I wait.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The waiting is not so bad. It’s the cusp of evening and a cool breeze
tickles my face as I stare across the dimming pastures. Birds are singing their evening songs and,
across the road, the lambs are bleating for their mamas. I can see them in the pewter light, running
down the hill to catch up with the ewes who are waiting-like me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
To my left, the cows begin to mosey through
the gate and I know that will lead to another kind of waiting because, after I
capture this last chicken, I will fill the grain bucket and carry it out to
pasture for the three calves I’m still tending.
The cows will stand around me in a circle, staring at that grain and
hoping I’ll leave so they can butt the calves out of the way and steal their
meal. But, I am seasoned in patience. I deliver the food and then upend the
bucket. I’ll sit there until the calves
finish, jumping up and waving my arms or pitching pebbles whenever a cow
ventures too close. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Perched on my bucket, I glance over at my
garden. I’m waiting for the first
cucumbers, tomatoes and beans. Seeds planted
in late May have finally begun to look like they will bear. Every day there is a new unfurling, a new
flower, a new leaf, a new pod, a new bug.
Gardening is all about the waiting and then the dealing with what comes along,
knowing that whatever it is will be different from yesterday.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
So, I wait for things, but when I really
study the farm, I realize that I don’t know anything about true waiting. When this farm was first settled, I’m guessing
the meadows and pastures were all covered in trees and rocks. There’s a small graveyard in our front meadow
and a gravestone that tells me that Samuel Wilson died here in 1862 after
living only 47 years. Did he get to see
the fruits of all his labor after toiling each year to clear another few
acres? Did his wife wait anxiously for
the garden to produce its first green bean or ear of corn because they hadn’t
had any fresh fruits or vegetables for nine months? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
With
a round baler, a weather window of three dry days means we can harvest a
significant amount of hay in a short time.
I like to think of Sam Wilson scanning the skies all summer long, hoping for fair
weather clouds so he could proclaim to his bonneted wife, “This is it! I think we can get some hay up this
week.” He would have hand-scythed,
raked, shocked and then stacked enough hay to get him through the winter. What we harvest in one day, Sam would have
patiently accomplished over the length of a summer, watching his hay stacks
grow slowly, anticipating fat cattle in the snow.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Sometimes I fear that modern life has
stolen our ability to go slowly. I
see this especially in the young who carry so much at their finger tips. I watched a group of my son’s friends in
conversation not long ago. They were all
holding cell phones and i-pads and, as the conversation flowed, they referenced
things. They argued about movie stars,
history and their friends relationships, casually scrolling through the world
with their fingers to exclaim, “Look, see, I was right.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I wonder. Would Sam Wilson, long dead in my pasture, have
looked at how fast the world is moving and told us we were missing out on the joy of
things gained slowly, or would he have said, “Hot diggity, where can I get a
round-baler?” Generations move forward.
What’s lost is replaced with something new. Is life better or worse as a result? I might
know the answer before I die. I guess
I’ll just have to wait and see.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
Ginny Neil, The Singing Farmwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11098392391259327445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6234866703424433609.post-57206280500125792232014-07-12T19:08:00.000-04:002014-07-12T19:08:22.890-04:00Dressed for Success<div class="MsoNormal">
Yesterday, I wore my
white tennis shoes for the first time since I bought them three months
ago. The purchase seemed like a good
idea at the time, but that’s because I forgot to factor in where I live. To get to my car, I have to walk out of my
gate and stroll across five yards of a forty acre pasture. When the cows and sheep met to discuss
personal hygiene, I think they unanimously elected to use that five yards for
all offensive bodily deposits.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My white tennis
shoes are now polka-dotted with brown. I
try to be careful, but my mother will tell you that I was born to be
dirty. On my first date with my husband
I impressed him by stepping in a mud puddle, twice. Living on a farm presents more hazards than
puddles. Now that I am retired, my
fashion choices are dictated by those hazards.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the morning, I
get up and pull on yesterday’s dirty jeans and tee, slide into my mud boots and
stroll across the pasture to switch out the dogs. The one who has been loose for the night
bounds up to meet me. He knows there’s
some cat food waiting for him and, excited by the thought of fish-flavored
nuggets, he jumps up planting both dirty paws on my thighs. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After I switch
the dogs, I mosey over to the hen house to release the feathered inmates. Spell bound by the dew-pearled cobwebs strung
like party lights along the fence, I don’t notice the cow pies until I slip in one.
