We climbed into the truck yesterday morning and headed north to Shelburne farms, one of my favorite places on earth. Before leaving we checked temperatures for the day and, knowing that we were going to be in a barn for about three hours, began layering up. There are odd little things that Vermonters take pride in; good manure, worst mud season, cheese, and layering abilities. You can be standing in a grocery store talking about the weather (of course) and somebody is likely to pull up their coat to show you just how many layers they needed to leave their house that morning. Forget high fashion, we go for the Michelin-Tire-Man look. Paul takes a great deal of pride in his layers. Before we left yesterday he paused, turned around with a big grin on his face and said, as if it was incredulous even to him, “I have on SIX layers!” and proceeded to both tell me about and show me the various layers. I, practicing deep listening, looked right at him and tried not to laugh as he deliberated with himself on whether or not his wool vest counts as a layer. (Apparently it does.)
Our destination was the dairy barn at Shelburne farms where we were participating in a lambing clinic. None of our ewes are pregnant but we figured the more we know the better, and that there would be cast-off info that we could pick up. And of course there would be newborn lambs. Enough said. We rolled out of our truck (I forgot to mention that layering is detrimental to the forward motion process) and proceeded into the beautiful dairy barn.
Presenting the program were: the president of the Vermont Sheep and Goat Association, a highly experienced commercial sheep farmer, the head shepherd of the Shelburne flock, and about one hundred pregnant or lambing ewes. We spent the morning into mid-afternoon talking about all things ovine. I raised my mitten to intubate a newborn ram-lamb as well as mitten up for ear tagging the little guy. There were also demonstrations on banding for castrating ram lambs. It was, at this point, Paul suddenly became involved in an intense conversation about hay on the other side of the barn..
At one point I was standing in front of one of the milk cows, back to her, when I felt a rough swat on the back of my wool coat. I turned and smiled at the cow licking my coat. For salt, I was pretty sure. (not as familiar with Bovines as Ovines.) However, the licking turned into tugging and I remembered that I had stuck a nut butter bar into my pocket for the just-in-case. Apparently hay and almond butter make a pretty good sandwich for a cow.
We had the chance to chat with people who had no sheep, people who were anticipating their first lambing, people who were experts in the process, and assorted pig and goat farmers. It was a wonderful day in a wonderful place with everyone wearing barn boots.
They varied in their methods but what struck me was that the two presenting farmers, one with a handmade wool hat pulled tightly over his ears and the other in well-worn coveralls, were both on the older side, yet each of them would be lambing between 65-100 ewes this year. They were honest about it being challenging, one admitted that he did not get up in the night anymore. Both expressed that lambing/April, was an exhausting season. Each had informative material organized, passed out and explained with a grin. You don't do this for over 30 years without loving it.
Deciding to start a farm, about five years ago now, meant a 365-days-a-year dedication to land and animals. Did we fully understand what we were undertaking? Heck no. Five weeks into the adventure one of our ewes was hit with fly-strike, and we spent the next hour shaving maggots off her wound. Each of us, including our vet, gagging. You can't make, explain or dream this stuff up. In the summer it is hot and sticky and you are still in Muck boots. (There are no flip flops in the barn..I found out the hard way). In the winter the metal buckets are freezing cold and it is dark at 4pm. If it has snowed heavily I often have to go and carry one chicken at a time back from the sheep barn to their coop for the night. They cluck indignantly when I scoop them up but I think I hear some laughter as they get a free lift home. Fall means spreading manure and spring means spreading seed. All flesh is grass. There is no break.
But the dedication is based on passion. Working 365 days a year gives our life purpose and I believe that we should be diligent in finding our passion and purpose. Because we might have a piece of paper that deems us proficient in one field does not, in any way, mean that we cannot be proficient in another, or several other areas. It changes and expands us as people to continue to grow our knowledge base. For some it is music and farming, for others it is boating and painting, or marketing and cross-fit.
As human beings we are, thankfully, becoming more accepting of our differences; our body shapes, our genders and skin color. Perhaps we can stretch this to become more accepting of the many differences living within ourselves. Understanding that we can be whatever we choose to be and can shift that at anytime
Is it time to pull on some Muck boots and find your farm?
Melissa Perley