Manure is slicker than grease and I can’t stop my downward slide. I rise up, my
backside and hands stained greenish brown, and move on to the chicken house where
I fill the chicken fountain, splashing enough water in the process to soak my
left pants leg. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The three bottle
calves, who have graduated from milk to grain, trot up. The oldest one, Ralphie, has never given up
the idea that I am his mother. He bumps
up against me, sucking my elbow and rubbing his dusty sides against my shirt as
I lug his feed to the grain pans. Chores
done, I dust off my pants, and consider changing into clean clothes. But, the garden needs to be weeded and the
shed cleaned out. If I change, I won’t
be clean for long. I’m not expecting company, so I elect to stay
dirty. I just have to remember not to
sit down.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After lunch, I
discover that I need to go to town for several small purchases from the general
store, and, again, I consider changing into clean clothes. But, the morning chores have to be repeated in
the evening, so I go as is and hope I don’t run into anyone who would care
about how I look. As I pull up to the store,
I spot two female friends. Like me they
are in their oldest clothes and clonking around in muck boots. We laugh about our appearance and compare
notes about our chores, pointing to various stains and snags as proof of our
endeavors.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
My friends and I
love beautiful clothes, pristine shoes and matching pocketbooks. But, those things are mostly reserved for
Sunday mornings or special outings.
Whenever I visit my parents in the city, I spend several days in good
clothes. I don’t have to watch where I
step and I’m not expected to do anything that would lead to un-removable
stains. I bought those white tennis shoes
on one of those trips. Now they’re not
white anymore, but they are still too good to wear in the garden. I set them on a shelf in my closet. I’ll wear them to the fair this fall. They’ll be perfect for looking good in the
barn. Unless it rains. Then I’ll wear my muck boots and I, and all
of my sisters-in-fashion, will splash happily through whatever nature dishes
out. After all, we know how to dress for
success.</div>
Ginny Neil, The Singing Farmwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11098392391259327445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6234866703424433609.post-65227718426259434202014-06-04T08:45:00.000-04:002014-06-04T09:01:11.164-04:00The Coyote Tree<div class="MsoNormal">
A friend of mine recently posted a picture on Facebook of a
tree out in the middle of a pasture.
There were two coyotes hanging from its branches and a sign referring to
it as the hanging tree. I have seen this
tree, but when I saw it there were about ten coyotes hanging there.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The posted picture created a very small storm of
disapproval. People were appalled at
such a vulgar, angry display. I found
myself, strangely, on the other side of the argument. Don’t get me wrong. I am not condoning the actions of the farmer
involved (whom I know), but I am not condemning them either. After living on the farm for twenty seven
years and participating in the daily struggle to produce a good, marketable
crop of lambs or calves I find that my old city attitudes have shifted.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like most of my city counterparts, I imagined that all farms
consisted of sunny meadows full of frolicking sheep and happy cows. I loved to eat a good steak or fry up some
bacon, but somehow my mind didn’t connect happy farm animals to my plate full
of juicy protein. Happy farm animals
lived so that people could enjoy their cuteness and occasionally feed them and
pet them. People certainly were not going to eat them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s not that I didn’t
know the source of my burger, it’s just that I chose not to consider it. Living on a farm changed all of that. On the farm, I began to face up to the fact
that the cute little animals trotting along behind their mamas would one day be
sold for food. I lived on the farm for
several years before I would let myself consider this truth too closely.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then my boys raised 4-H animals and I watched them grow
attached to their four-legged friends.
And, I watched them mourn when those same friends, after winning some
money and ribbons, were loaded onto a stock trailer which pulled off into the
sunset, heading towards a feed yard and eventually a butcher’s shop somewhere.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was during our third season of raising and selling fair
animals that my attitudes began to shift.
In the first years, I cried, too.
But, then it occurred to me that humans have to eat, and we simply
cannot do it without something else dying.
Even if we are vegetarians, eating only organically raised produce, a
bug will die somewhere as the crop is harvested. Why are we mourning only the cute furry
things?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In fact, everything must kill something else in order to
keep on living. It is a truth that has
been lost as generations of eaters pluck their dinners from the sterile
well-lit aisles of a grocery store. Here
on the farm, we don’t have the luxury of ignoring the source of our sustenance
and the death that is an inevitable by-product of our eating.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What does that have to do with coyotes hanging in a
tree? It turns out, everything. Everything dies. That’s the truth that we learn living on the
farm. Coyotes are top level
predators. They don’t die very often,
unless the one predator above them, man, does the killing. Coyotes kill indiscriminately and it’s not
always because they are hungry. Any
farmer who’s seen a field full of neck-slashed lambs can tell you that coyotes
are hit and run killers. Thus, one
farmer who has witnessed too much of this senseless killing and the effect it’s
had on his income, chooses to hang the coyotes--symbolically saying, “enough is
enough.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This farmer is not deranged.
He is angry, and rightfully so. The
coyote tree is simply an expression of that anger and frustration. Since I’ve lived here, I’ve seen at least ten
farmers give up raising sheep because of overwhelming coyote losses. They’ve tried donkeys, guard dogs and llamas
and if they were able to keep their sheep in a small acreage and had a small
flock, then they could enjoy some level of protection. But, most farmers in this county turn their
sheep out to pasture in the summer. Pasture
on the sides of mountains, out of sight of the house. Usually the flock splits up. A guard animal would have to choose one group,
leaving the other group vulnerable.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
If National Geographic came to our mountains and photographed
the coyote tree, it would appear in the magazine with a caption that
appropriately captured the frustrations of a group of people who are watching
their way of life disappear one coyote-killed sheep at a time. Lambs dying so that we all can eat are one
kind of death that we accept on the farm.
Lambs dying in our fields because a coyote went on a killing spree are
not. Sometimes it seems that modern
society has forgotten how to distinguish between the two.</div>
Ginny Neil, The Singing Farmwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11098392391259327445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6234866703424433609.post-24234337250712309582014-05-19T11:42:00.000-04:002014-05-19T11:42:01.823-04:00The Boneyard<div class="MsoNormal">
I just returned from visiting my parents in Richmond. As we walked around the neighborhood, I gawked
at the stunning floral displays in every yard.
Richmonders, at least the ones where I grew up, take pride in manicured
lawns and dazzling displays of flowers.
The azaleas were in full bloom and every sidewalk was lined with mulched
beds of impatiens, roses, pansies, petunias, salvias and sages: all of it weeded and trimmed to perfection.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I came home and took a long look at my front yard. I love flowers just as much as my city
friends, but somehow my efforts never translate into the riotous beds of blooms
that they’ve achieved. For one thing, I
have walnut trees. My walnut trees
whisper softly in every summer breeze and host orioles and other small birds
who wake me with joyful song. The trees
shade my hammock with their gnarly arms and leave only a small trace of leaves
for me to rake up in the fall. They even
provide nuts for cakes and pies. But,
walnuts hate to share the lawn. They nourish
grass, but kill almost every flower or tree that is planted beneath their
widespread crowns. And so, I’ve reduced
my flower beds to the few plants that can tolerate the walnut’s acidic roots: daylilies,
coneflowers, hostas, bleeding hearts and sedums. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then there’s my dog, Luke.
He loves the lawn and flower beds even more than I do. He loves them because they provide great
places to stash all of his bones. He
refuses to limit his collection to the few bones I toss out after a steak or
pork dinner. Luke is a hoarder. He travels great distances to find and bring
back bones of all descriptions. I cannot
fathom where he gets them all. I
recently removed two deer skulls, five assorted bovine bones, a set of sheep
ribs, and various legs with hooves and hair still attached. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If Joe or one of the boys
shoots a ground hog out in the front meadows, Luke lets it age for several days
and then drags it into the yard. Usually
I find these offerings before they become overwhelmingly offensive, but on
occasion if I’m preoccupied as I mow, I have been awakened from my daydreams by
a grinding noise and a fan of ripe guts and flesh spewing out from under my
feet. Luke leaps for joy every time I make
this mistake, chasing down the body parts and rolling ecstatically in the
macerated mess.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If I have discovered the rotting body and carried it far
away from the house, Luke brings it back and buries it in the flower beds for
further aging. Last week, I was planting
some hostas when I noticed a small mound
of mulch in the back of the bed. I
reached out with my ungloved hand to smooth it down and raked my fingers
through slimy gore. Luke seemed puzzled
by my strong reaction to his gift. The
smell lingered on my hands for several days.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then there are the livestock grazing around the house. Last year, my daylilies were radiant against
my white board fence until the lambs reached through and ate the flowers. The horses love the rosebushes and the cows
love anything they can get to. My sister
still chuckles at her memory of being awakened one morning by an unearthly shrieking. Thinking the house was on fire, she jumped
from her bed and caught a flash of blue wailing around the house. It was me, in my nightie and muck boots,
hurtling after five cows and screaming bloody murder. They had managed to push open a gate and spent
the early morning hours destroying my vegetable garden. Even the chickens have found
ways into the yard, digging holes beneath the chicken wire I stapled up to
thwart them. They prefer a dust bath
shaded by hostas.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, while I enjoy the cultivated perfection blooming in the
suburbs, I gave up my dreams of garden glory years ago. Now, I plant daffodils on the hills
surrounding my house and enjoy the wild Joe Pye and Iron Weed blooms in the
meadow. I pick daisies from the shale
banks and Queen Anne’s Lace to decorate my tables. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Joe has decided he would like a flower bed in
the yard this year. He’s made plans for
a raised bed full of zinnias and dahlias, delphiniums and larkspur. I am all for it. I’m anticipating some early morning
entertainment when Joe wakes and discovers the cows dining on dahlias. I wonder if he’ll stop to put on his boots.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Ginny Neil, The Singing Farmwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11098392391259327445noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6234866703424433609.post-82736718089490390702014-05-03T09:59:00.001-04:002014-05-03T09:59:33.322-04:00Riding in Trucks<div class="MsoNormal">
When my boys were born I realized how different males were
from females when they were about two years old and started making engine
sounds. They made engine sounds for
everything. Eating? Sound of cars pushing food around their
plates. Bathing? Sound of motor boats as they slid their hands
through the suds. Walking? Sounds of trucks as they trotted up and down
the grocery store aisles. Sleeping? No sounds, but that was the only time. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I bought a couple of well-seasoned horses when the boys were
in school. I figured we could ride
together and bond. The boys never really
grew fond of trotting or cantering, but if Joe brought out the four-wheeler or
offered them the chance to steer the truck in the field, they were all over
it. As Justin once said, “Mom, you never
know what a horse is going to do, but a four-wheeler won’t dump you off.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I beg to differ. I have been dumped by a lawn mower. A horse
wants to stay upright as much as I do, but a lawn mower doesn’t care. That’s why, when I drive one on the side of a
ten degree slope, I lean as far uphill as possible. This used to keep my mower under control
until Joe got me one that cuts off if you lift up off of the seat. Now, the mower stops running whenever I shift
my weight, so I’m forced to white knuckle it around the berm of my garden.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I once dated a fellow who loved souped up trucks. He especially loved bucking them across
vertical slopes covered in rocks and mud.
He invited me to go along for a ride, once. While he was chortling gleefully about the
mud spinning out from under our tires and the cow-sized rock we’d just climbed, I was hanging on for dear life saying
things like, “Are you sure we should go that way?” and “Look there’s a road. How
about we drive on that for a while?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I married Joe, I never guessed that he would expose me
regularly to motor-induced hazards. For
example, feeding hay in the winter involved putting the truck in low range and
spinning up across snow that had drifted like ocean swells on the hills. We’d be going along in a comfortable,
horizontal track and he would suddenly point the nose of the truck uphill and
start digging a path to the top. The
whine of the truck and his wife would grow louder as he tried to top the rise,
and I tried to get him to turn around and just forget about feeding the cows up
there. I have found it comforting to
close my eyes when we are exposed to motor-induced dangers. What I can’t see can’t kill me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then, one day Joe offered me the chance to go along with him
and spread some lime. He made it sound
like I would enjoy the beauty of the view from the top of the ridge, but I knew
he really just wanted the services of Gate Girl. However, I did want to see some of the vistas
he was always telling me about. I probably would have enjoyed the scenery
if I had ever opened my eyes.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yesterday, after cleaning out the chicken house, I asked Joe
to help me spread some of the litter and manure. I had put as much in my compost pile as I
wanted, and I figured the rest would help grow some grass somewhere. He agreed and when we got halfway down the
driveway, Joe put the truck in low range.
I knew enough by now to look at him suspiciously. “Where are we going to spread this?” I
asked. In answer, he turned the truck
towards the tallest hill. “It will do
the most good here,” he replied. It’s
been raining a lot lately and soon one of my worst nightmares began to take
shape. We hung up in foot thick mud on
the side of the ridge. “Now, we’ll see
what this baby can do,” Joe laughed. “This
baby is going to hit you if you don’t let me out,” I replied, but by that time,
we had managed to spin our way through the muck to solid ground. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We rode up the hill the rest of the way in
silence. My eyes were closed and I was
too busy praying for angels to push us up to the top, to engage in frivolous
conversation. After Joe and I forked the
last bit of manure off onto the shaley ground, Joe climbed back into the
truck. I walked down. After years of riding along with him, I knew
Joe would bring the truck off of the hill safely. But, he could concentrate better if I wasn’t
screaming all the way down.</div>
Ginny Neil, The Singing Farmwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11098392391259327445noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6234866703424433609.post-65901803887176888602014-04-09T12:46:00.002-04:002014-04-09T12:46:32.716-04:00Here's a snippet from my YA novel, THE KEY RACE. I'm entering it in a contest. <a href="http://tinyurl.com/pcmopmq." target="_blank">http://tinyurl.com/pcmopmq.</a> Wish me luck.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"> Race day
dawned bright and cool. Perfect weather
for sliding a four-wheeler through tight turns and tripling jumps Mark thought
as he unloaded his quad from the trailer. When it was safely on the ground, he pulled on his racing gear and went to
register. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"> The official at the table handed him a
packet of papers. “Since you’re only
sixteen, a parent will have to sign, giving you permission to race,” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"> Usually Mr. Dan came with him and acted as
his guardian, but today his dad had insisted on coming. Mark walked back over to the truck. When he opened the door he saw that the
floorboard was already littered with beer cans.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"> “Dad, you know you can get me disqualified
if they catch you drinking,” Mark said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"> “Don’t worry son. No one will know. See, I brought a soda can, and I’m going to
empty my beer into that. Everyone will
think I’m drinking Pepsi.” He smiled
crookedly and said, “I came here to watch my son win, so go get ‘em.” Then he lifted the can to his mouth and
drained it. “Hey, pour me another beer
into this can. I guess I should have
brought my glasses. I keep missing the hole.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"> “You keep missing because you’re too drunk
to see,” Mark mumbled, but he poured the beer for his dad and dropped the can
into the floorboard. “I’ll see you after
my race,” he said louder. “I parked you
here so you can see the track. You won’t
even have to get out.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"> Mark walked over to the pit area and
pulled on his helmet and goggles. Then
he sat on his quad, waiting for his first race.
He turned when he felt a tap on his shoulder.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"> Derek was standing just behind him. “Hey, Drunk’s Son. Remember our bet. You win, you get the key back,” said
Derek. “You lose, you do whatever I
ask.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"> Mark cringed at Derek’s nickname for him. His
last name was Anderson, but Derek had been calling him Drunk’s Son since the
day he lost his first motocross race to Mark in the seventh grade. The name
stung because of the truth behind it, but he had learned to ignore the taunts.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"> “I haven’t forgotten,” he said
tightly. “You’ll be handing me a key at
the end of this race.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"> The announcer called for the riders to
move to the pre-staging area. Derek
walked over to his quad. “Prepare to
become my slave,” he called over to Mark, gunning his engine before he drove
over to his starting gate. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Ginny Neil, The Singing Farmwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11098392391259327445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6234866703424433609.post-52598479224126188422014-04-01T21:38:00.001-04:002014-04-02T08:57:01.267-04:00FARM CYCLE<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">THE EDUCATION OF A CITY GIRL<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Last night, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">children played on<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">hot sidewalks under the white glow of<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">lamp- lined streets and<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">the skyline was brighter than<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">the moon while<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">the hum of traffic pointed everything to<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">buildings full of fluorescent light.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Tonight,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">lambs linger along <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">creek banks under the waxing <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">moon and<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">the sky is darker than the bottom<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">of the pond while <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">the hum of front-porch talk <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">pauses to consider a lawn<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">full of flickering fireflies.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">SUMMER’S END<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Hay, in brown swaths<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">outlines the meadows <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">as we<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">mow and ted and rake and bale.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Swallows dip and dive<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">snatching lunch as it <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">rises from a dusty field.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">THE BREEDING SEASON<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The ram is on duty.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">He follows each ewe<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">stretching his lips into a tight smile<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">to taste her ripeness<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">HEAT<br />
Mornings are dew dazzled <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">and in the woods, we crunch <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">through carpets of leaves.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">You say, “Firewood heats you three
times.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Once in the cutting, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">once in the unloading <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">and once in the stove.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Branches scrape and creak <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">against the sky while one weathered tree<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">stands limbless and quiet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">You make the first cut and the wailing
saw<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">spits chips.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Then I hear the soft crack<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">of splinters parting<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">and the tree comes crashing<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">down.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">MIDNIGHT IN THE BARN</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">Steam rises.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">Animals exhale-<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">a quiet breathing.</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">Sheep bleat, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">cows moan, and<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">hay shuffles<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">as kine and swine<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">turn<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">shift<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">stretch<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">and recline<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;"> in<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">summer’s leftover<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">pleasure</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">LAMB LaMAZE<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">A ewe pants and pushes <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">pants and <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">pushes<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">straightens legs<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">arches neck<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">push
push<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">bleat<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">one small foot<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">slips out<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">then slides back<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">inside <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">push<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">push<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">two feet and <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">the tip of a white nose<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">play hide and<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">seek <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">push<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">push<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">pause<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">suddenly <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">shoulders,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">a long body, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">back legs<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">at last a <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">lamb drops to the hay<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">and mama turns to lick it to<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">MIDWIFE<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">She cannot have her lamb.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">it is stuck<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">somewhere between <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">cervix and vulva,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">a tunnel too narrow<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">for a lamb with one leg<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">curled back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I reach in<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">and my cold hand is suddenly warm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I hook the front leg with one finger<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">behind the knee<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">and pull, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">and like a tender sprout uncurling to
the sun<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">the leg straightens<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">and the lamb is free<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">to slide onto the hay.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">TOO MANY<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The old ewe,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">is thin under<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">her wool.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Twenty-five lambs in<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">twelve years<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">pulling rich milk from <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">her swollen teats<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">have stolen her roundness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Now, three more<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">steam on the<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">frozen ground<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">where she has dropped them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The ewe knickers, and nibbles until<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">they rise, on wobbly legs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Three lambs search for milk<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">but the ewe rejects one<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">pushing it away<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">each time it approaches<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">until it gives up<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">and drops to the ground<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">exhausted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Then she turns and takes her twins<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">to the barn. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">BOTTLE LAMBS<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">These lambs, pushed away by overwhelmed
ewes,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">or abandoned by ignorant ones,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">are always hungry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">They want<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">to nuzzle skin<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">while they drink.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">They want noses tucked into warm wool<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">while they tug and pull.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">They want ewe bleats, snorts, and
stomach rumbles<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">as they suck.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Instead they get<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">a green bottle<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">full of fake milk<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">to suck from a bright red<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">rubber nipple.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">TIRED<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">There are six lambs in the barn<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">six lambs without mamas<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">six lambs that jump up expectantly <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">each time I enter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">And I am tired of mixing milk.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">And I am tired of sticky hands and<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">the sour smell of my coat <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">where the lambs have sucked it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">And I am tired of pulling boots on and
off.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">But mostly I am tired of feeling sad
about<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">lambs that lost their mamas<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Tell me again why I love to live on a
farm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">ALMOST GONE<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">When I find the lamb out in the field<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">it is almost gone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I stick one finger in its mouth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Ice cold is not a good sign.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I cannot leave it here,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">so I wrap it in a feedsack.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">This little girl lamb,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">with spotted ears,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">doesn’t open her eyes,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">doesn’t bleat,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">doesn’t kick,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">is as lifeless as a loaf of bread<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">as I carry her to the house<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">where I fill a sink with warm water<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">and baptize her until <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">she struggles and her mouth<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">is warm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Too weak to suck a bottle, she will have
to be tube fed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I have three choices.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> I
will tube her wrong and she will die. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I won’t tube her and she will die.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I will tube her correctly and she will
live.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I feed the tube down her throat,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">maybe it’s in her lungs<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">maybe it’s in her stomach.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Every trick I know for doing it right
works,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">sometimes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Then I pour warm milk into the syringe<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">and pray.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">She doesn’t die.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Life comes in slowly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">A moan,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">a lifting of her head,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">a shake of her ears.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Two hours later<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I tube her again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Then go to bed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Morning will tell.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">As the first light<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">brightens the sky<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I hear her bleat<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">and go downstairs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">She is standing on shaky legs<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">and pissing all over my floor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">And I laugh.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">MAKING LOVE IN THE FRONT SEAT OF THE
CHEVY</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">The sun licks the last<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">drops of frost<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">from the front windshield<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">as I bend<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">over <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">to retrieve a loose bolt<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">from the floorboard </span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">and<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">find myself caught<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">by the strong arm <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">of the gearshift</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">.</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">I twist around <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">legs flung wide<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">like </span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">a bawdy
girl,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">and </span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">we <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">laugh ourselves breathless<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">as you<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">rescue<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">me from<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">the truck’s <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">steely embrace<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">SPRING<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">After a winter of snow<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">and cold,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">after digging endless pathways,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">after thousands of bottles of milk<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">after ashes inside and cats inside and
mud inside,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">there is some green<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">outside<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">and the peepers are singing songs<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">about spring.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">KING OF THE HILL<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The lambs <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">leap and kick <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">they buck and duck,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Who is strongest?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Who is fastest?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Who can leap the highest? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">One lamb stands alone<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">hunched against the small breeze.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Abandoned at birth, it is always hungry<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">for milk and attention.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">COYOTE<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The lambs play<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">unaware<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">while their wooly mamas<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">crop grass <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">three quick steps</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">a snatch,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">a muffled bleat,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">and a lamb <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">leaves the flock<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">throat-first<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">while its mama <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">wanders away<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">in search of <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">a <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">blade<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">of <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">grass.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">LAMB CROP<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">The sun is shining <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">on fields full of lambs <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">and the lamb check this year will be
good <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">if the lambs survive<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">the coyotes <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">the bears<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">the dogs<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">and the worms .<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">The sun is shining on fields full of
lambs <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">and the lamb check this year will be
good<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">unless<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">the lambs survive <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">all of that<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">and die anyway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">Anyone who raises sheep knows<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">a lamb is born looking <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">for a way to die.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">NOTHING TO DO<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">We sit on the tailgate<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">in the sun.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">There is nothing to do today.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">No lambs to feed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">No hay to scatter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">No buckets to fill and carry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">There is nothing to do today.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">So we sit in the sun<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">and watch the lambs leap and the sheep
eat<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">and the grass grow<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">which reminds us<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">there will be something to do<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">tomorrow.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">IN THE STORE<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">Chops and roasts<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">rosy red in the case<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">don’t tell.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">They don’t tell about <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">the night we spent lying in shit<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">as we pulled the lamb.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">They don’t tell about the lamb that
lived<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">one day and then died in my arms.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">They don’t tell that lambs love to
dance under a warm spring sun.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">or about four lambs curled together
against the cold.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">Meat wrapped in cellophane<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">lies about the getting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">Leads to forgetting<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">that one life is always<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">the gift of<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">another life<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">followed by death,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">followed by life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">On the farm<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">on our table<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">we remember and are humbled<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">by the truth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Ginny Neil, The Singing Farmwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11098392391259327445noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6234866703424433609.post-25908918687728255462014-03-03T12:22:00.001-05:002014-03-03T12:22:09.945-05:00The Orphan Shed<div class="MsoNormal">
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There’s another orphan calf out in the shed. Last night, Joe came in after feeding the
cows and announced that he had an extra grey calf and couldn't figure out which
cow it belonged to. Only one cow had
recently calved, but that was several days ago and now she was keeping vigilant
watch over a little black baby. While
Joe spooled hay off the back of the tractor, this little grey calf ran up and
down the line of cows as they followed him, bawling for a meal, but no mama
claimed him.</div>
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We fixed up a bottle of milk, and Joe took it out. The calf sucked down the whole half gallon. Apparently the mama cow with the black calf
gave birth to twins, let them both nurse for a couple of days, and then decided
two was too many so she abandoned one.
This can happen. It makes me sad
to think of a mama choosing one offspring over another, but I guess in the
wild it makes sense for survival of the species.</div>
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This morning we wake to temperatures in the low teens and
blowing snow. We both think immediately of the hungry grey calf. “Maybe
we better go out and see if he’s been claimed,” Joe says pulling on his
coveralls. “If he hasn't, then you’ll
need to ride along with me. We’ll catch
him and bring him in.”</div>
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It’s the kind of day that makes me wish I didn't have to
go out. The wind bites my nose and the sleet
stings my cheeks as I pull the gate open for Joe. There is no sign of our cows so we drive the
quarter mile length of the field peering through the snowy air. It will be hard to spot a grey calf in this
weather. Finally we see the herd of cows
huddled on the lee side of a rock pile next to the river. Icicles dangle from their sides and their
black backs are completely frosted in white.
Hopefully
the calf is in among them. </div>
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We both hop out of the truck and ease around the cows. No sign of the calf. Finally Joe spots him curled on top of a rock
pile. He is a big ball of grey fur and white
snow and he blends in with the rocks. He
doesn't run very far before turning and letting Joe catch him. He must remember the milk.</div>
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We pull him into the truck and I ride back down the field
with the calf shivering at my feet. We
turn off the heater because that coat of ice actually protects him from heat
loss. If we melt it, he will be wet and chilled. I stick my fingers in his mouth. It’s warm, which is a great sign.</div>
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When we get to the shed the other orphan calf butts me as we
lead the little grey calf in. He has had
his morning grain, but because he was only recently weaned he believes that if
he butts me hard enough milk will appear.
Luke, our dog who loves all living things, wiggles through the door and
begins licking the new calf. The calves
and dog bow and jump a little in pretend play and I’m glad to see it. There's a lot of life in this new calf. Joe returns and offers the newest orphan a
full bottle. I offer my fingers to the
black calf so he’ll stop nosing in for a share and he sucks contentedly on them
long enough for the grey calf to finish the bottle. Then we leave the two
calves to get acquainted. I think our
black orphan is happy to finally have a companion. </div>
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Raising bottle calves is difficult for me. These are bulls, soon to become steers. I have learned to resist their big black eyes
and long eyelashes. For one thing, they
will soon be big enough to do some real damage to me if they continue to butt
me for milk. And, one day they will be
sold for slaughter. That’s the hard
truth of this job. They will have great,
happy lives, but they are not pets. When
they are young and cute, sometimes that’s hard to remember.</div>
Ginny Neil, The Singing Farmwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11098392391259327445noreply@blogger.com0